Stuart Woods - Kisser

“Well, they haven’t repealed greedy judges,” Eggers said. “When is this business going to get wrapped up, so I can return Hildy Parsons to her father intact?”

“Who knows?” Stone said. “But I wouldn’t count on her being intact.”

The waiter came, and they ordered. Stone ordered another bourbon. “Did I mention that Dolce is stalking me?” he asked Dino.

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Wait a minute,” Eggers said, “you’re fucking Eduardo Bianci’s crazy daughter?”

“No, but she wants me to. She sent me two dozen roses, and she’s hanging around outside my house.”

“I thought she was locked in a rubber room in Eduardo’s house,” Dino said.

“Not anymore. She goes out shopping with a minder.”

“Now this is dangerous,” Dino said.

STONE OPENED HIS EYES and gazed at the ceiling. It was moving around. He held on to the mattress to steady himself and got his feet on the floor. He barely made it to the bathroom before he knelt at the throne and emptied his stomach.

He lay down on the bathroom floor, pressing his hot cheek against the cool marble. From the bedroom came the sound of Joan buzzing him. He struggled to his feet, splashed cold water on his face, staggered back, sat on the bed, and picked up the phone. “What?”

“You sound awful.”

“What is it?”

“Shall I call an ambulance?”

“Just skip a step and call an undertaker.”

“You’re hungover, aren’t you?”

“The word doesn’t cover it.”

“This ought to help: Tiffany Baldwin is on the phone.”

“Tell her I’m ill and can’t talk.”

“That won’t work; I’ve been on the phone with you for too long.”

Stone pressed the button. “Hello?”

“Did I wake you?” Tiffany asked.

“No. You can’t wake the dead.”

She laughed. “You have to be in my office in an hour for a meeting.”

“I’m sorry,” Stone said. “I thought you said I have to be in your office in an hour.”

“You have to be in my office in an hour,” she said, “for a meeting.”

“Tiffany, I don’t have any current business with your office. What is this about?”

“We’re all meeting in an hour,” she said. “It’s a strategy session.”

“Can you hold on for just a minute,” he said. He pressed the hold button, ran into the bathroom, and threw up again. He ran some cold water on a facecloth and went back to the phone, swabbing his face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and if I did, I wouldn’t come.”

“Your Lieutenant Doyle requested the meeting,” she said.

“He’s not my Lieutenant Doyle; he’s just a cop I know.”

“It’s my understanding that the commissioner has placed you under his command.”

“That’s a lie.”

“That’s not what the commissioner says; I called him.”

“Okay, it’s not a lie; it’s just a perversion of justice.”

“Once again, Stone, be in my office in an hour for this meeting. The commissioner will be here, and if you’re not, he’ll notice.” She hung up.

Stone wanted to collapse into bed again, but he got to his feet and threw himself into a cold shower, regretting it immediately. He shaved, cutting himself twice, struggled into some clothes, and went downstairs. He went into Joan’s office, poured himself a cup of coffee, and began sipping it.

“You were right,” Joan said. “I should have called an undertaker.”

“Too late,” Stone said. “I have to go downtown to the Federal Building.”

“To see Tiffany Baldwin?”

“Among others. She said the commissioner is going to be there, too, but that may have been just to scare me.”

“Did it work?”

“Sure did. I don’t want him messing with my retirement pay.”

“I’m sure that’s beneath him.”

“It’s not beneath Brian Doyle, who hates me because I make more money than he does.”

“I’m sure that’s not the only reason.”

“If I talk about this anymore, I’m going to throw up,” he said.

“Again. Will you drive me downtown? It seems to be raining outside.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, putting on her raincoat.

Stone found his trench coat and an umbrella and followed her to the garage.

MORE THAN slightly damp, Stone stood in the line at the metal detector and waited while a woman emptied her handbag onto a steel table and then put everything back, one item at a time. He was cold from the heavy rain, and his trench coat was soaked, being very old and no longer waterproof.

He emptied his pockets into the tray, put his umbrella on the conveyer belt into the X-ray machine, and passed through the metal detector. Beep. He took off his belt; the large silver buckle must have set it off. Beep.

“Take off your shoes,” the uniformed woman said. “Sometimes it picks up the nails in the heels.”

Stone took off his shoes, put them on the conveyer belt, and stepped through the metal detector again. No beep.

The guard at the X-ray machine pushed his shoes toward him with the back of his hand. “You always wear two different shoes?” he asked.

Stone stared at his shoes. The man was right: one black and one brown. “Only when it’s raining,” he said.

He got his shoes back on over socks that were wet from treading in the pool of water that other people had left behind and went upstairs in the elevator. He found the office and presented himself to a receptionist who reported his presence.

“You may go in,” she said.

Stone opened one of the double doors that led into a large corner office, furnished in the federal government’s best taste plus a few personal touches from Tiffany. She sat with her long legs propped on her huge desk, reading glasses poised on her nose, a thick document in her lap.

“You’re ten minutes early,” she said.

Stone looked at his wrist, but there was nothing there. “I seem to have forgotten to wear a watch.”

She peered at him over her glasses.

“What?”

“The phrase ‘death warmed over’ comes to mind.”

Tiffany got up and led him to a sofa at the other end of the room. “Let’s sit here for our meeting.” She sat down, crossed her legs, and leaned into him.

The phone on the coffee table buzzed. Saved, Stone thought. He got up and moved to a chair beside the sofa.

“Send them in,” Tiffany said into the phone.

The door opened and Brian Doyle entered, accompanied by Mitzi and the loyal Tom.

Tiffany got up and greeted them. “I suppose you all know Stone,” she said.

“Yeah, sure,” Doyle replied, and Mitzi gave Stone a big smile. They sat down and looked at each other.

“I think we should wait for the commissioner to arrive before we start,” she said.

There was a knock at the door, and a secretary opened it and stepped back. “The commissioner,” she said.

The commissioner, a fireplug of a man, marched into the office and took a seat at the end of the sofa nearest Stone. He looked at Stone’s feet.

“ Barrington,” he said, “do you always wear two different shoes?”

STONE LOOKED AT THE COMMISSIONER. “Only when it rains.”

The commissioner didn’t laugh, which was like him.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he said to Stone.

Stone blinked. “It’s not my show.”

“Commissioner,” Tiffany said smoothly, “we’re here to coordinate the investigations into Derek Sharpe and Sig Larsen.”

“Who’s Larsen?” the commissioner asked, frowning.

“Short for Sigmund, presumably. He’s the man who’s running some sort of Ponzi scheme.”

“Be nice to catch one of these guys before he steals everybody’s money,” the commissioner said.