Stuart Woods - Dirt

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Will you meet me downstairs at nine sharp? We’ll take my car; it’s new, and I can’t get enough of it. Do you drive?”

“I do, but I’ve always thought of a car as a liability in this city.”

“It is, unless you have a convenient garage and a driver.”

The doorbell rang, and Amanda looked at her watch. “That will be Dick Hickock,” she said. “He always comes to dinner exactly on time, damn him.”

A moment later, the maid ushered in the Hickocks and introductions were made. A man appeared to mix drinks while the maid went to answer the door again.

Hickock was a stocky, balding man in an expensive suit; his wife, Glynnis, looked expensive, too.

Hickock fixed him with a stare. “What do you do, Barrington?” he asked.

“I’m a lawyer, and please call me Stone.”

“You can call me Mr. Hickock.”

“Thanks, Dick.”

Hickock managed a small smile. “What firm?”

“I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld, but I practice privately, too.”

“What sort of practice? Financial?”

“Only if the transaction is perceived as being of a criminal nature.”

“Ah, a mob lawyer, eh?”

“No, my clients seem to arrive one at a time.”

“But they’re criminals?”

“I represent only the innocent, even if they’re proven guilty.”

Hickock laughed aloud. “And what did you think of this O.J. business?”

“If I should ever be charged with a double murder, I would be very pleased for Johnnie Cochran, Bob Shapiro, and Lee Bailey to represent me.”

Bill and Susan Eggers entered the room and greeted everyone. Stone liked Bill, but had always found Susan to be cold, even haughty. She had been Bill’s entree to the Four Hundred, such as they were. She shook Stone’s hand and seemed ready to ward off any attempt at a kiss.

Vance Calder arrived last, no doubt to make an entrance, and Stone found him to be just as handsome and charming as he was on the screen. He had been called the new Cary Grant, and Stone thought that appropriate. He also thought that Calder’s date was probably the most beautiful woman in New York. She was as tall as Calder, which wasn’t as tall as Stone had expected; she had shoulder-length hair the color of ranch mink and was wearing a mannish pinstriped, double-breasted suit. “This is Arrington Carter,” the actor said after he had shaken Stone’s hand. “Arrington, this is Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington,” the young woman said with a pleasingly southern accent, “you and I must never, ever marry.”

Stone and Calder both erupted with laughter, while she regarded them coolly. “Gentlemen, you make my point for me,” she said.

Stone had an urgent desire to sweep her out of the room someplace where he would not have to share her company with anyone else. Then he reminded himself who her date was, and what his own chances were of taking her away from a man whom People magazine, only the week before, had dubbed “the most beautiful man in America.”

They sat at a beautifully set round table and dined on caviar, followed by a crown roast of lamb, with bearnaise sauce on the side, and very good, fairly old wine. Stone was placed between Amanda and Arrington, and his hostess gave him the distinct impression that she would have arranged things differently if she had met the other woman beforehand.

Hickock was holding forth about the newspaper business. He took a swig of the Opus One ’89 and addressed Stone. “Do you read my newspaper?”

“Only for Amanda’s column,” Stone replied.

“Isn’t he sweet?” Amanda said, squeezing Stone’s thigh under the table.

“What about my editorial page?” Hickock asked.

“I only read your editorial page if I want to be annoyed,” Stone said.

Everybody laughed but Hickock. “I take it you’re a Democrat,” he said.

“A liberal Democrat,” Stone replied.

“These days nobody decides to become a liberal Democrat,” Hickock said. “It must run in your family.”

“On the contrary, my father was a Communist; so was my mother.”

Hickock looked genuinely shocked. “You can’t be serious.”

“Entirely,” Stone said. “I can’t really complain about it, because their politics brought them together. Where would I be if one of them had been a Republican?”

Vance Calder spoke up. “What work did your father do?”

“He was a carpenter.”

Bill Eggers broke in. “…and something of a genius as a maker of furniture and cabinet work. If he had been working in this country during the eighteenth century, Sotheby’s would be selling his work for very high prices today.”

“Why did he become a Communist?” Hickock asked.

“He had a Republican father,” Stone explained.

Amanda spoke up. “Stone’s mother was Matilda Stone.”

Hickock and Calder looked blank.

“The painter,” Amanda explained.

Arrington Carter was smiling broadly. “I own one of her pictures,” she said to Stone. “Of Washington Square in winter.”

Stone was surprised. “What good taste you have.”

“I certainly do.”

“Arrington has a very good collection,” Vance Calder said.

“I explained that to Vance,” Arrington said to the table. “He only knows about clothes, scripts, and leading ladies.”

Coffee was served in the library, and Stone declined brandy. “I really have to be leaving,” he said, rising. “I have an early appointment tomorrow morning.” He collected a grateful smile from Amanda, shook hands with the other guests, and went home.

As he lay in bed, waiting for sleep, he thought of Arrington Carter, but tried to dismiss her from his mind. He couldn’t compete with the likes of Vance Calder.

Arrington Barrington. He laughed aloud.

Stone took the wheel and pulled away from Amanda’s apartment building. “Wonderful car,” he said, heading across Seventy-ninth Street toward the West Side Highway.

“Isn’t it?” Amanda agreed. “This is the first time I’ve sat in the front seat.”

As he accelerated onto the highway, Stone realized for the first time what twelve cylinders meant. “Unbelievable,” he said.

Amanda smiled. “Don’t get a ticket; I don’t want to waste a minute of today.”

After paying the toll as they left Manhattan, Stone set the cruise control at a reasonable number and relaxed, letting the amazing car do the work. The leaves along the Sawmill River Parkway were beginning to change color, but as they drove north, the colors intensified. By the time they were north of Danbury, the maples were so brilliant as to be distracting. Following Amanda’s instructions, Stone ran the car along the winding Connecticut roads through Brookfield and Bridgewater. South of Washington, they turned down a narrow road into the woods, and after two miles they came to a beautiful little colonial house set back from the road behind a screen of birches and flaming maples. A handful of geese sunned themselves beside a small pond.

“Spectacular,” Stone said, as they got out of the car.

“I bought it twelve years ago for peanuts, and I’ve been redecorating ever since,” Amanda said. “After Sister Parrish died, I did it mostly myself. Will you get the basket from the trunk, please?”

Stone followed her through the front door and to the kitchen, where he deposited the basket. Amanda got a bottle of Krug Brut from the fridge and poured them both a glass. “Ready for lunch?” she asked.

“I’m ready for anything,” Stone replied.

“I’m delighted to hear it. Why don’t you light the fire in the living room, and I’ll be in in a moment. Take the champagne with you.”