Stuart Woods - Dirt

“I’ll be out all evening, but you can get me first thing in the morning.”

“Right.” He hung up and switched on his computer. From a box on his desktop he selected a CD-ROM disk and inserted it into the computer. A few keystrokes later a window appeared on the screen. “Name or phone?” it asked.

He selected PHONE and typed in the number Amanda had just given him. “Searching,” the screen said. A few seconds later a name and address appeared on the screen. EDDIE’S MAILBOXES. The address was on Lexington Avenue in the upper seventies. Stone wrote it down, left the house through his office door, and hailed a cab. Less than ten minutes from when the fax had come in he was walking into Eddie’s Mailboxes. A young man stood behind the counter.

“Evening,” Stone said.

“Yeah,” the young man said. “Help you with something?”

Stone put the scandal sheet on the counter. “This was faxed to me a few minutes ago; can you tell me who brought it in here?”

“Well, the way I look at it,” the young man said, “that’s kind of confidential information.”

Stone put a twenty on the counter. “Describe the person.”

The twenty disappeared. “Hispanic, late teens, on the short side.”

“Male or female?”

“Male.”

“How long ago?”

“About forty-five minutes. He gave me the sheet and a list of numbers. The machine is still faxing them.”

“Can I see the list of numbers?”

“Well…”

Stone produced another twenty.

The young man produced a sheet of papers with around fifty numbers on it. Some were in New York, some in L.A.

“This Hispanic teenager; he ever been in here before?”

“I never seen him.”

“You ever fax something like this before?”

“First time. Entertaining, ain’t it?”

“Thanks,” Stone said, and turned to go.

“I’ll tell you this for free,” the young man said.

Stone stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“I think somebody gave the kid a few bucks to bring it in here, you know?”

Stone nodded and left, tucking the list of phone numbers into his pocket. He got a cab home, went back to his study, and poured himself a bourbon. The message light was flashing on his answering machine. Probably Amanda, he thought, pressing a button. The machine rewound quickly; only one message.

“This is Arrington Carter,” a woman’s voice said. “Give me a call when you get a chance.” She left a number.

“My goodness,” Stone said aloud while he dialed the number. “It certainly pays to stay home on a Saturday night.” The phone rang, and there was a click.

“Hi, I’m out, leave a message,” her recorded voice said.

Stone slumped with disappointment. He must have just missed her. “It’s Stone Barrington, returning your call,” he said. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

He hung up, and the phone rang almost immediately. He grabbed it on the first ring; it must be her. “Hello?”

“ Barrington?” a man’s voice said. He sounded angry.

“Yes.”

“This is Richard Hickock.”

“Hello, Dick.”

“Is it true that you’re working for Amanda on this thing?”

“What thing?”

“This DIRT business. The goddamned thing came in on my home fax machine. My wife could have seen it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that, Dick. You’ll have to talk to Amanda.”

“I’ll do that, don’t worry; I just want to say this: You find out who’s doing this, and I’ll double whatever Amanda’s paying you.”

“As I said, I can’t discuss it.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Hickock said, slamming down the phone.

Stone sighed. He’d rather it had been Arrington Carter. He went downstairs, started his computer, and began identifying the phone numbers on the DIRT distribution list. They were pretty much what he had expected – newspapers, TV shows, columnists. Halfway through he tired of the list, shut off the computer, and crawled into bed with a book.

Stone was awakened by the ringing telephone. He opened an eye and looked at the beside clock: nine-thirty. He didn’t usually sleep so late. “Hello?” he grumbled into the phone.

“It’s Amanda; what did you find out last night?”

“The fax was sent to a distribution list from a mailbox and copy shop on Lex in the Seventies. Apparently our man gave some kid a few bucks to deliver it; he’s being careful.”

“Damn!” she said. “I was hoping for a break.”

“So was I. I think we’ll find the next one will be sent from a similar place by similar means. I did get a copy of the distribution list, though.”

“Who was on it?”

“Just who you’d think – anybody who might spread the word. Nothing to be learned from the list, I’m afraid.”

“So we’re back to square one?”

That was an embarrassing question, and Stone didn’t answer it. “I got a call from Dick Hickock last night. He’s interested in finding out who the publisher of DIRT is, too.”

“I’m not surprised, after the contents of last night’s fax. He’s already been onto me this morning. I don’t mind in the least if you work for him, too.”

“Well, so far I don’t have anything more to tell him than I have to tell you.”

“Keep at it,” she said, and hung up without another word.

Wide awake now, Stone brushed his teeth, took his vitamins, and got into a robe. He went to the little kitchenette outside his bedroom, got some English muffins and coffee going, then retrieved the Sunday Times from his front doorstep. He was back in bed, eating breakfast and reading the paper, when the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“It’s Arrington Carter,” a low voice said.

“Morning.”

“You had breakfast yet?”

“Nope,” he replied, setting down his half-eaten muffin.

“Can I buy you brunch?”

“Why don’t you come over here; I’ll fix you an omelette.”

“I’d rather meet you at the Brasserie in half an hour.”

“Make it an hour; I haven’t really gotten started this morning.”

“An hour it is,” she said, “and brunch is on me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They both hung up.

She was waiting at the top of the stairs that descended into the restaurant; they shook hands and got a table immediately. She ordered a pitcher of mimosas, sat back in the booth, and looked at him through large, dark glasses. “So,” she said.

“Tell me about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“More than you’re probably willing to tell me.”

“I’m an open book,” Stone said, “but I’d rather talk to eyes than shades.”

She took them off, revealing large green eyes, a little red around the rims, no makeup.

“Late night?”

“Swine,” she said equably. “I reveal myself, and you point out my weaknesses.”

“I don’t see any weaknesses.”

“Good. Now, you were going to tell me about yourself.”

Stone gave her the sixty-second version of his biography. “Now,” he said, “who you?”

“Me Jane,” she said.

“Who Tarzan?”

“No Tarzan, just me.”

“Good news.”

“I’m glad you think so. Who your Jane?”

“She took a hike last week.”

“You all broken up?”

“No, just mystified.”

She laughed. “I’ll bet she told you exactly why she was dumping you.”

He shrugged. “You’re right, she did, and she was specific.”

“Not enough of a commitment?”

“Something like that; how’d you guess?”

“Attractive men your age who’ve never been married nearly always come up short in the commitment department.”