Stuart Woods - Dirt

“You were telling me about you,” Stone said.

“In sixty seconds or less, like you?”

“If you like.”

“ Virginia girl from old Virginia family, Virginia schools, etcetera, etcetera.”

“You’ve got fifty-five seconds left.”

“Came to New York to be an actress, didn’t like the process, wrote about it, wrote other stuff, still writing.”

“Fiction or non?”

“Non, although there’s half a novel somewhere in my computer.”

Something rang a bell. “Did you once write a piece for The New Yorker about being an actress in New York?”

“Guilty.”

“I liked that piece; I guess I’d never given any thought to what a tough life it can be.”

“Thank you for the kind review.”

“Were you any good as an actress?”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“Why didn’t you stick with it?”

“You read my piece.”

“I find it hard to believe that someone so beautiful would have a hard time making it if she had talent, too.”

“Let me tell you something: Being beautiful is hard work, maybe even harder than acting.”

“I’d always thought beauty was a great advantage in any field.”

“There are advantages, God knows, but they are offset by the liabilities.”

“Such as?”

“The difficulty of hanging on to one’s soul. There are lots of people out there who are in the market for it, and some of their offers are hard to turn down.”

“I see your point.”

“You probably don’t, or at least not much of it, but you’ll just have to take my word for it, because the subject is too boring to be discussed while sober. Let’s order some breakfast.”

They both ordered eggs benedict, and passed the time until their food came discussing the variety of people sitting around them in the restaurant.

“What made you call me?” Stone asked, finally.

“You fishing for compliments?”

“Apart from my devastating attractiveness, I mean.”

She laughed. “I haven’t spent very much time with men as gorgeous as Vance Calder,” she said, “but it occurred to me that meeting me in the company of somebody like that might slow a man down when it came to calling me. You didn’t, for instance, ask me for my number, or even ask me anything that might tell you how to get in touch with me.”

“You’re right; I judged the competition to be impossibly tough.”

“Well, relax; Vance isn’t competition.”

“What is he?”

“A friend, sort of; sometimes. He’s mostly on the coast; sometimes he calls me when he’s in town and he needs a date.”

“It never occurred to me that Vance Calder would ever need a date.”

“Well, he does, and he doesn’t like bimbos. Vance is a very bright man, as anyone who has ever negotiated a contract with him can tell you, and he likes bright company. That’s not so easy to come by, even for him.”

“Is he gay?”

“Not so’s a girl would notice,” she said. “I’ve never known a more attentive man. There are rumors, but there are always rumors about people in his position, even when they’ve been married and divorced a couple of times, as he has.”

“I hope I’m not being inattentive. May I have Your number again? I’d like to call it often.”

She fished a card from her bag and handed it to him. “See that you do.”

He put the card into his jacket pocket.

“What is it with this DIRT thing?” she asked.

“Where’d you hear about it?”

“Vance had a copy in his pocket on Saturday night, the one about Amanda’s little hotel rendezvous.”

“Oh, that one.”

“She hired you to run it down, then, like the sheet says?”

“I couldn’t confirm that, even if she had.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re not a blabbermouth.”

“By the way, did you know that you made the latest edition of DIRT ?”

Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

He produced last night’s fax and handed it to her. She read it with bated breath.

“Jesus, that was fast, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“At least it didn’t mention my name.”

“I wonder why,” he said.

“Why do you think?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It would seem that the publisher’s information was good enough to do so, if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He did pay you the compliment of calling you bright, though.”

“How would he know?”

“Maybe the publisher is somebody who knows you. Did you tell anybody you were going to the dinner party?”

“No; Vance only called me on Friday, and he didn’t say who’d be there, except for Amanda.”

“What did you think of Amanda?”

“I think she’s predatory,” Arrington said.

Stone’s ears were burning, and he hoped she didn’t notice. “I don’t really know her well enough to confirm that,” he lied.

“Trust me; a girl knows about these things.”

“I think I do trust you. Why do you think that is?”

She smiled. “Because you have good judgment.”

As they left the restaurant, she immediately flagged down a cab.

“I was hoping we could spend the day together,” Stone said.

“Sorry, I’ve got plans. I’d like to see you soon, though; will you call me?”

“I certainly will.”

She pecked him on the cheek, got into the cab, and rode away.

Stone walked slowly home, facing a Sunday alone with the papers and 60 Minutes. Well, he thought, it wouldn’t be the first.

First thing Monday morning, Arnie Millman eased himself carefully into a chair in Stone’s office. “Hemorrhoids,” he said without being asked.

“It’s all those years sitting on your ass at the Nineteenth Precinct,” Stone said. “What’ve you got for me?”

“The girl, Helen, first,” Arnie said. “She’s seeing a guy; he’s an advertising art director at Young and Rubicam.”

“How do they spend their time together?”

“Screwing, mostly; the relationship is only a couple of weeks old, but neither one is seeing anybody else. They go out, they grab a pizza, they go home, usually his, and they screw. Noisily.”

“Any connections to the publishing or entertainment industries?”

“Not that I could see. His accounts are an airline and a hand lotion; neither one is good for much show biz contact, far as I can see.”

“Still, advertising people mix with actors and other people who cross over into entertainment.”

“Not this one, apparently.”

“Okay, what about Barry?”

“Barry is a different story; Barry mixes with anybody he thinks is cute. I saw him buy a gross of condoms at his neighborhood drugstore – they had ordered them for him. He hangs out at a bar in the East Village called the Leather Room, and he takes home somebody different just about every night. These boys are all over the place – actors, dancers, directors – he seems to prefer those in the business.”

“Did you pick up on any pillow talk?”

“I put a cup mike on his bedroom window, and I heard it all, and I mean all, believe me. Something I don’t understand about these people, these pansies: How come they can do it every night, two or three times a night? I could never do that, even when I was his age.”

“The younger generation seems to be in better shape.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And you can’t call them ‘pansies’ anymore, Arnie; too many people find that offensive.”

“Tell me about it,” Arnie replied.

Stone changed the subject. “Is Barry chatty about his work?”

“The CIA should be so tight-lipped. The boy tells his new friends who he works for – that always gets a reaction – but he doesn’t blab about what he does for her, or about her. Strikes me as intensely loyal to his boss.”