Stuart Woods - Dirt

“See you in half an hour,” Cantor said, and left the office.

Stone started dictating correspondence and signing checks; he had just finished when Cantor returned.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” the ex-cop said, flopping down in a chair, “this guy is some piece of work. He’s done the phones again.”

“Jesus.”

“I guess while you were napping the other evening, he calmly went about his business. It’s just the phones, though; I didn’t find anything else.”

“Did you screw up his work?”

Cantor held up a handful of wires and devices. “I yanked it. No need to be subtle anymore.”

“You had any luck with this guy in the bar who has the signature with the wires?”

“I almost forgot; I talked to him for half an hour last night; the signature is something he was trained to do.”

“Who taught him?”

“A federal agency, is all I could get out of him; he denied that it was the CIA. Maybe the National Security Agency.”

Stone shook his head. “Aren’t they more into the wireless sort of surveillance?”

“Yeah. It could be some group we don’t know about – maybe even something illegal.”

“Do you really think that sort of stuff still goes on?”

Cantor shrugged. “Who knows? There are a lot of guys on the street who used to work for somebody in D.C. Maybe he’s that type.”

“Maybe. Listen, Bob, there’s something else.”

“Shoot.”

“How good are you on your feet?”

“I’m okay; I used to study karate pretty seriously, and I box once or twice a week at my gym. What is it you need, Stone?”

“There’s a guy needs talking to, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I’m up to it just yet. He’s been harassing a friend of mine, a woman, and I want a stop put to it.”

“So is this guy muscle, or something?”

“She says he gets into fights; I have no idea how good he is at it.”

“What exactly is it that you want done?”

“I want the fear of God put into him. I’m not talking about leaning hard on him, but if he reacts badly, I don’t want him to come out of it with the upper hand.”

“You think this guy might be the one wiring all these places?”

Stone shook his head and pushed a copy of Vanity Fair across his desk. “This is the guy; he’s a male model, at least some of the time. The connection’s with this girl, whose name is Arrington; not with the DIRT thing.”

Cantor looked at the picture. “I can handle it.”

“There’s something else, something I only just found out.”

“Yeah?”

Stone handed him a slip of paper. “His name is Jonathan Dryer; that’s where he lives. Arnie Millman got clipped in the alley next to the building.”

“You think the two things are connected?”

“I can’t see how, but I don’t like coincidences. I thought you ought to know about Arnie, though.”

“Yeah, I’m glad you told me.”

“If your talk with him turns up anything that makes you think he might be connected with Arnie by more than just geography, then we’ll bring Dino into it.”

Cantor nodded. “When you want this done?”

“The sooner the better.”

“You think he might be at home now?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Cantor stood up. “I’ll check him out.”

“If he’s not there, maybe you could take a look around his place, see what he’s about.”

“Sure thing.”

“Give your bill for the other work to Alma, and she’ll cut you a check. What do you want for the Dryer business?”

“Let’s see how it goes,” Cantor said. “He might be a pushover.”

“As long as you’re ready for him, if he isn’t.”

“Don’t worry about me.” Cantor left and closed the door behind him.

Amanda had thought long and hard overnight about what to do, and her first decision, characteristically, was to protect herself. She called her lawyer, Bill Eggers, at home.

“Morning, Amanda.”

“Bill, I want to ask you a hypothetical – very hypothetical – question.”

“Shoot.”

“In the unlikely event that I felt I really had to, could I get out of my contract with Dick Hickock?”

“ What? ”

“Now, Bill, I told you this was hypothetical; don’t get upset.”

“Amanda, you’ve only just signed the contracts; it’s a terrific deal!”

“Bill, you haven’t answered my question.”

“The answer is no, not unless Hickock were willing to release you.”

“Nothing I could do, if I wanted out?”

“It’s more about what he could do. He could prevent any other newspaper or magazine from publishing you. All you could do would be to beg him to let you go. What’s this about, Amanda?”

“Bill, this isn’t going to happen; I just like to know where I stand, that’s all.”

“The only way you could get out would be nonperformance on Dick’s part. As long as he pays, you’re stuck with him.”

“Thank you, Bill; just forget I asked, all right?”

“Asked what?”

“Bye, Bill.” She hung up. Well, that was bad news; if Dickie started downhill, he could drag her with him, and all the way to the bottom. She was going to have to nail whoever was publishing DIRT. She had nailed lots of people in her time, but Amanda was not accustomed to going after faceless people with no fixed address.

She picked up the phone to call Stone, then hung up again. She didn’t want to tell him about Hickock’s sub rosa business activities; after all, he was also representing Dick in this matter; she had given him permission to do so. Oh, well, she didn’t have to tell him everything. She picked up the phone again and got connected.

“Stone, darling, I have some information that might be of help,” she said.

“I’m all ears,” Stone replied.

“You remember the issue of DIRT that featured Peebles, the editor of the Infiltrator? ”

“Yes.”

“Peebles and I had a chat yesterday; he thinks that an old boyfriend of his might have something to do with this, might even be the one behind it.”

“What’s the old boyfriend’s name?”

“Geoffrey, spelled the English way, Power. At any rate, that’s what he called himself. Peebles thinks he might use more than one name. He’s a failed actor, in L.A. anyway – actually, he failed out there because Peebles screwed him with the studios. He could be in New York.”

“You have anything else on him that might help me locate him?”

“A description.”

“Shoot.”

She read from her notes. “Early to mid-thirties, tall, slender, but strong, sandy hair. Peebles says he’s quite beautiful.”

“Anything else? An address, a phone number?”

“Afraid not, but Peebles thinks he might be in New York; he pulled out of L.A.”

“I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“Bye.”

Stone’s immediate thought was that the description fit the man who had been following Tiffany Potts, who looked like the man in the magazine, who had turned out to be Jonathan Dryer. He tried to remember his visit to Dryer’s apartment, but there wasn’t much there. The man had been backlit, standing behind a partially open door, and he had never gotten a good look at him. All he had was the magazine photo. He turned his attention to Geoffrey Power, starting with his computer telephone directory. That contained a hundred million names, but not a single Geoffrey Power. He called Dino.

“Yeah?” Dino said.

“Will you run a name for me?”

“Sure.”

“Last name Power, first name Geoffrey.” Stone spelled it for him.

“Hang on.”

Stone could hear the computer keys clicking.