Stuart Woods - Dirt

Arrington took a deep breath and ran into the street, waving her arms. Mary Ann stood her ground. “This guy doesn’t know me ; I’m staying right here.”

“Could you keep an eye on Arrington, so we’ll know where she is if we have to move in a hurry?”

“That I can do.”

“I’ll take the alley,” Stone said. “Holler if you see him.”

“Right,” Dino said. “I hope he looks like his picture.”

“Me, too.” Stone left the lobby and walked up Shubert Alley, which ran between 44th and 45th Streets. The alley offered no shelter, and he stood there, getting wet. Shortly, a door opened and a trickle of people began leaving the theater, followed by a flood. Stone tried to search the faces without turning head on to them. After all, Dryer knew what he looked like. The theater was half empty when he heard Dino’s voice.

“Stone!”

He looked toward the corner of 45th and saw Dino waving for him. He hurried toward him.

“He just got into a limo with some other people,” Dino said, pointing at a line of limousines lining the curb.

“Where’s Arrington? Did she find a cab?”

“I don’t know; she went off toward Eighth Avenue.”

The line of limos started to move.

“Shit,” Dino said. “Where is she?”

“I’m getting wet,” Mary Ann said.

“Don’t melt,” Dino replied.

“There!” Stone pointed. Arrington was waving at them from the window of a cab. They all ran for it, and as they did, the limos began picking up speed. “Which car is he in?”

“That one,” Dino said nodding.

Stone tried to see inside, but the windows were tinted too darkly. Then he wondered if Dryer could be looking back at him through the opaque windows.

They piled into the cab with Arrington; Stone took the front seat. “Follow the third limo ahead,” he said to the driver.

“Oh, great,” the driver muttered. “How far we going? Queens? Montauk?”

“Shut up and drive,” Dino said, shoving his badge under the driver’s nose.

“Awright, awright,” the driver moaned.

“He’s crossing Seventh Avenue,” Dino said. “Keep up, and don’t let any more traffic get between him and us.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the driver said.

They moved slowly toward 6th Avenue; then, as they approached the comer, the light turned red, trapping them while Dryer’s limo turned left.

“Shit,” Stone said.

“Look, what can I do?” the driver whined. “There’s two cars in front of me. You want me to drive over them?”

“He’s stopped at the next corner; we can still catch up.”

A raft of traffic moved past them on 6th Avenue. Now they were ten or twelve cars back. Finally the light changed and they were able to turn left, but the light at the next corner changed and they were stopped again.

“Have you got him in sight?” Dino asked.

“I think so.”

They struggled up 6th Avenue in heavy traffic, getting no closer to the limo, then they were stopped again.

“Uh-oh,” Dino said, pointing. A hundred yards ahead of them, Dryer was getting out of the limo.

“He’s heading for the subway,” Dino said.

Stone turned to Dino. “I’m going after him; you pull up at the subway entrance. If I’m not back in five minutes, will you take Arrington to my house?”

“Sure; you better get going.”

Stone got out of the cab and ran toward the subway entrance. The rain was pounding down now, and the steps were slippery as he clambered down them. As he descended into the station he saw Dryer going through the turnstiles, and at the same moment, he remembered that he had no tokens; he rarely took the subway. He hurried down the stairs, and he could hear a train coming into the station.

“The hell with the token,” he said to himself. He ran at the turnstile, planted a hand on it, and vaulted over. As he did, his raincoat caught on something, and he was jerked to a halt.

“Hold it right there!” somebody yelled, and before he could get his coat untangled a cop had him by the elbow.

“I’m on the job,” Stone lied.

“Yeah? Let’s see some ID, pal.”

Stone groped for his wallet, flashed the badge, and tried to go after Dryer, who was getting onto the subway train three cars from where he stood.

“Let’s see that,” the cop said, grabbing the wallet. “Retired, huh? What’s going on, fella?”

“I’ve got to catch up with a guy,” Stone said.

“Okay, but start buying tokens, okay?” He let go of Stone’s arm.

Stone sprinted up the platform toward an open car door and hurled himself at it. The doors closed on him. He struggled, pushed on the doors, and fell into the car, banging a knee. He got to his feet in time to look out the window and see Dryer standing on the platform, looking at him as the train pulled out. Dryer gave him a little smile.

Stone watched him for as long as he could; then the train was in the tunnel. He sat down, hoping to God that Dryer would go back up to 6th Avenue and be spotted by Dino. His raincoat, a new one, was torn from his leap over the turnstile, and there was a hole in his trousers’ knee where he had fallen. It was one hell of an expensive subway ride, he thought.

He got off the train at the next stop; then, unable to find a cab, he limped home.

Amanda dialed Stone’s number and waited, tapping her perfect nails on the desktop while the secretary put her through. She had been standing at Martha’s graveside the day before when her thoughts about the DIRT business had begun to fall into place, and she had begun to fully realize how dangerous her position was. Amanda had always made a habit of turning danger into opportunity, but first she had to know exactly where she stood, which meant knowing exactly where Stone stood.

“Hello, Amanda; I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Not to worry, darling. Look, I’d like to know exactly where you are in this investigation. Can you bring me up to date, and as concisely as possible?”

“Of course. Most of this you already know, of course, but I think we’ve identified the person or, perhaps, persons who are publishing the newsletter. One of them calls himself Jonathan Dryer and the other, Geoffrey Power or G. Gable. They appear to be working together. Dryer has abandoned his apartment, and we haven’t been able to locate him yet. Last night we got a look at him at a benefit at the Shubert Theatre, but he managed to elude us.”

“Who’s us?”

“Dino Bacchetti, my old detective partner.”

“Are the police involved in this?” she asked, alarmed.

“No, this was completely unofficial. We think Dryer has been pulling off burglaries to support himself, and a gun that was stolen from one of the apartments may have been used to kill a retired cop, but we can’t prove anything yet.”

“I see,” she said, relieved. “And where do you intend to go from here?”

“I intend to find Dryer,” Stone replied. “He’s the key to this whole thing.”

“And that’s it? That’s everything?”

“That’s everything.”

“Thank you, darling; see you soon.” She hung up and dialed Richard Hickock’s private office number.

“Hello?”

“Dick, it’s Amanda. Break your lunch date today; we have to meet.”

“Is this really important?”

“I think you could call it vital. Twelve-thirty at Twenty-One?”

“See you then.”

When they had settled into a banquette in the inner horseshoe of the bar at “ 21,” and after Hickock had ordered his steak and baked potato and Amanda her grilled salmon, no butter, and after Hickock had been served a double vodka martini and Amanda her San Pellegrino, she got down to business.