Stuart Woods - Dirt

“Oh, if you knew what I had in mind,” she said, smiling.

He believed he did know, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to handle it. He certainly didn’t want to annoy her and get thrown out before he had found out what he came for, and she was extremely attractive, except for the booze, and he was feeling just a little boozy himself. What canon of ethics covered this situation? None, he decided; he was on his own. Then he saw her nipples rise under her sweater. He had never seen that happen before. He was lost. “Your nipples are hard,” he said.

“How can you tell?” she asked, “when you haven’t touched them?”

He reached out and rubbed the back of his fingers lightly against her breasts. “Confirmed,” he said.

“Not really,” she said. She pulled her sweater over her head, released her bra from behind, and dropped it on the floor.

“Reconfirmed,” he said, reaching for her.

He got out of the shower and went to find his clothes in the kitchen seating area. Once dressed, he decided to look around. There was a phone book on the kitchen counter, and under “Tommy” was scribbled “Chelsea Hotel.” He wondered how old that address was. He went into the living room and found nothing of interest, then tried the library. On a bookcase were a lot of silver-framed family photographs. One of them had been taken in some tropical place; there were palms and a beach. A man dressed in the uniform of a navy lieutenant was standing next to a handsome blond woman. Arrayed at their feet were two little boys and an older girl of maybe twelve – pretty, straw-haired, smiling.

“Better days,” she said from behind him. She was tying a robe around her.

“I thought you were sound asleep,” he said.

“So you just thought you’d have a look around.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Did you find Tommy and Charlie?”

“No. Would you like to tell me where they are?”

“Why do you want to find them?”

“I told you, it’s a personal matter. One of them – Tommy, I think – has my wristwatch; it has a lot of sentimental value.”

She smiled. “Tommy always loved watches. Strange thing.”

“Where is he?”

“In New York; but you know that already.”

“Yes. Do you have an address for him?”

“Last I heard, Tommy had an apartment on Ninety-first Street.”

“Not any more; he’s moved. Do you know where?”

She crossed her arms. “He may be a bastard,” she said, “but he’s my little brother.”

“If you tell me where to find him, I may be able to keep him from getting into more trouble than he’s already in.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Stealing, mostly.”

“From you?”

“Among others.”

“I talked to him last night, for the first time in more than a year; he said he was about to strike it rich.”

“Did he say how?”

“He said that he possessed very valuable knowledge. That’s all he said.”

“And you don’t know where he’s living?”

She looked at the floor and shook her head.

He couldn’t blame her. He walked to where she stood, kissed her on the cheek, and left.

Stone drove slowly back toward the city, through slush, ice, and fresh snow, which had turned into a blizzard. In spite of his recent shower he felt somehow dirty. His sex life had always been serendipitous, and he liked it that way; in the normal course of his life he would have enjoyed his encounter with Lou Burch and reflected pleasantly on it, but his life had taken a new course with Arrington, and it troubled him that he had not once thought of her until he was back in the car. Guilt was new to him, and he didn’t like it.

Just short of the George Washington Bridge traffic came to a complete halt, and he began to fear that it might be permanent. He got out his pocket phone and called Dino.

“Afternoon,” Dino said.

“Already?” Stone looked at his watch; it was nearly two.

“Happens every day.”

“Dino, I’ve finally got something on our boys.”

“Shoot.”

“An old acquaintance did some checking for me with what I believe was Central Intelligence. Turns out our boy, Jonathan, who has an electronics degree, underwent some training by those people and spent several years in their employ. He eventually got bounced. His real name is Thomas Bruce, and his brother’s name is Charles. Charlie is probably out of jail recently; he was doing five to seven at Chino, in California, and my guess is he’s jumped parole. That ought to be enough to pick him up on.”

“It would be if we got a request from California,” Dino said. “Hang on, let me check the computer.”

Stone heard some keystrokes, then some more.

“Okay, I’ve got his record; his sheet is short but sordid. Picked up for male prostitution when he was nineteen, suspended sentence; suspect in a dozen burglaries; finally got nailed in somebody else’s house, went up to Chino. No mention of parole; according to this, he’s still inside.”

“Maybe they’re slow to update records,” Stone said.

“Maybe. Oh, his picture looks a lot like his brother.”

“So there’s not enough to pick him up?”

“Not when he’s still in Chino, Stone,” Dino said drily.

“Can you check with California and see if he’s out, and if he’s been reporting to his parole officer? If he’s bolted, you’d have an excuse to arrest him.”

“My superiors wouldn’t think it was a very good use of manpower to start hunting down parole violators from California, when California doesn’t care enough to send out a bulletin.”

“Oh, come on, Dino, you’re not trying! I may even know where he is.”

“Where?”

“At the Chelsea Hotel, maybe.”

“Under what name?”

That stopped Stone; he hadn’t thought to ask Lou Burch about a new alias, and she was certainly not going to volunteer it. “I don’t know. Try Dryer, try Power, try Gable, try Bruce. Maybe he’s dumb enough to use his own name.”

“First, let me see what I can do with the state of California. I know a guy who might be of some help. Where are you?”

“Somewhere in New Jersey.”

“Oh, shit; in this weather?”

“I’m standing still just short of the Bridge, while snow is relentlessly rising around me.”

“Lotsa luck, pal. I hope I don’t read in the papers that you were one of hundreds who froze to death in their cars.”

“I’m moved by your concern. Get back to me.” Stone broke the connection.

Miraculously, traffic began to move, or rather to inch forward. Twenty minutes later, the road had been squeezed down to one lane, past a rear-ender that was blocking the other two. Once past the wreck, Stone was back up to thirty miles an hour, which, in the current conditions, felt like sixty. Shortly he was in Manhattan again. His pocket phone rang.

“Yeah?”

“Okay, he’s out of Chino, but he hasn’t busted parole.”

“You mean he’s still in California? I don’t believe it.”

“He’s not due to check in with his parole officer until day after tomorrow. If he doesn’t show up, my friend has got him flagged to go into the computer immediately as a runner, and he’s promised to fax me a request to pick him up.”

“But not until day after tomorrow?”

“Not until the day after that, at the earliest. Sorry, it’s the best I can do. Oh, I’ve got an address for him: the Santa Fe Residential Apartments, on Melrose, should you want to go looking for him.”

“Nah, he moved out of there a week or so ago. I think I’m going to go looking for him at the Chelsea Hotel.”

“You watch your ass, Stone. Remember Arnie; next time I see you I don’t want to see a tag on your toe. Are you carrying?”