Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

He walked all the way uptown to his apartment house. As he let himself in, he heard Angus on the phone. He walked into the kitchen.

"Hi," Angus said. "You weren't gone long."

"I didn't feel like working," Sandy replied. "Many calls?"

"A steady stream," Angus said, handing him a handful of slips. "And one wrong number. We don't have anybody named Bart living here, do we?"

"Who?"

"Some guy called and asked to speak to Bart."

Sandy's feeling of omnipotence vanished.

Sandy walked up Madison Avenue with a lighter heart. He had just left the headquarters of John Bailley amp; Son, where he had concluded the corporate separation of the wine division from the company and where he had sold his interest in the liquor division. He gazed idly into shop windows; for many years he had been able to walk into any establishment and buy nearly anything he wanted, but today he had a wholly new sense of wealth. He had a cashier's check in his pocket for twenty-eight million dollars.

What would he buy? A jet airplane for his coast-to-coast trips? Not his style. A Rolls-Royce? Nothing gaudy. A vineyard? Maybe; he would see. But none of those things offered the immediate gratification he sought. He reversed his course and walked down Fifth Avenue; soon he stood in front of Cartier jewelers. He had never owned much in the way of jewelry. He walked into the store and was greeted by a beautiful young woman.

"May I show you something, sir?" she asked, her voice slightly French-accented.

The accent reminded him of Duvivier, who had been very quiet for the past month, and he dismissed it from his mind. "I'd like to look at a wristwatch, please," he said.

"Of course; this way, please." She led him to a long glass case filled with watches.

Sandy examined half a dozen, then picked up a Panther watch, in eighteen-carat gold with a matching bracelet. "How much?" he asked.

"This model is fifteen thousand dollars," she said. "Plus sales tax, of course. We also have the Panther with diamonds." He shook his head. Nothing gaudy. "I'll take it," he said, and handed her his Platinum American Express card. He would get a frequent-flyer mile for every dollar charged to the card, and the little bonus pleased him.

The young woman slipped the watch onto his wrist, showed him how to work the hidden clasp, then disappeared with the instrument to have a link removed from the bracelet for a better fit.

Sandy wandered around the store, glancing at diamond necklaces and broaches in the cases. Nobody to celebrate with, he reflected. One of these days before long he would come in here and buy some bauble for a beautiful new woman. The saleswoman returned, and he considered her for a moment. She was certainly elegant looking, and under the expensive suit she wore was surely a nicely sculpted body. He fantasized how she would look, feel in bed. It was a pleasant thought, but no. No sales clerks. He could afford any woman, now, any woman at all. He signed the credit card receipt, then slipped on the new watch and handed her his Rolex. "Would you send this to my home, please?"

"Of course, Mr. Kinsolving, and thank you for shopping with Cartier. I hope to see you again soon." She folded her business card into the receipt and handed it to him.

Maybe, he thought, looking at her breasts; maybe for some spontaneous evening of good food and sex, if he began to feel randy He didn't feel randy, not yet. It would come, though; it always did.

"Thank you…" he glanced at her card, "Ms. Duval."

"Angelique," she said.

He gave her a little wave and left the shop. He had one more business call to make, but he wanted to feel the check in his pocket for a while longer. He strolled slowly up Fifth Avenue, enjoying the sunshine and the atmosphere. He looked at the faces of the people approaching him. Perhaps one in ten seemed nearly as happy as he on this fine day. The others seemed worried, hurried, and harassed. He took as long as possible to reach his next stop, a handsome stone building off Fifth Avenue in the Sixties, not far from his apartment house. He climbed the steps and was observed by a uniformed man on the other side of the heavy door of glass and wrought iron. After the briefest of examinations, the man opened the door and showed him in.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Yes, I'd like to open an account," Sandy replied. He was in a foyer with marble floors and walls. A pair of overstuffed sofas faced each other; excellent paintings hung on the walls.

"Did you have an appointment, sir?"

"No. My name is Alexander Kinsolving; you may say that your bank was recommended by Arthur Shields of Wayne and Shields, my accountants."

"Would you please take a seat, sir?"

"Thank you." Sandy sat on one of the sofas and glanced at his new watch: two minutes past the hour. Let's see how long this takes, he thought.

The guard spoke briefly on a telephone, then returned. "Mr. Samuel Warren will see you, sir; please follow me." He ignored the stairs and showed Sandy into a small elevator. "You'll be met at the top, sir," the guard said, pressing a button and stepping out of the car.

Sandy rose four floors and stepped out of the elevator to be met by a plump, middle-aged woman.

"Mr. Kinsolving? Will you follow me, please?" She led him to the end of the hall to double doors of mahogany and opened one for him. "Mr. Warren, Mr. Alexander Kinsolving."

Warren came from behind his desk and extended his hand. "How do you do?" he asked. "I'm Sam Warren; please call me Sam. It's Sandy, isn't it?"

"That's right," Sandy replied shaking the man's hand. "I didn't know you were expecting me."

"I wasn't, exactly, but Arthur Shields rang today and said I might be hearing from you. I'm glad it was sooner than later." Warren waved him to a comfortable sofa and sat down beside him. "Would you like some coffee or tea?"

"Tea would be nice," Sandy replied.

Warren nodded to the woman, who still stood at the door, and she disappeared. The two men chatted idly until she returned with a silver tea service, then Warren poured for them both. "Now, Sandy," he said, "how can I be of service?"

"Are you acquainted with John Bailley and Son?" Sandy asked.

"Of course. Fine people, I hear."

"I've just acquired the wine division of the company, which I started some years ago, and some cash for my interest in the liquor division. I've always banked at Morgan Guarantee, the company's bank, but now that Jock Bailley is gone, and since my wife recently passed away, I feel that it's better to reestablish elsewhere. Your bank comes highly recommended by Arthur Shields."

"That's very flattering," Warren said. "Let me tell you a little about Mayfair Trust: we're private, of course-very private; we're based in London, with branches in a dozen cities around the world, and we offer a range of services that are as personal as our clients wish them to be-investments, mergers and acquisitions, money management, practically anything you might require. We have a few customers who simply deposit funds with us and deal with their affairs themselves, but nearly all of our clients ask for a more complete service."

"That is what I had in mind," Sandy said. "I've always operated the wine division as a subsidiary of the larger company, but now I'm independent, and I will need a lot of advice."

"Do you have expansion plans?" Warren asked.

"I already have a London company, and I was thinking of a specialist West Coast branch, dealing primarily in California wines."

The two men talked for more than an hour, and Sandy was impressed with Warren's immediate comprehension of what he wanted to do, and with the off-the-cuff suggestions he made.

Finally, when they seemed finished with their discussion, Warren asked, "Shall I open both personal and business accounts for you, then?"