Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

“How are you, Stone?” Grant said, extending a hand.

“Not bad, Rick; you?”

“Getting by.”

“You’re at headquarters now?”

“Yeah, I’ve got soft duty as a deputy to the chief of detectives.”

“Administrative stuff?”

“More like consulting on various cases. Right now I’m writing a long report on the state of organized crime in L.A., that being my old specialty.”

“That’s very interesting,” Stone said. “Why don’t we order?”

They chatted amiably while their food was served.

“What was that about moonlighting?” Grant finally asked.

“I need some local knowledge and, maybe, influence on something I’m working on. I’m sorry you’re not available.”

“I didn’t say that; I said that the department frowns on it. It didn’t seem like a good idea to talk about it on the phone. What’s involved?”

“Five hundred a day; I’m not sure for how long, but it’s cash, and I’m not going to issue a 1099 to the IRS at the end of the year.”

“That’s nice, but I meant, what is it, exactly, you need?”

“Advice; intelligence; absolute discretion; maybe an occasional flash of the badge.”

“Tell me about the problem.”

“A friend of mine has disappeared; her husband called me a few days ago and asked me to come out here and find her.”

“Domestic thing?”

“I thought so at first; I don’t now.”

“What changed your mind?”

“As soon as I got here everybody, and I meaneverybody, the husband knows went to a great deal of trouble to distract me from the problem. Then the husband told me he had heard from his wife, that she was fine, and I was hustled out of town.”

“But you’re still here.”

“I didn’t like being hustled. Also, I had two phone messages from the lady, and my hotel’s caller ID made them from a restaurant called Grimaldi’s.”

Grant’s eyebrows shot up. “I know that place, or used to.”

“I thought you might.” Stone told Grant about his visit to the restaurant and finding the matchbook in the storeroom.

“Sounds like the lady’s leaving a trail of crumbs.”

“It does, doesn’t it? I can’t go any farther with this without telling you who these people are, so I need to know if you’re in.”

“Tell me who they are, and I’ll tell you if I’m in.”

“The husband is Vance Calder.”

Grant put down his fork and leaned back in his chair. “Holy shit,” he said.

“That about sums it up. His wife and I used to be…close, in New York. She went off to do a magazine piece on Calder and ended up marrying him.”

“So why didn’t Calder call us?”

“He’s terrified of the publicity, especially the tabloids. I think he’s led pretty much of a charmed existence with the press, and he doesn’t want that to change.”

“But it’s hiswife. ”

“Yeah.”

Grant shook his head. “I haven’t had all that much contact with the showbiz community,” he said, “but these people never cease to amaze me. They think they’re operating on a nearby planet of their own, where they call all the shots and nobody else matters.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s how it was in the twenties and thirties, when the studios were big.”

“I guess so, and maybe it’s still like that a little, but it rubs me the wrong way.”

“I can understand that, but it’s not my purpose here to drag these people and their friends down to earth; I just want to find the lady and talk to her.”

“Talk to her? Not reunite her with her husband?”

Stone shrugged. “If absolutely necessary.”

“You still want her?”

Stone looked at his plate. This was the question he had been avoiding asking himself. “I want to know ifshe still wantsme, after…all that’s happened.”

“But you don’tknow what’s happened.”

“That’s right, and I want to find out.”

“Well, on the face of it-I mean if Calder walked into the cop shop and I caught it-I’d read it as a purely domestic matter.”

“It may be, but I doubt it.”

“You could be right; it’s the Grimaldi’s connection that intrigues me. I doubt if that joint is even in the phone book; it’s not the sort of place a movie star’s wife would wander into.”

“That’s how it struck me; it looked like half a dozen New York wiseguy hangouts I’ve seen.”

“Is there anything else about this that smells like mob?”

“There’s a guy named David Sturmack.”

Grant blinked. “He’s the mayor’s favorite golf partner. Once I had to deliver an envelope to hizzoner at the Bel-Air Country Club, and he introduced me to Sturmack.”

“What else do you know about him?” Stone asked.

“That he’s a big-time fixer. There were rumors a while back about mob connections, through the unions, I think. He seemed to have an in with the Teamsters.”

“You know any more details about that?”

“No. By the time I was on that particular job, Sturmack had faded into some pretty expensive woodwork. His name used to come up in subtle ways, but I never knew of any hard connection between him and anybody who was mobbed up. I’d say he’s at the pinnacle of respectability now, or the mayor wouldn’t be seen with him. The mayor’s a squeaky-clean guy.”

“I’ll tell you what I know: Sturmack’s old man was with Meyer Lansky way back when. Young David grew up amongst the boys, knew them all, apparently.”

Grant smiled. “No kidding? The family business, huh? Now you mention it, I seem to remember a rumor of a connection between Sturmack and the Teamsters pension fund, which bankrolled half the construction in Vegas when the boys were in charge.”

“Sounds right.”

“But I can’t think why Sturmack would have somebody’s wife disappeared; even if the rumors are true, that wouldn’t be his style, not at all.”

“Time to tell me if you’re in, Rick.”

Grant smiled. “Sure, I’m in; what’s more, I’m intrigued. What do you want me to do?”

“Can you get the lady’s car on the patrol sheet without listing it as stolen?”

“Probably.”

“It’s a new white Mercedes SL600, California vanity plate, A-R-I-N-G-T-N.” He spelled it, and Grant wrote it down. “The lady’s name is Arrington Carter Calder; it’ll be registered either to her or her husband, I guess.”

“Maybe not; a lot of these people drive cars registered to their production companies. Why don’t you want it listed as stolen?”

“I don’t want it pulled over; I just want to know where it is, if it’s anywhere, and I’d like a description of whoever’s driving it.”

“Okay, I’ll specify position reports and descriptions only, and directly to me.”

They ordered coffee, and Stone asked for a check. “There’s another name; see if it rings a bell.”

“Who’s that?”

“Onofrio Ippolito.”

Grant laughed. “Jesus, Stone, you’re really in high cotton here, you know?”

“Am I?”

“Ippolito is the CEO of the Safe Harbor Bank.”

“Big outfit?”

“Dozens of branches, all over, ads on television, lots of charity sponsorship, the works.”

“No mob connections?”

Grant shook his head. “Ippolito is the mayor’s personal banker.”

“Yeah? Well, I saw him at Grimaldi’s with some guys who didn’t look like branch managers.”

Rick Grant sat like stone, his face without expression.

“Rick?”

Grant moved. “Huh?”

“You still in?”

Grant shrugged. “What the hell.”

While they waited for the valet to bring their cars, Stone pressed five hundred-dollar bills into Rick Grant’s hand. “It’s all I’ve got on me at the moment.”