Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

Grant pocketed the money without looking at it. “Arrington’s car will be on the patrol list in an hour; how do I get in touch with you?”

Stone gave him a business card, writing the portable number on the back. “Is it safe for me to call you at the office?”

“As long as you’re careful. If I say I can’t talk, call back in an hour, or leave a message, and I’ll call you back. Use the name Jack Smith.” Grant’s car arrived, and he got in and drove away.

After the payment to Grant, Stone was low on cash. “Where’s the nearest bank?” he asked the valet.

“Right across the street,” the man said.

Stone looked up and saw a lighthouse painted on the window. “Safe Harbor Bank,” the sign read. He took his Centurion paycheck from his pocket and looked at it; it was drawn on Safe Harbor.

“Hold my car for a few minutes, will you?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Dodging traffic, Stone walked across the street and entered the bank. There was another lighthouse high on a wall, and a nautical motif. A large ship’s clock behind the tellers chimed the hour. He walked to a teller’s window and presented the check. “I’d like to cash this, please.”

The teller looked at the check and handed it back to him. “For a check of this size you’ll have to get Mr. Marshall’s approval,” she said, pointing to an office behind a row of desks. “See his secretary, there,” she said, pointing to a woman.

“Thank you.” Stone walked to the secretary’s desk. “I’d like to see Mr. Marshall, please, about getting approval to cash a check.”

“Your name?”

“Barrington.”

“Just a moment.” She dialed a number, spoke briefly, and hung up. “Go in, please,” she said, pointing at the office door, which was open.

Stone rapped lightly on the door and entered. “Mr. Marshall?”

“Mr. Barrington,” the man said, rising and offering his hand. “Please have a seat; what can I do for you?”

Stone handed him the check and sat down. “I’d like to cash this,” he said.

Marshall examined the check. “Do you have some identification?” he asked.

Stone handed over his New York driver’s license.

Marshall looked at Stone’s photograph, compared it with the original face, wrote the license number on the back of the check and handed it back. “May I ask how you happen to have a check on the account of Centurion Studios for twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“It’s a paycheck; I had a role in a Centurion film this week.”

“Ah, an actor.”

Stone didn’t disabuse him of the notion. “I live in New York, you see; I’m just out here for the Job.”

“Can we open an account for you? That’s a lot of cash to be walking around with.”

“No, I’m going back to New York shortly, but you’re right, it is a lot of money. Why don’t you give me a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand, and the rest in hundreds?”

“As you wish.” He buzzed for his secretary, then signed a form and handed it to her. “Have a cashier’s check drawn in that amount, please, payable to Mr. Stone Barrington, and bring me that and ten thousand dollars in hundreds.” He turned the check over. “You’ll need to endorse it,” he said to Stone.

Stone signed the check and sat back to wait for his money. “You’ve a handsome bank here,” he said.

“Thank you; all of our offices are designed with something of the nautical in them. Mr. Ippolito is something of a yachtsman.”

“Mr. Ippolito?”

“Our chairman,” Marshall replied.

“What does he sail?”

“He has a small armada,” the bank manager said. “A large sailing yacht, a large motor yacht, a sports fisherman, and several runabouts.”

“Business must be good,” Stone said.

“Oh, yes; we’re the fastest-growing bank in Southern California. We’ve got fourteen offices in the greater L.A. and San Diego areas, and by this time next year we’ll have closer to twenty. We’re expanding into San Francisco.”

“Might you have a copy of your most recent annual report?” Stone asked. “I’m going to need to invest some of this paycheck.”

“Of course,” Marshall replied. He reached into a cabinet next to his desk and produced a thick, handsomely designed brochure.

“Thank you,” Stone said. “I’ll read myself to sleep tonight.”

“I think you’ll find us a good investment; our stock has doubled in the past two years.”

“Sounds interesting,” Stone said.

The secretary returned with the cashier’s check and Stone’s cash. Marshall signed the check with a flourish and handed it over, along with a thick stack of hundreds, held together with a paper band. “Better count it,” he said.

Stone stood up and tucked the check and the cash into his inside pockets. “I trust you, Mr. Marshall,” he said. “Thanks very much for your help.”

They shook hands, and Stone left the building. He didn’t know a hell of a lot about banking, he thought as he crossed the street to his waiting car, but Safe Harbor seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds. He wondered what was fueling the growth.

Once in the car, he opened the annual report and flipped through it, stopping at a list of the bank’s officers. Ippolito was indeed chairman, and Louis Regenstein and David Sturmack were listed as directors. His portable phone rang.

He dug the little Motorola StarTac from an inside pocket and flipped it open. “Stone Barrington.”

“It’s Rick Grant. I’ve got a report on Arrington’s car.”

“That was fast. Where was it spotted?”

“Driving away from Spago Beverly Hills less than five minutes ago.”

“Jesus!” Stone said. “I’ll get back to you.” He closed the phone, hopped out of the car, and ran to the valet. “Did a white Mercedes SL600 just leave here?”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, “just a minute ago.”

“Can you describe the driver?”

“You bet I can: she was tall, dark hair, late twenties or early thirties; a real looker.”

“Did you see which way she went?”

“She turned left at the corner, toward Rodeo Drive.”

“Thanks,” Stone said, then jumped into his car. He gunned it, then made a left turn across two lanes of traffic, the sound of horns following him. A block ahead, the traffic light was turning green, and the white Mercedes was turning right on Rodeo.

Then there was the sound of a siren in his left ear, and a cop on a motorcycle pulled in front of him, lights flashing, and stopped. The cop got off and sauntered toward him, while Stone dug for his ID.

“Afternoon,” the cop said, producing a ticket book. “In a terrible hurry, are we? License and registration, please.”

Stone opened the small wallet and flashed his NYPD badge.

The cop took it and read the ID thoroughly. “Retired, huh? You look a little young for retirement.”

“A bullet in the knee did the job.”

“Nowthat’s a lucky break, you still being alive and all. Makes for a nice pension, huh? Let’s see your license and registration.”

“Listen, I’vegot to catch up with a lady in a white SL600 that just turned into Rodeo Drive.”

“You listen, ah…” he glanced at the ID, “…Detective Barrington. Did you happen to see the Rodney King videotape?”

Stone sighed. “Two or three hundred times,” he said.

“Well, I heard that Mr. King was reluctant to showhis license and registration, too.”

Stone produced his driver’s license and dug into the armrest compartment for his rental contract. “All right, all right,” he said, handing them over.

The cop glanced at the license. “You take a very nice picture, Detective Barrington,” he said.

“Could you just write me the ticket and let me be on my way?”