Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

“Yeah, I know the place; I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.” Stone hung up and rummaged in his kitchenette for breakfast. He found some croissants and orange juice, and he made himself some coffee. The phone rang.

“Jack?”

“Yeah, Rick.”

“I’m on a pay phone now. Here we go: Regenstein is at Centurion Studios; Ippolito is in an office building over the main branch of Safe Harbor, downtown, and Sturmack has an office in the same building.” He gave Stone the addresses, plus the home addresses and numbers. “The home numbers for all three are unlisted, so don’t let anybody know where you got them.”

“Thanks, Rick; you free for dinner later? I’m buying.”

“Sure.”

“Someplace not too Hollywood.”

Grant gave him the name of a Greek restaurant on Melrose. “It’s good, but you won’t run into anybody in the movie business.”

“Sounds perfect. Eight o’clock?”

“Make it seven.”

“See you then.” Stone hung up and called his secretary in New York.

“Hi, Alma, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.” She gave him a few phone messages.

“I’ve got a new address, or you can reach me on my portable.” He gave her the name of the hotel and the number. “You can give that to Dino or Bill Eggers, but not to anybody else. I’m registered as Jack Smith. If I get any calls, especially from Vance Calder, say that you’re expecting me back in New York tonight, and I’ll return the calls then.”

“Got it.”

Stone finished his breakfast, then went down to the garage and got his new car. His pocket phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Alma; Vance Calder called, asked that you call him at home as soon as you get home.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Dino; I told him to try you on the portable. He said he’d call later.”

“Okay. I’m going to mail you a cashier’s check for fifteen thousand dollars; deposit it and write a check for ten thousand to the IRS and send it to my accountant.”

“Where’d you get fifteen thousand dollars in L.A.?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Been selling your body?”

“That’s it. Oh, Alma, one other thing; if Arrington should call, give her the portable number; tell her it’ll be on day and night.”

“Arrington?”

“Don’t ask.”

Stone, weary of finding his way around the city with a rentacar map, stopped at a bookstore and bought a city atlas, then headed for downtown L.A., which was a lot farther than he had imagined. The terrain downtown was different from the lush, low-rise Beverly Hills; here there were skyscrapers and concrete, and it looked like any other large American city. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to see the building where Ippolito and Sturmack had their offices. The sight was unrewarding; it was a fifty-story tower of black glass and anodized steel, vaguely sinister in appearance, which he thought appropriate. He was wondering what to do next when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Rick Grant; I’ve got another sighting of the girl’s car.”

“Where?”

“It’s at Marina Del Rey, parked along the waterfront outside a chandler’s shop.” He gave Stone the address.

“I’m on my way.”

“This time, I’ll have my patrol car sit on it; if it moves, I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks, Rick.”

“Tell the cops when you get there, so they can be on their way.”

“I’ll do that.” Stone consulted his map and headed for the coast.

It took some time to find the chandlery, but Arrington’s car was still there, and so was the patrol car. Stone found a parking space a few yards away and walked over to the cop car. “Thanks for waiting, fellas,” he said. “Lieutenant Grant says you can be on your way now.”

The cops drove off without a word, and Stone had a look around. There werethousands of boats-he couldn’t believe how many-everything from small sailing yachts to sports fishermen to large motor yachts, lined up in berths that stretched into the distance, and, he thought, she could be aboard any one of them. He went into the chandlery and, keeping an eye on the car through the window, bought a pair of cheap binoculars.

Back outside he climbed on top of a large ice dispensing machine and began sweeping the giant marina, looking for some sign of Arrington. It was Friday afternoon now, the car park was filling up, and hundreds of people were heading down the catwalks to their boats, ready for a weekend on the water. There were too many of them; it was like trying to pick somebody out of a crowd headed into a ballpark. Stone went back to his car and got in. He was facing Arrington’s Mercedes, and he’d be able to see anybody approaching it. His phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dino.”

“How you doing?”

“I’m okay; I did some checking around about Ippolito. I found a retired cop who remembered him a little from the old days with Luciano. Ippolito was a bachelor, no kids.”

“Any other relatives?”

“He didn’t know; this was before we starting cataloging these guys’ private lives, remember, and there was a thing about not messing with their families. It just wasn’t done.”

“I see.”

“You making any progress?”

“Well, I’m sitting here looking at Arrington’s car. Rick Grant got it found for me.”

“She’s not in it?”

“Nope.”

“You got any idea what’s going on?”

“I wish I could tell you I did. I’m just looking for a way into this thing, and so far, except for the car, I’m hitting a blank wall. Oh, there were a couple of hoods following me last night, but I hope they think I’ve gone back to New York.”

“Anything I can do from here?”

“I can’t think of anything. I’m getting good help from Rick, though.”

“Glad to hear it. Call me if anything breaks.”

“As long as it’s not my neck.”

“Yeah. See ya.” Dino hung up.

Stone sat for another hour, watching the car. Bored, he got out, looked around, and approached the vehicle. The top was up, and it was locked. There was a pack of matches from Elaine’s on the passenger seat. He tried the trunk; that was locked, too. He went back to his car. After another hour had passed, he had to go to the toilet; he squirmed for a while, then went into the chandlery.

“Pardon me, have you got a john I can use?”

“Sure,” the girl behind the counter said. “Down the hall, second door on your left.”

Stone looked out at the car, then down the hallway. “Would you do me a favor for just a minute?”

“What’s that?”

“Could you keep an eye on the white Mercedes convertible, parked right there?” He pointed.

“Sure.”

He walked quickly to the men’s room, used it, and hurried out. The Mercedes was gone.

“It’s gone,” Stone said to the girl.

“Yeah, a woman just got in it and left.”

“Shit,” he muttered.

“What? Did you want me to shoot out the tires or something?”

“Sorry, thanks for your help. Oh, what did she look like?”

“Tall, dark hair, wearing a bikini with a guy’s shirt over it.”

“Thanks.” Stone ran for the parking lot and looked up and down. The car was nowhere in sight. He ran to his own car and raced through the car park to the street, looking both ways. Lots of traffic, no white Mercedes. No Arrington.

He pounded on the wheel again and again, swearing.

Stone found the Greek restaurant on Melrose, was seated at a good table, and ordered a drink. He had half an hour’s wait before Rick Grant showed up. “Sorry to be late,” Grant said as he slid into a chair and ordered a scotch. “Somebody squatted in my office for half an hour just as I was about to leave.”