Stuart Woods - Swimming To Catalina

“Why is that interesting?” Stone asked.

“I pulled up some stuff about Abalone out of our financial database. It’s a cannery, all right, but it’s also a holding company; it owns, among other businesses, twenty-two percent of the stock of the Safe Harbor Bank. It also owns seventy-five percent of Barone Financial Services. Martin Barone owns the other twenty-five percent.”

“A cannery owns a bank and a finance company?”

“You don’t understand. You’ve heard of Warren Buffet?”

“The richest man in America? Sure.”

“His principal holding is Berkshire Hathaway, a textile mill. Years ago he bought the company, and he used it to invest in a lot of other companies, like Coca-Cola, and it’s now worth billions.”

“Yeah? Who owns Abalone Fisheries?”

“Onofrio Ippolito and David Sturmack. It’s their version of Berkshire Hathaway.”

“Ahhhhh.”

“I thought you’d like that.”

“Seems like every time I turn over a rock, Ippolito is under it.”

“What’s your interest in the boat?”

“When your guys spotted Arrington’s car at the marina, a girl drove it away, and the same girl, I think, is living on the boat. She’s a thing on the side for this Martin Barone, who’s married. Will you see what you can dig up on Barone?”

“I can find out if he has a sheet.”

“Thanks.” Stone took some prefolded hundreds from his pocket and slipped them into Grant’s jacket pocket. “Something on account.”

“I thank you.”

“By the way, I dropped by Vincent Mancuso’s deli on the Strip yesterday; I’d give you odds he’s running a book out of there.”

“I’ll mention it to the relevant squad,” Grant said. “Stone, something’s been bothering me.”

“What’s that?”

“This business of Mancuso being in your hotel room.”

“Bothers me, too.”

“You moved there from the girl’s house, right? Calder’s secretary?”

“Right.”

“Who else knew you moved in there?”

“My secretary, Dino, and a lawyer friend in New York.”

“And neither Dino or your lawyer friend would have mentioned it to somebody who knows Mancuso, would they?”

“Unlikely in the extreme.”

“That leaves the girl.”

Stone shook his head. “I’ve thought about this. I think I was followed to the hotel by Mancuso and his buddy.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Grant said, reaching into a pocket, “here’s Mancuso’s mug shot.”

Stone looked at the photograph. “He’s older and heavier now, but that’s the guy who was driving the Lincoln that followed me the other night.”

“And you think he followed you to the hotel?”

“Yeah, that’s what makes the most sense.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

“You told me you changed cars at the rental agency and told the guy there to say he’d driven you to the airport if anybody asked.”

“Yeah,” Stone said. He didn’t like where this was leading.

“Assuming he did as you asked, that should have broken the tail, shouldn’t it?”

“Unless Mancuso followed me to the rental agency and saw me drive away in the sedan.”

“Were you followed?”

Stone shook his head. “If I was, then Mancuso dramatically improved his tailing technique overnight.”

“So that leaves the girl.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“You think the girl might be screwing Calder?”

“She used to, she told me.”

“Okay, so she’s Calder’s former squeeze, and she works for him; he’s her sole means of support?”

“As far as I know.”

“How long you known her?”

“A few days.”

“So where do you think her loyalties lie?”

“She’s made it clear that they lie with Calder, but she knows I’m not doing anything to threaten him; I’m trying to find his wife, for Christ’s sake.”

“Calder sees that as a threat, doesn’t he?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, he tried to hustle you out of town, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“So he must think your presence in L.A. is not in his best interests.”

“I guess not.”

“So, if he feels that way, why wouldn’t Betty feel that way, too?”

“You could have a point,” Stone said, but he didn’t really want to admit that to himself.

“Let me ask you something else: where were you when Mancuso was in your hotel room?”

“I was at a resort out in the desert.”

“Alone?”

“No.”

“Who were you with?”

“Betty Southard,” Stone said.

“Whose idea was it to go out there?”

“Betty’s.”

“Stone, I think you’re letting your cock do your thinking,” he said, “and remember, a cock doesn’t have a brain.”

Stone met Betty Southard at an Italian place called Valentino. He had intended to pick her up at her home, but she had insisted on meeting him at the restaurant. She gave him a big kiss, and they were shown to their table. They ordered drinks.

“How’re things going?” she asked.

“Not well,” Stone said. “I’m getting nowhere, and I’m thinking of packing it in and going back to New York.”

“I would be desolated,” she said, sipping her martini.

“I’m grateful for your desolation, but all I’m doing is chasing my tail and not getting any of my own work done.”

“Arrington’s home,” she said.

Stone blinked. “When?”

“Yesterday, apparently. Vance came into the office this morning whistling a merry tune and had me order some flowers for him.”

“Funny, I thought I caught a glimpse of Vance last night,” he said, “and he was alone.”

“Where?”

“I was having dinner with my cop friend, Rick Grant, at a Greek restaurant, and I could have sworn I saw him drive by in the Bentley.”

She shook her head. “Nope. Vance and Arrington bad dinner last night at the Bel-Air Hotel with some Centurion stockholders; I made the reservation.”

The lie wilted Stone inside. “Must have been my imagination.”

“Not really; there are two other green Bentleys just like Vance’s around town. You saw one of them.”

“Oh, well; I’m glad she’s back.”

“Vance thinks you’re in New York,” she said. “He dictated a thank you note to you this afternoon.”

“I wanted him to think that, after being followed from the restaurant last week. I wanted everybody but you to think I was back in New York.”

“I understand,” she said. “Shall we order?”

They both ordered a Caesar salad and the osso bucco, and Stone ordered a bottle of the Masi Amerone ’91. “It’s a big wine,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”

“You seem a little depressed, baby,” she said, rubbing the inside of his thigh with her toe.

“It always depresses me when I’ve wasted a lot of time,” he said.

“I hope it wasn’tall a waste of time.” She pushed her toe into his crotch.

He smiled. “Certainly not. In some ways, this has been an extremely lovely trip.”

“Well, if this is going to be our last night together, I’ll have to make it a special one,” she said.

“They’ve all been special,” he replied. “Especially the weekend at Tiptop.”

“I’d give you their unlisted number,” she said, “but I wouldn’t want you going there with anyone but me.”

Their food arrived, and Betty returned her toe to her shoe.

“I left a couple of messages for you at Le Parc,” she said. “Why didn’t you call me back?”

“I’m sorry; I haven’t been by the desk, I guess. I tend to go straight from the garage to my room. Was it something important?”

“I just wanted to tell you about Arrington.”