Stuart Woods - Hot Mahogany

“It is connected to a crime: the beating of a man and the theft of an extremely valuable object.”

“It’s not like I can open a file on it, Stone. I mean, there was a time I could have opened a file, then shredded it when it was over, but these days, once you put something in a computer it’s there forever.”

“Well, for God’s sake, don’t put anything in a computer. Just put a couple of guys on tailing Mr. Crow for a few days. I especially want to know if he’s in touch with Abner Kramer.”

“Maybe I can do that. Why don’t you put Bob Cantor on this? Get him to tap Crow’s phones.”

“Fortunately, Crow called him and invited him to lunch, and he’s going to wear a wire.”

“That might produce something.”

“I’m counting on it, since I have nothing else.”

“How was your time with Holly?”

“It was very good, thanks. I’m sure she’s already reported back to Lance.”

“Well, she does work for him, after all. Is she enjoying being a spook?”

“Seems to be. I think she likes it better than being a small-town police chief. She doesn’t have to do traffic tickets and penny-ante drug busts. Also, working for Lance, she must be privy to a lot of very interesting information.”

“You think Lance’s job is all that interesting?”

“Jesus, Dino, he’s the fucking head of CIA operations.”

“Then he must know everything in the world.”

“I would think so.”

“Then how did he lose track of his brother for thirty years?”

“That’s an interesting question, and he hasn’t answered it very satisfactorily. My guess is when somebody doesn’t want to be found, he’s hard to find.”

“I don’t buy that.”

“Neither do I, entirely, but I don’t see how it affects what I’m doing for Barton.”

“Everything affects everything,” Dino said.

Stone left Dino at Elaine’s and took a cab to the Carlyle Hotel on Madison Avenue at Seventy-sixth Street. As he entered the Madison entrance, the Café Carlyle, former home of the late, great singer/pianist Bobby Short, was on his right, but he turned left, into the Bemelmens Bar.

The place was, maybe, three-quarters full, and the grand piano, in the middle of the room, was unoccupied. A maître d’ appeared. “I’d like that table there,” he said to the man, pointing at a tiny table with an unobstructed view no more than eight feet from the piano.

“You’re alone, sir?” the man asked, as if he were asking for a king-size bed.

Stone passed him a twenty and was seated immediately. He ordered a cognac and a small bottle of San Pellegrino and waited for Carla to finish her break.

Five minutes later, she arrived, along with her bass player, who picked up his instrument and did a little tuning. Carla was a tall, Scandinavian-type blonde, clad in a long, slinky black dress set off by a diamond necklace that was either a fake or supplied by Harlan Deal, because she could never have afforded it on a singer/pianist’s income. She played a few chords, then swung into a medium-tempo version of “Day In, Day Out,” then followed that with songs by Rodgers and Hart, Cole Porter and Jerome Kern.

The music suited Stone to his core; it was what his parents had listened to, and he had grown up dancing to it in their home and at school dances. Then Carla did something that riveted him to his seat. She sang a Gershwin tune called “Do It Again” slow and sexy, and she sang it directly to him. Suddenly, beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead.

When she finished he smiled and applauded enthusiastically. She ignored him for the next three songs, then announced a break and stood up.

Stone stood, too, and she seemed to see him again. He walked the few steps between them and said, “My name is Stone Barrington. Would you join me for a few minutes?”

She said nothing but walked to his table and sat in the chair he held for her.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“This will do,” she said, taking his glass of Pellegrino.

“That was a wonderful set,” he said. “Especially the Gershwin tune.”

She leveled her gaze at him. “I don’t sing it often.”

“Then I’m all the more grateful for hearing it.”

“Who are you, Mr. Barrington?”

“I’m an attorney, and I’m here on business as well as pleasure.”

“Oh?” she said. “Are you suing me?”

“Far from it,” he said. “I’m here to see that you never have to work another day in your life, unless you want to.”

“Fortunately, I enjoy my work,” she said.

“That’s apparent from the way you do it.”

“Does this have something to do with Harlan Deal?”

“It does, and I’ll be brief, so that we can talk like two human beings again.” He took an envelope containing two copies of the prenuptial agreement and put it on the table. “I had a meeting with Mr. Deal this morning, and with his approval, I’ve made some substantial changes to this document. My advice to you, which is confidential, since it represents a conflict of interest, is to read it, consult a good attorney, then make a few more demands. He handed her his card. Have your attorney call me directly, and I’ll see if I can help with Mr. Deal.”

She tossed her head in a way that flipped her long, nearly white blonde hair over her shoulder. “Well, Mr. Barrington, you’re taking a risk; I could get you disbarred for that advice.”

“Not unless you’re wearing a recording device,” he said, looking her up and down, “and frankly, I don’t know how you could conceal one in that dress.”

She gave him a small smile, then picked up the envelope, opened it and carefully read the prenup. “Do you have a pen?” she said.

Stone held up his pen. “I do, but, again, I think you should consult an attorney.”

“I believe I just have,” she said, then took the pen from his hand and signed both copies of the agreement. “I think it’s generous as it is.”

“We’ll need a witness,” Stone said.

She beckoned her bass player, a very large and handsome African-American man who was sitting nearby. He came over, witnessed the documents and returned to his seat.

She handed Stone a copy, then folded the other and tucked it into her tiny purse. “Now, perhaps we can talk, as you said, like human beings.”

“By all means. Tell me, what is your surname?”

“I don’t have one,” she said. “I never liked my name much, so I stopped using it when I got out of college, which was fifteen years ago, and I had it legally changed ten years ago. Since then, I’ve managed to forget it.”

“I see,” Stone said. “Of what national extraction are you, or have you forgotten that, too?”

“My father was Italian; my mother, Swedish.”

“You seem to have taken on more Swedish characteristics than Italian ones,” he said.

“Don’t count on it,” she replied. “I still know how to use a stiletto on a dark night. Figuratively speaking.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

“I have one more set to do,” she said. “I live in the hotel; perhaps when I’m finished, you’ll come up for a drink.”

She had managed to say that without sounding in the least like Mae West, but Stone still gulped. This was really a conflict of interest. “I’d like that,” he said, tucking away his legal ethics.

She played and sang another dozen songs, then thanked her audience, got up and walked past Stone’s table. She shook his hand, and her palm contained a card. “Give me ten minutes to freshen up,” she said.

Stone finished his drink, paid his check and stopped by the men’s room for a little freshening of his own, then he walked out onto Madison Avenue and hailed a cab. “Drive over to Park, then turn right on Seventy-sixth and let me out at the hotel entrance there.”