Stuart Woods - Fast and Loose

“Please do. Seven o’clock for drinks?”

“Perfect.” They hung up and Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Good news — the Carlssons are majority owners of their clinic again.”

“Great news.”

“They’re all coming for dinner on Friday evening. Will you and Viv join us?”

“Sure we will. She’ll actually be in town.”

“Drinks at seven.” They hung up. Stone called Ed Rawls.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Stone. Will you, by any chance, be in New York the day after tomorrow?”

“Give me an excuse.”

“The Carlssons are owners of their clinic again, and we’re celebrating. Dinner Friday evening?”

“That’s a good excuse.”

“How’s the widow hunting in Islesboro?”

“They’re thick on the ground.”

“Would you like to bring one? I’ll put you both up, together or separately.”

“Yes, I would. If we fly from our little airport directly to Teterboro, we could arrive late afternoon.”

“Excellent. See you then.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes, sir?”

“Will you let Helene and Fred know that we’ll be twelve for dinner at eight, on Friday? Drinks at seven.”

“Certainly.”

“Ask her to get back to me with a menu.”

“Certainly.”

On Thursday morning, Erik Macher picked up his Wall Street Journal . There it was, on page one again: MACHER AT ST. CLAIR LOSES BID FOR THE CARLSSON CLINIC.

He wanted to throw up on his desk. He started to ring for Fox, but he wasn’t the go-to guy for where Macher wanted to go. He picked up the phone and dialed an extension in a basement office. The man was standing before him in less than a minute.

Jake Herman was ex-FBI, having been asked to leave in the wake of an unnecessarily violent incident some years before. He was smart, in a feral sort of way, and entirely without scruples of any kind — a classic sociopath. He was also inordinately fond of money.

Macher explained what had just happened. “Jake, I want retribution,” he said.

“I suppose you want them all dead?” Jake asked with a look of distaste.

“Not necessarily. In fact, it would be better to avoid killing. The police work too hard at solving murders.”

“How about if I do something to the clinic?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe some Legionnaires’ disease in their air-conditioning system?” Jake suggested.

Macher thought about it. “Too likely to kill a patient or two.”

“Then how about a rumor of Legionnaires’ disease in their air-conditioning system?”

“Where could you plant such a rumor?”

“It would make it more credible if it were in two or three publications on the same day.”

“Can you do that?”

“I know a guy who knows a guy — a failed publicist who writes a gossip blog. If he got it out late this afternoon, it could hit the papers tomorrow morning — they read all the blogs. It’ll have to be a little on the subtle side — the guy isn’t interested in lawsuits.”

“Do it,” Macher said, “for tomorrow’s papers.”

“I’m on it,” Jake replied. He left the room.

On Friday morning, Paul Carlsson’s son Sven came into his office with a newspaper. “Look at this,” he said, placing the paper on his father’s desk.

A circle had been drawn around a headline: AT SWANK CLINIC: LEGIONNAIRES’ DISEASE?

Paul read on: “‘An anonymous report has come in that two, possibly three, patients at a swanky Upper East Side private hospital with Scandinavian connections have presented with symptoms of an often-fatal respiratory illness. Their air-conditioning system is suspected, and the New York City Department of Health is descending on the clinic with swarms of inspectors.’”

“Do we have patients with any such symptoms, Sven?”

“No, sir. I checked, and our air-conditioning system was checked and disinfected the day before yesterday, as it is monthly.”

Paul buzzed his secretary. “Get me the head of the New York City Department of Health.”

A moment later, she came back. “Mr. Swanson on line one.”

Paul picked up the phone. “Mr. Swanson, are you aware of a report in a morning newspaper that a clinic on the Upper East Side may have patients with Legionnaires’ disease?”

“That has just come to my attention, Dr. Carlsson.”

“I believe this to be a malicious rumor aimed at our facility, and I want you to know that we have checked, and we have no patients exhibiting symptoms of anything they didn’t arrive with, especially not Legionnaires’ disease. Also, our air-conditioning system was checked and disinfected two days ago, as part of our monthly inspection routine. If you wish to send inspectors here to confirm this, we will welcome their attention.”

“Dr. Carlsson, I think it would be to the benefit of both of us if I send a team over there this morning.”

“We will give them full cooperation. Tell them to ask for me, personally.” He hung up. “Sven, thank you for bringing this to my attention. The health department will deal with this immediately, and I want to issue a press release when they are done.” Sven returned to his office.

Paul called Stone Barrington.

“Yes, Paul?”

“Stone, I believe we have now heard from Mr. Macher.”

Stone’s fax machine cranked out a sheet of paper early in the afternoon; it was printed on the letterhead of the Carlsson Clinic and he read it with interest.

This morning’s papers printed a report implying that the Carlsson Clinic, one of America’s foremost medical institutions, had patients exhibiting signs of an infectious lung disorder that was being spread by its air-conditioning system.

This report is false and malicious. After a thorough check of each resident patient, it has been determined that not one harbors these symptoms. The clinic summoned the New York City Department of Health inspectors and asked them to inspect the air-conditioning system, and they reported that no trace of a microbe or virus was detected.

The Carlsson Clinic demands that an abject retraction by these publications appear in Saturday’s and Monday’s editions in the same front-page space occupied by the false report. The clinic has instructed its attorneys to immediately bring a libel action against any publication that does not meet this demand.

It was signed by Paul Carlsson.

Stone called Dr. Carlsson.

“Yes, Stone?”

“I want to compliment you on your deft handling of this Legionnaires’ nonsense. I’m confident you will get your retractions.”

“Thank you, Stone. The part about having instructed our attorneys was a little inaccurate, so I will instruct you now. If these retractions are not satisfactory or are printed anywhere else in the papers than the front page, file an immediate action for libel, slander, and anything else you can think of.”

“I acknowledge your instructions,” Stone replied.

“Thank you. We’ll all see you at dinner.”

Stone found the evening’s menu on his desk: seared foie gras, crown roast of lamb, risotto, haricots verts, and a dessert of crème brûlée with fresh Maine blueberries. He approved it, then went to his cellar with Fred and chose the wines.

Shortly after five, Ed Rawls arrived with a handsome woman of about fifty in tow, whom Ed introduced as Emma Harrison, and Stone showed them to the same bedroom, at Ed’s request.

At the stroke of seven o’clock the front doorbell rang, and Fred escorted a gaggle of Carlssons into the living room. The boys’ wives, Greta and Inge, were introduced, and Paul introduced his date for the evening, Cara Neilsen. While Stone was welcoming them, the Bacchettis arrived and Ed and Emma emerged from the elevator.