Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“Have you had the FBI in on this?” Stone asked.

“Why would I want those fuckers involved?” Dino asked. “I avoid them like the plague, unless I really need them for something, which isn’t often.”

“You don’t have any profilers on the force, do you? The FBI specializes in profiling prospective murder perps.”

“Yeah, and half the time it’s a lot of horseshit.”

“And what about the other half of the time?” Stone asked. “I think I’d use anything that had a fifty percent probability of producing some real leads.”

“Do I look that desperate?” Dino asked.

“You certainly do,” Stone replied.

Dino tossed down the rest of his drink and handed Stone his glass. “You still tending bar?”

“Sure.” Stone got up and poured the drink.

“All right,” Dino said.

“All right, what?”

“All right, I’ll call somebody over at Fedville tomorrow morning and get one of their readers of tea leaves sent over.”

“Good idea,” Stone said. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

“Mark my words,” Dino said. “They’re going to send me some little jerk fresh out of Quantico, who’ll gaze at the ceiling and spout a lot of crap.”

“Well, if he has only one good idea, it might be worth it.”

“Why don’t you have profilers in the NYPD?” Faith asked.

“We sent some people down to Quantico to do a course with those people, and they kept dozing off in the classes. When they got back, they were worse cops and more of a pain in the ass than before we sent them down there.”

“That sounds like a lot of grouch to me,” Faith said.

“Dino is mostly grouch,” Stone put in.

“I’m good at grouch,” Dino said. “Grouch has always worked very well for me. It keeps people on their toes.”

“I never knew grouch was a motivator,” Faith said.

“It also keeps their ideas on point and their sentences short,” Dino said. “You wouldn’t believe how much time grouch saves me.”

“Right,” Stone said. “Nobody wants to argue with somebody they know will bite their head off, if they say the wrong thing or don’t say it fast enough.”

“That’s what I want to avoid,” Dino said. “Them saying the wrong thing. I only give them time to say the right thing.”

“This is beginning to sound like one of those business management things,” Faith said. “‘Grouch your way to the top.’ That sort of thing.”

“Dino,” Stone said, “you could make a fortune giving classes to business leaders on grouch and its uses.”

“You mean, like Trump University?”

“Well, you’d need less content and more fraud for that,” Stone said. “Maybe you should just write the book. Faith has already given you the title. Start taking notes.”

“I could just leave a tape recorder running in my office,” Dino said, getting into the swing of things, “and have my secretary transcribe the good stuff at the end of the day.”

“Good idea,” Faith said. “Maybe you should attach one of those GoPro cameras to your head, so you can pick up the reactions of your victims.”

“‘Victims’?” Dino asked. “What victims?”

“Sorry, colleagues and staffers. Their reactions would be good to use in the television commercials.”

“Television commercials?”

“For the book. You’ll need a hot-and-heavy ad campaign to move sales.”

Fred came into the room with a sizzling porterhouse steak on a platter.

“Saved by the beef,” Stone said.

The following late afternoon, Stone opened his briefcase, and one end of the handle came off in his hand. Upon examination, it was found to be missing a tiny screw, the sort of part that is available only at expensive luggage stores.

He checked on Joan and Faith, who were both working away like beavers, then emptied his briefcase, tucked it under his arm, and left the house, headed uptown, walking. He finished up at a fancy luggage shop at Park and Fifty-sixth Street, went inside, and had a brief conversation with their repair artist, who eventually admitted he could supply and fit the screw. Stone sat down and picked up a magazine from a table to while away the time. Shortly, a woman fell into his lap.

This was more than a metaphor. She was missing a shoe, the shoe was missing a heel, and when he stood her upright, she rested all her weight on the other foot.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” she said.

Stone was not so sorry. She was tall, slim, had auburn hair, was beautifully dressed in an Armani suit, and she had managed the fall without getting so much as a hair out of place. He sat her down in the chair and retrieved the shoe and the heel.

“I’m afraid you’re not walking anywhere on this,” he said, then looked at her foot, which was beginning to swell. “Nor on that,” he said, pointing at her ankle.

“Oh, swell,” she said.

A salesman appeared belatedly and made all the right noises, for which Stone was grateful.

“You sold me three cases, a matched set, last summer,” she said. “I need one more case, like that.” She pointed at a grouping on a high shelf. “The smaller one, second from the right.”

While the salesman looked for a ladder, Stone made haste. “May I ask where you’re headed?” he said.

“To the Carlyle Hotel,” she said.

“While you conclude your purchase, I’ll arrange some transport for you.”

“That would be very kind,” she said.

Stone got Fred on the phone and instructed him, then returned to her side. She was signing a credit card receipt, and the salesman took the case away to have it wrapped. “I’m afraid your ankle is taking on cantaloupe proportions,” he said. “Does it hurt?”

She thought about that. “Yes,” she said, “but not as much as it’s going to hurt when I try to walk on it. I think I’d better go to an emergency room.”

“That’s not going to be as much fun as it sounds,” Stone said. “You’ll be there until midnight waiting for everybody with chest pains to be looked at. Ankles are not high on the emergency list of a New York hospital.”

“What do you suggest?” she said.

Stone, from the corner of his eye, saw the Bentley glide to a halt outside. “Put this in your purse,” he said, handing her the broken shoe and heel. She tucked it into her Birkin bag, a commodious purse more expensive that many luxury cars. “Let’s get you back to the Carlyle. I know a doctor who makes house calls, and we’ll get him to look at that. My car is outside.”

He got her standing on her good foot, while she rested a hand on his shoulder and tried hopping. It didn’t work very well. “There’s always the fireman’s carry,” Stone said. “I learned that as a Boy Scout.”

“Not on Park Avenue,” she said. “Why don’t we try the old over-the-threshold carry, beloved of so many newlyweds. I won’t tell anybody we’re not married, if you won’t.”

“Good idea,” Stone said. He scooped her up into his arms and strode out of the shop and across the sidewalk, while the salesman tried to keep up with her package.

Fred saw them coming, got a rear door open, and assisted Stone with tucking her into the backseat, while the salesman put her case on the front passenger seat and handed Stone his briefcase. “No charge, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

Stone thanked him, then got into the other rear seat and handed Fred the briefcase. “The Carlyle, Fred.”

“‘Barrington’?” she asked. “Is that your name?”

“It is, first name is Stone.”

“I’m Cilla Scott,” she replied. “Priscilla, really, but I dropped the Pris at puberty.”

“One moment,” Stone said, whipping out his cell phone, calling the Carlyle, and asking for the concierge. “Good afternoon, George, this is Stone Barrington. Fine, thanks. I’m bringing you a wounded guest, and we need a wheelchair at the East Seventy-sixth Street entrance in five minutes. Thank you.”