Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“I’ve never really had long-term goals; I pretty much just wait for long-term to happen, then deal with it.”

“Okay, let’s see if you can look further ahead. Describe what you would like your circumstances to be a year from now.”

“My circumstances? Still rich — richer, in fact, when I combine Daddy’s estate with Mother’s, which has been my only money, so far, exceeding any real need, except supporting Donald. Daddy liked it that way, because he could hang on to every dime of his own until the end. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he’d found a way to wire-transfer it all ahead.”

Stone laughed. “So he didn’t coddle you?”

“Oh, he did, from time to time, but I’ve always been very good at coddling myself without the help of others. Are you rich?”

Stone managed not to choke on his bourbon. “Yes, fairly.”

“The reason I ask is: If I’m going to end up supporting you, I’d rather know about it now than wait to find out. All I know about you is that you drive a Bentley — rented? borrowed? — that you are acquainted with a doctor, a divorce attorney, and a Realtor, and that you are known to the management of this restaurant. The rest is a blank slate.”

“I own the Bentley, and please don’t concern yourself: There are no conceivable circumstances under which you might ever have to support me.”

“You understand my concern?”

“Yes, but what does your intuition tell you?”

“My intuition lies to me all the time. Who are you?”

“I believe it’s the custom in this country to get to know people by talking to them, not by inquisition. If that’s not sufficient, you can hire a private detective and have me investigated, which is probably what your father would have done in the circumstances. For the moment, however, all you need to know is what’s on the menu.”

She looked at the menu. “Caesar salad, strip steak medium rare.” She put it down. “Where do you live?”

“A ten-minute walk from here, Turtle Bay.”

“Ah, yes, you did mention that.”

“I did.”

“In which house?”

“I own two houses there, one for staff.”

“Are those the only houses you own?”

“No, I also own houses in Los Angeles, Paris, London, Key West, and the South of England, with appropriate furnishings in each. I also own a jet airplane, a small yacht, and a partnership in a larger one. I don’t think you’ll ever be called upon to give me anything more boisterous than a necktie at Christmas, which I will return and exchange for one I like.”

She threw up her hands in surrender. “Forgive me, that was a shitty thing to say to you. I suppose my wounds haven’t healed yet from my last and only experience with a long-term relationship.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Nearly eight years.”

“It sounds like long enough.”

“More than long enough,” she replied. “I should have dumped him halfway through. Are you now or have you ever been married?”

“I was married.”

“Ended in divorce?”

“Ended in death, hers.”

“Again, it’s my turn to apologize.”

“It was a perfectly straightforward question.”

“Why do you have so many houses?”

“Because I can. Anyway, I’ve always loved houses, and there came a time when I figured out that if I saw one I liked, I could buy it, just write a check. I’m trying to stop, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Promise me nothing,” she said, “and I’ll never be disappointed.”

They were halfway through their steaks.

“Do you have any children?” she asked.

“One, a son, Peter. He’s a film director in L.A.”

“Peter Barrington?”

“That’s right.”

“I have actually seen his work, and it’s good.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“I’d like to tell him myself,” she said.

“Well, if you someday decide that I meet your standards for male company, that might happen.”

“I haven’t told you what my standards are.”

“I was guessing. All right, what are they?”

“Self-supporting, usually sober, intelligent, kind, and good company.”

“Those sound like all the qualities not possessed by your current husband.”

“A coincidence, but it’s a start. What are your standards?”

“Pretty much the same as yours,” he replied. “Oh, and two working legs. I insist on that.”

She laughed. “All right, I know enough about you not to be paranoid anymore.”

“Is paranoia your usual condition?”

“Only in dealing with men, and as I said, I’m over that now.”

“What a relief. There’s a Key lime pie in the fridge at home. Would you like to have a nightcap at my house?”

“I’d love that,” she said.

Stone paid the bill, and they got into the Bentley. “Home, Fred,” he said, “and pull into the garage, so we can take the elevator.”

Fred did so, and Stone and Cilla got out at the living room level and made their way across it to Stone’s study. He poured them each a cognac, found the pie in the fridge, and sliced it.

“Heavenly,” Cilla said, taking a big bite. “This is a lovely house.”

“Thank you. I inherited it from a great-aunt, my grandmother’s sister, who thought I’d never amount to anything, so I should at least have a roof over my head. All the woodwork and much of the furniture was built by my father, who was a designer and cabinetmaker.”

“A house with a heritage,” she said. “I like that.”

“I like it, too, and the staff lives next door.”

“Why do you have a staff house?”

“The house next door came up for sale, and it’s hard for working people to find affordable housing in this city, so I just moved them all in. Also, the purchase doubled the size of the garage.”

“I saw another car under a tarp down there.”

“That’s a French sports car, a Blaise, designed by a friend of mine. I don’t drive it very often; it’s more convenient to have Fred drive the Bentley.”

“Don’t be surprised if you get a rock through a front window. That will be Donald’s next move.”

“The glass is armored, so it won’t be a problem. Tell me, does Donald own a gun?”

“Several.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. When he sobers up, is he going to come to his senses?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” she said. “Are you unaccustomed to women with baggage?”

“Most people have baggage of one sort or another, and with women, it usually seems to be a disagreeable and unmanageable male former companion.”

“ Unmanageable is a good word to describe Donald,” she said. “God knows, I tried hard enough, and the most it got me was a sock in the kisser.”

“If you have any concerns at all about your safety, I can arrange for someone to watch over you.”

“Like the Gershwin song?”

“Not quite. He’ll be about Donald’s size with a bulge under his arm.”

“I think I’m all right for the moment; I’m sure his attorney has instructed him on behaving during trial.”

“Do you think he’ll go to trial?”

“Maybe, he’s very competitive.”

“If I may ask, what sort of deal did you and Herb offer him on the real estate?”

“Sell it and divide the proceeds.”

“It might help you to avoid trial if you use some of your newfound wealth to just buy his half of the house and the Carlyle apartment. That would put some cash in his pocket almost immediately, which I’m sure he’d like. And there’d be less to argue about in court.”

“I’m sure he’d like that, too,” she said. “It’s a damned good idea. How do we reach agreement on the value of the two properties?”