Стюарт Вудс - Class Act

“There’s a tiny corner of my brain that involuntarily stores that sort of information,” Stone said. “Nothing I can do about it.”

Tara was laughing into her Scotch. “You people know each other too well,” she said.

“The paella looks good,” Viv said.

“In that same article,” Stone said, “Atkinson says he once ate a paella in Valencia that almost certainly contained the left forefinger of a rubber glove.”

“I’m skipping the paella,” Tara said. “What else is good?”

“If it’s on the menu, it’s good,” Dino said.

“I’ll have the paella,” Stone said to the hovering captain. “I want to see what I can find in it.”

“Lotsa stuff,” the captain replied smoothly.

Tara ordered fish, the Bacchettis ordered the paella, and Stone chose a big white Burgundy to accompany everything.

It was around eight-thirty before they considered the dessert menu. Stone noted that the Don and his consigliere were on about the same schedule, and the two of them were on their second bottle of wine.

“I didn’t know Mafiosi came to restaurants like this one,” Tara said. “I always think of them dining in dimly lit clam houses.”

“No,” Dino corrected her. “Dimly lit clam houses are where they shoot each other.”

“I stand corrected,” she replied. “I’m glad they’re not doing it here.”

“The night is young,” Dino said.

Then a woman entered a corner of Stone’s vision, wearing a fur coat. She shucked it off and gave it to the coat-check woman, revealing a low-cut green dress Stone had seen somewhere before.

Dino had seen her, too. He beckoned the captain and waved him close to his ear. “Who’s the lady with the cleavage, dining with the Don?”

“I forget her name,” the captain said, “but I know she’s a singer, because she’s appearing at the Café Carlyle, around the corner. She has another show at ten.”

The consigliere stood to greet her, but not the Don. He allowed himself to be pecked on the cheek, then waved her to a chair. Someone brought her a glass of champagne, and she ordered a dessert.

“Why are you two staring?” Viv asked. “Anybody we know?”

“Vaguely,” Stone said.

“Vaguely, my ass,” Dino chipped in.

“I’m trying very hard not to turn around and look,” Tara said.

“Don’t worry,” Viv replied. “You’ll catch her on our way out.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Tara said, “after that table-wide reaction.”

“Her name is Hilda Ross,” Stone said, “née Rossetti. The captain was right; she’s a singer.”

“Stone knows her better than he should,” Dino remarked.

They finished dessert and coffee, and Stone paid the bill. Then they all got up and started for the street. Stone looked ahead; the Don and his consigliere were seated side by side on the banquette, Hilda was on the other side of the table, facing away from Stone.

As they passed the table, the Don took no notice at all: he paid people to do that. However, Trafficante, the consigliere, locked eyes with Stone for about three seconds as his party made their way toward the front door. It was a steady gaze and cool, but there was something else in it that Stone did not like. It was no more than a flicker at the corner of his mouth, but it spoke to Stone of hatred. From a man he had never seen before tonight. It was unsettling.

Hilda never noticed their passing.

As they were getting into the car, Tara said, “Who is the singer — what’s her name?”

“Hilda Ross.”

“Why is she so interesting?”

“She’s supposed to be in another state,” Stone replied. Tara didn’t bring it up again.

Once in the car, Tara said, “I’d better go straight home. I’ve got a big day tomorrow: buyers coming in from Atlanta and Dallas.”

“Of course,” Stone muttered. “Fred, would you drop me at home, then take Ms. Wilkes to Bucks County, Pennsylvania?”

There was a perfunctory good-night kiss, and she was gone. Forever, Stone reckoned.

Stone had finished his breakfast and was working on the Times crossword, with Morning Joe on the TV, when Dino called.

“What the fuck was that about last night?” Stone asked pleasantly.

“What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything.”

“You certainly blew Tara out of my life. She hardly spoke to me on the way home.”

“Then I take it she’s not breakfasting with you?”

“You made absolutely certain of that.”

“Viv made me do it,” Dino said, lamely.

“So you admit it! And the hell Viv made you. You were seething malice!”

“It wasn’t as bad as that.”

“It was worse. Now Tara thinks I’ve been going out with some gun moll.”

“Looks like she never left the city, doesn’t it?” Dino said. “Did you call her while she was still here?”

“I tried.”

“Let me guess: The number you have dialed is out of service. ”

“She uses throwaways.”

“Something I’ll bet she learned from Joe Rossetti. He’s still going strong, you know. I’ll bet he was waiting at the Café Carlyle for her ten o’clock show to start. I did a little research on him. He’s at the track most days, and the only person he speaks to on the phone is his employer — or rather, his employer’s consigliere. What was it with you and Sal Trafficante? I saw that look on the way out.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never clapped eyes on the man before.”

“Well, he certainly clapped eyes on you, and who can blame him? You’ve been screwing one of his employees.”

“You don’t know that she works for him.”

“All right, so you’ve been screwing his girlfriend, the singer. It hardly matters which.”

“Where is Trafficante based?”

“The Don moves around. He has a place in Manhattan, and Sal lives right next door. You know, I’m fascinated by that look he gave you. People he looks at like that usually end up doing a midnight tap dance in the East River, wearing concrete tap shoes.”

“You have a rich fantasy life, Dino. You should be writing novels.”

“You know I’m right about Hilda Ross, Stone. We learn a little more every day, and it’s all bad. You should try and stay on her good side. Maybe she can keep you alive for a few more days.”

“Why would anybody want to kill me?” Stone asked plaintively.

“How about jealousy? A famous motive, jealousy. Comes right behind money on Roget’s List of Motives . That was a jealous look Sal gave you.”

“If I keep listening to this I’m going to lose my breakfast.”

“You’re going to lose a lot more than that, unless you listen harder. Never mind your breakfast.”

“I can’t talk anymore.” Stone hung up. He hadn’t been kidding about losing his breakfast; he was fighting to hold on to it. He wanted to call Hilda and demand an explanation as to why she wasn’t in Florida, but he didn’t have her number or her e-mail address.

Dino called back.

“What?”

“I was right.”

“Right about what?”

“Joe Rossetti was at a ringside table at the Café Carlyle for the ten o’clock show. I called a guy I know there, and he filled me in. The old man has a suite there, too, which he shares with his daughter. And by the way, Hilda’s appearance at the Café was booked eight weeks ago.”

“All right, so she’s a liar,” Stone admitted.

“When she calls you, and she will, don’t take the call.”

“I won’t.”

“And if you do take the call, don’t agree to see her.”

“I won’t.”

“And if you do see her, have Fred pick her up and take her somewhere to meet you. You might also ask Fred to frisk her for weapons — guns, knives, ice picks.”