Стюарт Вудс - Class Act

Holly arrived and closed the door on the Secret Service agent behind her.

They enjoyed more than a momentary kiss.

“I suppose we could just clear the table and do it here,” she said.

“I like a softer bed,” Stone said, holding her chair for her. A waiter arrived with an icy martini and a Knob Creek on the rocks.

“To escape,” Holly said, toasting.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“I thought I was going to get stuck with a bunch of diplomats,” she said, “but I weaseled out of it.”

They had finished their porterhouse when Louise removed an envelope from her bosom. “I have a little surprise for you,” she said. “Open it later.”

Mickey thought of excusing himself to the men’s room and opening it there, but he resisted and tucked it away. He didn’t want to annoy her.

“Oh, go ahead,” she said.

He opened the envelope and removed a check for what he at first thought to be twenty thousand dollars, but he knew that was too much for a gift. Then he looked again. “Two million dollars?” he blurted.

“I sold some stock you were going to inherit anyway,” Louise said. “But I want it understood what it’s for.”

“I’m flabbergasted,” he said, reading the number again.

“First, you pay off your bookie. I want your promise that you will give up gambling, cold turkey. Otherwise, you’ll never have a thing. Then I want you to buy a nice, little apartment.”

“I like my present apartment,” he said.

“Well, you can sit around there for the next forty years, waiting for me to die, I guess. I had in mind something you could move a wife into.”

“First, I have to find a wife,” he said.

She raised her glass. “To a better wife, next time.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Now Mickey excused himself to use the men’s room. He got out his phone and made the call while standing at the urinal.

“It’s Mickey. Gimme Al.”

“Al don’t want to speak to you. He just wants to know when.”

“Tomorrow morning at ten, at my bank. He knows where that is. He gets paid then.” He heard a keyboard clicking.

“It’ll be eighteen-five with the vig.”

“Done.” He hung up, zipped his fly, turned around, and ran slap into Stone Barrington. “What are you doing here.”

“Having dinner, like a normal human being,” Stone replied, moving past him to occupy the urinal. “What’s your excuse?”

“I’m taking my mother to dinner.”

“Did you bring your blackjack?” Stone asked.

“What are you talking about?” Mickey sputtered.

“Every worn-out cop has one. If it ever touches a client of mine again, I’ll deal with you myself. I have a blackjack, too.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Mickey shouted, exiting the men’s room.

“I intend to,” Stone said to himself, adjusting his clothing. He went to rejoin Holly.

Later, in bed at the Carlyle, they made up for lost time.

Jack Coulter had seen the man behind the boulder and the barrel pointed his way. He had had the blinds drawn, and they had moved to the sitting room of their suite below. “I feel like a nap,” he said to Hillary.

“I’ll watch,” she said, taking her book with her.

Belowdecks, he stretched out on their bed, while Hillary read before the little gas fire in their sitting room. Jack stared at the ceiling, unable to nod off. He had thought that, by this time, he would have faded so deep into the background of the upper class of New York, Palm Beach, and Northeast Harbor that he would never have been noticed. Then came Michael O’Brien, almost out of the woodwork.

He and Hillary had given a rather grand dinner party in their Fifth Avenue apartment when, before they could sit down, men in black hoods with shotguns had walked into the penthouse and robbed their dinner guests, one by one, taking their jewelry and cash, a big haul.

Stone Barrington had been a guest, sitting on the terrace, when he heard the racking of shotgun pumps. He had taken his date’s jewelry and put it into a pocket, then called 911. The cops had been a little slow, and when they had burst in, weapons drawn, Michel O’Brien was among them, and the robbers were not. Jack hadn’t thought O’Brien was involved, but then Michael caught his eye and winked at him. He had recognized Jack, in spite of his older, slimmer, and better-dressed self. From then on Jack hadn’t slept as well, but he still had not been ready for the attack on Lexington Avenue.

Jack finally began to nod off. He knew now that he would have to become the aggressor, and they would have to get out of Maine at once. He drifted away.

At dinner at the Maine house that night Hillary took note that Jack personally locked all the doors and windows before sitting down.

“I read the weather reports in the Times today,” she said, “and it’s sunny and in the upper seventies in Palm Beach.”

“Oh, really? Sounds perfect. It’s a little dead here, what with all the summer people gone.”

“You’re looking quite good without the mask now. A touch of makeup, and you’d be a new man.”

“Would you like to nip down to Palm Beach for a few days, then? Until I’m completely recovered?”

“I would enjoy that.”

Over brandy after dinner, Jack found his cell phone and alerted their captain about their new flight plans.

The following morning the Coulters boarded their airplane and flew south.

Along the way, with Hillary sleeping, Jack moved to the rear of the airplane and picked up the satphone, tapping in the number.

“The Barrington Practice,” said the woman who answered.

“It’s Jack Coulter, for Mr. Barrington.”

“Of course.”

“Jack? It’s good to hear from you. How are you coming along?”

“Almost there, Stone. Another week, perhaps.”

“Where are you?”

“Flying south from Maine. We had an unfortunate encounter there, with our mutual acquaintance.”

“What came of it?”

“Nothing, as it happened. He was lying in wait for us along the shore of Somes Sound as we were cruising; he was armed with a rifle with a scope. Fortunately, I saw him, and we took evasive action. Now we’re on our way to Palm Beach. I’ll complete my recovery there.”

“Good idea.”

“Stone, I’ve taken all of this I can. Something must be done.”

“Careful, Jack.”

“I wondered if you knew someone who might discretely help.”

“Jack, I’m not in that business. Anyway, you are probably in a better position to know such a person than I.”

“I hate to return to the past.”

“I understand, but I can’t be a part of it.”

“You’re a wise man, Stone,” Jack said, “and I’m sure you’re right. Thank you for listening.”

“Anytime, Jack. My best to Hillary.” They both hung up.

Stone thought about it for a while, then called Bob Cantor, a jack-of-all-trades ex-cop and part-time private investigator.

“How are you, Stone?” Cantor asked.

“Good, but I have an acquaintance who isn’t.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You remember a cop called Michael O’Brien? Mickey?”

“Who could forget him?”

“My acquaintance would like to.”

“What does your acquaintance have in mind?” Cantor asked cautiously.

“Nothing drastic, but I want to know where Mickey is, every hour of the day. Can you put together a surveillance team?”

“Where does he live?”

“Brooklyn Heights, in his mother’s basement.” Stone gave him the address.

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“He was in Maine yesterday, looking for my acquaintance, and fortunately, didn’t find him. He was at Peter Luger last night, treating his mother, though with what money I don’t know. He’s reportedly a gambler, and not a good one.”