Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“I’m amazed,” Dino said.

“At what?”

“Viv actually liked Lara. And when I told her about yours and Holly’s arrangement, she thought it was a sensible idea.”

“I’m so glad that we — Lara, Holly, and I — have won Viv’s approval.”

“You damned well ought to be,” Dino said. “Otherwise, Viv would make life hell for both of us.”

“If it helps, you can tell her that, if I have to choose between her approval and the company of women, the choice would be very easy.”

“I am certainly not going to tell her that,” Dino said. “Just try and be happy that Viv is on board with your lifestyle.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as she is, and not a minute later.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Listen, Art Jacoby has checked into the Lowell, and he doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Yeah, Art and I had that conversation.”

“Do you think you can spare a man in plainclothes to watch his back?”

“Watch his back against what?”

“Stray bullets. It appears that Little Debby has plans for him, and not happy ones.”

“He thinks that Little Debby had his girlfriend popped, and he’s next?”

“I think that accurately describes his current frame of mind.”

“Okay, I’ll put somebody on him. Do you want him to know?”

“If he’s any good at all, he’ll figure it out. If he doesn’t, I’ll tell him next time I see him.”

“Which will be when?”

“When he seeks me out again.”

“I think you’d better let him know now,” Dino said. “Otherwise, he might mistake my man for one of Debby’s, and hostilities could break out.”

“Good point; I’ll let him know. What’s your guy’s name?”

“Let’s see,” Dino said, and Stone could hear the drumming of fingers, probably on Dino’s desk. “Frank Capriani!”

“You don’t have to shout.”

“Get in here, Frank!”

“What, was he walking past your door?”

“Yeah. You got the name?”

“Frank Capriani.”

“Very good. You should have been a parrot.” Dino hung up.

Stone called Art Jacoby.

“Yes?”

“It’s Stone.”

“Good morning.”

“Where are you now?”

“Getting dressed to go out. I’ve got a fitting for a suit.”

“An NYPD detective is going to find you and follow you around.”

“Why?”

“Because Dino doesn’t want blood to be spilled on the pristine streets of his New York.”

“That’s very thoughtful of him. And you. I expect you arranged it.”

“His name is Frank Capriani. If you get a chance, shake his hand.”

“Right.”

“And go out heeled.”

“To my tailor’s?”

“You’ll need him to conceal that bulge under your arm.”

“Good point. Okay, I’ve no objections to being followed around.”

“Buy him a cup of coffee — strike that — a drink. And, at the end of the day, cross his palm with silver.”

“How much silver?”

“A hundred, if you can afford it.”

“I can.”

“Have a nice day.”

“I’m determined to do that.” They hung up.

Lara had been dispatched to upper Madison Avenue in Fred’s care when Joan walked into Stone’s office. “Donald Clark to see you.”

“Here? Again?”

“I’m afraid so. I can ward him off, if you want.”

“Send him in, I’ll do it myself.”

Donald Clark entered the room as if he owned the place. “Good morning, Stone.” He took the chair opposite Stone.

“Morning, Donald. What can I do for you?”

“You can make a phone call for me.”

“To whom?”

“To Hol... the president.”

“Do you have a sprained dialing finger, Donald?”

“It’s difficult to get through to her. She’s the president.”

“Yes, I remember something about that.”

“She’s taken away my Secret Service detail.”

“Why are you surprised by that?”

“Cabinet secretaries all get Secret Service protection.”

“Donald, do I have to remind you that you are not a member of her cabinet?”

“Well, sort of.”

“She withdrew your name from the confirmation process. You are aware of that.”

“Still... my wife has been murdered, and I’m... feeling nervous about it.”

“No one is going to murder her twice,” Stone said.

“I know that, but what if I’m next?”

“Donald, it’s my information that you’re a very wealthy man — something on the order of half a billion dollars, I read in the paper.”

“Money is not bulletproof,” Clark said.

“Let me remind you of a conversation between Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler, in Gone With the Wind ,” Stone said. “Scarlett says to Rhett, ‘After all, Rhett, money can’t buy happiness.’ Rhett replies, ‘Scarlett, money can usually buy happiness, and even when it can’t, it can buy some truly remarkable substitutes.’”

“What does that have to do with me?” Clark asked, not getting it.

“Money is bulletproof, if you’re willing to spend enough of it.”

He took a card from a desk drawer and pushed it across the desk. “This is the number of Michael Freeman, who is chairman and CEO of a company called Strategic Services — the second-largest security outfit in the world. Call him, tell him I referred you, and he will design a security detail that will protect you at all times, twenty-four seven, anyplace in the world.”

“What would that cost?”

Stone stood and offered his hand. “Whatever it costs,” he said, “you can afford it.”

“By the way, will you give me Art Jacoby’s number?”

“I’ll ask him to call you.”

They shook hands and Clark left, with Freeman’s card in his pocket.

Donald Clark made a call from his car. They were connected immediately.

“Did you find him?”

“Barrington wouldn’t give me his number.”

“Did Barrington say he was in New York?”

“No. Have you tried his office here?”

“I’ve left three messages, and he hasn’t called back.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you. If I learn anything I’ll call you.”

“Do that.” They both hung up.

Art got out of the elevator at the Lowell, and it was immediately obvious who the cop was in the lobby. He was dressed in a decent, if unpressed, suit, wore a fedora and thick-soled shoes. He walked over to the man. “Frank Capriani?”

“Who wants to know?” the man asked.

“I’m Art Jacoby.”

“And I’m your ride for the day. The car’s outside.” It was clearly his personal car, a worn-looking Jeep Cherokee.

“I hadn’t expected to be driven,” Art said.

“I guess it’s your lucky day,” Frank replied. “Where we headed?”

“Lexington Avenue and Sixty-fourth Street, Leung’s Tailoring, upstairs, east side of the street.”

“I hear somebody wants to do you,” Frank said.

“I think somebody wants to perforate my suit, with me in it.”

“That’s always a problem.”

“Dino says it’s your problem.”

Frank sighed. “Dino is the source of all my problems.” He pulled up in front of the shop and put down his sun visor, which had a large NYPD gold badge imprinted on it.

“That’s kind of a tip-off, isn’t it?” Art asked.

“Think of it as pest control,” Frank said. “We don’t want any shootouts on Lex, do we?”

“We do not.” Art trotted up the stairs. His fitting was ready, and he stood as still as he could, as the tailor marked final alterations with a slim piece of soap. He came back downstairs and got into Frank’s car.

“No suit?” Frank asked.

“Tomorrow.”