Stuart Woods - Below the Belt

Stone picked up the Times , and a story in the upper-right-hand corner of the business section caught his eye. “Listen to this,” he said to Holly, and read it aloud. “ Nelson Knott, the online entrepreneur and Internet marketer of vitamin supplements, placed an announcement on his Facebook front page last night saying that he is forming an exploratory committee to consider a run for President of the United States as an independent candidate in the next election. Knott, who has at one time or another been registered to vote as a Republican, a Democrat, and a Libertarian, said, in part, ‘Like most Americans, I have lost faith in all our political parties to change the way we’re doing things, which is just awful. I will come to this race without any political baggage or ideology, pledged simply to do the right thing and to do it right. Let’s take our country back!’ ”

“Oh, that’s just wonderful,” Holly said wryly. “And look, there’s a photograph of him with his lantern jaw and that horrible black wig he wears, while swearing it isn’t a wig. He’s what, about six feet six?”

“Likely the tallest presidential candidate in American history,” Stone said, “according to the article.”

“I expect he’ll run on that. It’s about all he’s got going for him.”

“Do you think he’ll attract voters away from Kate?”

“My guess is that he’ll get a lot more Republican votes than Democratic ones.”

Stone turned to the inside page where the article was continued. “It says that the FDA has banned half a dozen of his supplements from sale, saying they contain little that’s beneficial except sugar and salt.”

“They’re constantly after him, but he still manages to flog tons of that stuff on late-night infomercials.”

“I don’t get it — who does he think is going to vote for him?”

“Maybe the people who buy his self-help books. There are more than a dozen of those tomes, and they’re hot sellers on the Internet. He claims to have put all the profits into investments that have made him rich.”

“Ah, yes, he claims to be worth five billion dollars, according to this article.”

“If anybody believes that, I’ve got a very nice, very tall monument, beautifully located on the Mall in Washington, that I’d like to sell them.”

Stone turned the page and found something else to read. He was on the crossword when the launch slowed and pulled up to the Breeze ’s stairs.

“Just leave your luggage and I’ll have it put into your cabin,” the helmsman said, and they climbed the stairs, this time to be met by their host.

“Stone, Holly, welcome aboard again,” Christian St. Clair said. “Would you like to freshen up, or would you like a cocktail?”

“I’m pretty fresh,” Holly said. “I vote for the cocktail.”

St. Clair led them aft, where the others were seated, with one new addition: a man in a double-breasted blazer with shiny brass buttons stood, towering over everyone, especially his host. “Stone,” St. Clair said, “allow me to introduce you and Holly to Nelson Knott and his wife, Clarice, who joined us this morning for this leg of our cruise.” Knott’s hair did not appear to be a wig, and it was no longer black but a chestnut color with a good deal of gray. The woman was more than a foot shorter than her husband, and much cleavage was in view.

Knott offered a huge hand that enveloped Stone’s, as if it belonged to a child.

“How do you do?” Stone said, stunned. He looked around. “Where’s Whit Saltonstall?”

“Right here, Stone,” a voice behind him said. “Walk with me, Stone.” He turned and followed his wife toward the launch.

“Are you leaving us, Whit?” Stone asked, catching up.

Saltonstall smiled and lowered his voice. “I won’t spend another minute in the company of that ass. He got on at Rockland this morning, when we were still asleep. I can’t imagine what he’s doing here, and I don’t want to find out. Have a pleasant sail.” He went down the stairway to the launch, and it pulled away.

Stone went back to the other guests and was handed a Knob Creek on the rocks. Holly already had one.

Now he noticed that the magazine publisher and newspaper editor with whom they had dined the evening before had been replaced by two other couples, who were introduced. One of them was a casino owner from New Orleans who was often on the news at election time; the other was an elderly man with thick white hair who Stone did not recognize.

“I’m sure you know Harold and Cassandra Ozick,” St. Clair said, indicating the casino owner, “and this is Clint and Lily Holder.” Now Stone had it: Clint Holder was a Texas oilman with widespread interests, including, if the rumors were true, about forty acres of downtown Dallas. He was sometimes known in the papers as “Clint Holdup.” Both men were huge contributors to political action committees that backed Republican candidates.

“How do you do?” Stone said, shaking everybody’s hand. He could understand why the other guests had abandoned ship, but, since he didn’t have that opportunity at the moment, he decided to make the best of it.

The group exchanged small talk for a while, then Stone excused himself and Holly. “We’d better change for dinner,” he said. Everybody made moves in that direction. They followed a crewman below and forward to a cabin with a carved rose on the door. Inside, their clothes had been put away, and their luggage had disappeared. The cabin was large, sporting a plush sofa before a fireplace and a king-sized bed. There were fine oil paintings of yachts and yacht clubs on the wall.

Holly leaped onto the bed. “Perfect!” she said.

“We’ll see,” Stone replied. “What do you think of our fellow guests on the cruise?”

“Oh, I think this is going to be such fun!” Holly said, bouncing up and down on the bed.

Dinner started with about half a cup each of the first beluga caviar Stone had seen in years. It was almost impossible to find, legally, just about anywhere but in Iran or Russia, and nobody was leaving any on his plate.

They proceeded to an enormous porterhouse steak, about four inches thick, carved at tableside, and the wine was a 1978 Château Lafite-Rothschild, decanted and waiting.

“We are indebted to Clint and Lily Holder for our food and wine this evening,” St. Clair said, “and a good thing, since I was going to give you pizza and wine from a screw-top bottle.”

They all toasted the Holders.

Stone couldn’t help noticing that the casino man, Ozick, was wearing diamond studs and cuff links of about three carats each with his dinner suit, which sported little threads of gold woven into the fabric. His wife, Cassandra, who was forty years younger than he, was wearing a skin-tight dress sewn with rhinestones, if they weren’t actually diamonds. Just the thing for a cruise of the Maine islands.

The Holders, however, were dressed elegantly and with more reserve, though Lily’s diamond necklace attracted attention, and Clint’s studs were tiny oil derricks, encrusted with pavé diamonds.

“Barrington,” Clint Holder said, around a chunk of steak, “I’ve never heard of you. What do you do?”

“I’m a partner in the New York law firm of Woodman & Weld,” Stone replied, “and I serve on a couple of boards.”

“I know your firm,” Holder said. “A hothouse of flaming liberals.”

“I don’t think the partners would take too much exception to that, except for the ‘flaming’ part, but the practice of law is pretty conservative, though some of our clients are not.”

“What boards are you on?” Holder demanded, as if this were a job interview.

“The Steele Insurance Group and Strategic Services. I also serve on the board of the Arrington Hotel Group, of which I am a principal.”