Carnal Curiosity (6 page)

“God, I hope not.” Herbie reached into a pocket and came out with an envelope. “Here’s a notarized copy of Don Dugan’s executed settlement agreement. Get Ms. Hart to sign and have it notarized today, and messenger it back to me. A judge in family court owes me a favor, so we can get this done next week.”

“Thank you, Herb,” Stone said, pocketing the envelope.

“I talked to somebody who knows Dugan, and I understand he’s somebody to be avoided, has a tendency to get into fights and win them.”

“A bad combination of character traits.”

“It is, if you’re, ah, ‘seeing’ the guy’s ex-wife.”

“You choose your words well.”

“I’d hate to see you get caught in the Dugan meat grinder,” Herbie said. “I don’t have time for hospital visits or attending funerals.”

“I will do my best to avoid both those locales.”

Herbie consulted his watch. “I need to get going before the check comes. Get that executed agreement back to me, pronto!” They shook hands, and he left.

Stone called Crane Hart.

“Yes?”

“It’s Stone. I have the settlement agreement ready for your signature, and it must be notarized. Can you come by my office right away? We need to get this wrapped up this afternoon, and we can make everything final next week.”

“Wow! You really get things done, don’t you?”

“Getting things done is what I do. Half an hour?”

“See you there.”

Stone signed the bill and left a cash tip; the waiters liked it that way.

—

C
rane signed the document, and Joan notarized it. “So I’ll see you in court next week?”

“Nope, you’ll see Herb Fisher in court. You’ll see me a lot sooner than that. Tonight?”

“Sorry, I’ve got to visit a policyholder in Greenwich this evening about his claim, and I’ll be back late.”

“Come over tomorrow night, and I’ll cook dinner for you.”

“What time?”

“Seven. Bring your toothbrush and a change of socks, and we’ll make a weekend of it.”

“You’re on.” She left, and Joan called for a messenger to deliver the document to Herbie.

Stone finished his day and was reading in his study when Fred materialized in the doorway. His approach was always undetectable; he would just suddenly be there.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” Fred said. “May I get you your usual?”

“Good evening, Fred,” Stone replied. “You may, and why don’t you join me? Let’s have a talk.”

Fred poured Stone a Knob Creek and found himself a glass of Laphroaig single malt.

“Have a seat,” Stone said.

Fred sat.

“You’ve fit in here very well, Fred,” Stone said. “My only difficulty is in finding enough for you to do.”

“Oh, I stay busy, Mr. Barrington. Helene always needs my help to polish the silver and the like.”

“Well, I certainly don’t need a year of your service to know
that I’d like you to stay on, and I’m sure Helene and Joan would like that, too.”

“I’m very happy here, sir, and happy to know that you’d like me to stay.”

Stone made the man an offer. “And that’s to include your apartment next door, health care, and a retirement plan.”

“I’m very pleased to accept your offer,” Fred said. “And there’s something else I’d like to raise.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve asked Helene to marry me, and she has accepted. We’d like your blessing.”

“I’m delighted to give you my blessing, though it’s not necessary. I wish you both every happiness.”

“If we may, we’d like to join our two flats into one next door.”

“Certainly. Ask Joan to get the builder over. When do you plan to marry?”

“Quite soon, I expect, there’s no need to wait.”

“Perhaps you’d like to honeymoon at my house in Maine. It’s very nice this time of the year, and you can have the guesthouse.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Fred said. “I’ll speak to Helene about it.”

“I’ll get you flown up and back, as well. There’s an airstrip on the island.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barrington. I understand we may have an issue around the household.”

“What would that be?”

“I believe you’ve incurred the animus of a rather large and unpredictable gentleman.”

“Oh, word has gotten around, has it?”

“Not many secrets in this house. Perhaps you’ll recall that I have some expertise with firearms?”

“Pistol champion of the Royal Marines, as I remember.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I don’t believe firearms will be necessary. The issues between the man and his former wife have been resolved.”

“Oh, I’m very good with a blackjack, too,” Fred replied. “Though, strictly speaking, that was not an authorized weapon in my service.”

“Keep it handy, Fred,” Stone said. “You never know.”

Fred polished off his drink and stood up. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“Ask Helene to fix me something for dinner and send it up in the dumbwaiter around seven, will you?”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington. And I bid you a good evening.”

Stone turned on the evening news and was greeted with a report of a fistfight at the Waldorf-Astoria at lunchtime. “No,” he said to himself, “it can’t be.”

11

S
tone awoke very early and reached for the other side of the bed. Empty, and would be until tonight. He had an itch that needed scratching, and the only option available was exercise. Normally, he accomplished that in his downstairs home gym, but it was such a beautiful day outside he decided to take advantage of it.

He checked the temperatures on his iPhone and decided he wouldn’t need a jacket or sweatpants. He got into shorts and a T-shirt, tied a light cotton sweater around his shoulders, just in case, put some money and his wallet into a pocket—again, just in case—and let himself out of the house.

It was 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and New York City traffic was very light. He started jogging up his street and heard a vehicle start up behind him, but ignored it. He ran up to Park Avenue and headed uptown toward Central Park, feeling good. The air was clear and fresher than usual, without the taint of carbon monoxide. He stopped for a light, jogging in place to stay warm, and a dark blue van pulled up beside him, idling in
the crosswalk. He heard a door slide open, then the light changed and he began to run again.

On little more than a whim, he caught a red light and ran across Park Avenue, then continued up the west side of the street. The dark blue van kept pace with him, occasionally stopping for a moment, so as not to outrun him. He felt a threat, but he was happy to have it confined to the opposite side of the four-lane street.

At Fifty-seventh Street he turned and ran toward Fifth Avenue, and the van followed. He could see its reflection in shopwindows without turning his head. At Fifth he crossed the street, turned right, and thus lost the van, since Fifth Avenue was one-way downtown. He ran up to Fifty-ninth Street, then, just before entering the park, he saw the van racing toward him on Central Park West. Then he was on a footpath and hidden by trees. He had lost the tail.

The few people out at this time of day were either other joggers or dog owners taking advantage of the no-leash rule before nine a.m. He ran through the zoo and into the Sheep Meadow, where dogs were happily chasing sticks and rolling in the grass with each other, enjoying a morning’s freedom from their collars, then he headed north for the running track that circumnavigated the reservoir. As he approached West Eighty-sixth Street, he saw the van waiting for him, and two burly men got out. They might have been brothers, about six-two or -three and well over two hundred pounds. He put on a little speed and beat them to the other side of Eighty-sixth and ran toward the track.

Then he turned and ran backward for a few steps and saw them running toward him. “Hey, want to do a few laps? Follow
me!” He ran quickly for a few seconds, then looked over his shoulder and saw them standing on the track, hands on hips, huffing and puffing. “See you around the other side!” he yelled, pointing.

He ran easily three-quarters of the way around the track, and then he saw something inviting. In a clearing a few yards away a man was hitting baseball grounders to half a dozen kids with baseball gloves. There was a bag on the ground holding three or four bats, and a pile of balls at his feet. “Good morning,” he said to the man.

“Good morning,” the man replied.

Stone, jogging in place, dug into his pocket and came up with a $100 bill. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for one of your bats. Your worst one.”

The man stopped hitting balls. “What do you want it for?”

“There are two large men waiting for me at Eighty-sixth Street, and I think I might need it. They seem to be up to no good.”

“Take your pick,” the man said. “No charge.”

Stone selected a badly scarred softball bat and dropped the C-note into the bag. “Buy some new balls on me.”

“No problem,” the man shouted. “Smack one of them for me!”

Stone went on his way, bat in hand. As Eighty-sixth Street hove into view, he saw the two men standing in the middle of the track, waiting for him. He pulled up five yards short of them. “Okay, fellas,” he said, swinging the bat back and forth, “who’s first? Or do you want to try it together?”

The man to his right came at him with a rush; Stone sidestepped and caught him smartly on the back of a knee. The man yelled and went down onto the cinder track like a bag of
potatoes. Stone didn’t hesitate going after the other one, but the man pulled a Glock from his waistband, pointed it, and started backing away.

“Go ahead,” Stone said, “take a shot at me, and let’s find out how long it will take the cops to get here. I’ve already called them.” He hadn’t even brought his cell phone.

The man started toward him, the gun out ahead.

Stone swung and caught the gun and part of a hand. The weapon spun away into the grass, while the man held on to his injured hand and swore.

“Now,” Stone said, “you want to get out of here before the cops come, or shall I try a few head swings?”

“Awright, awright,” the man said, making to look for his pistol.

“Forget the gun, or I’ll scatter your brains.”

The other man struggled to his feet and made for the van, limping badly. “Come on, Skip!” he yelled. “Let’s get outta here!” The two made it back to the van and drove quickly away.

Stone turned to look for the gun and found the hitter behind him, his bat in one hand, a cell phone in the other. “You want me to call the cops?” he asked.

“I guess not,” Stone said, looking through the grass for the gun and finding it. “They’re gone.”

“Were they muggers?”

“Maybe,” Stone said, popping the magazine from the gun and racking the slide to eject one in the chamber. “I didn’t ask them.” He drew back and threw the gun as far as he could into the reservoir, then followed it with the magazine. “I don’t think they’ll be back, though.” He handed his bat over. “Please return that to your collection, and thanks for your help.”

He ran on before the man could respond. On Eighty-sixth Street, there was no sign of the van, nor was there when Stone popped out of the park at Central Park South.

He ran over to Madison, which was one-way uptown, then down to his street before turning left and heading for home.

There was no sign of the van on his block as he let himself into the house.

He wasn’t sure what he had accomplished by dealing with the two men, but at least Don Dugan would know that he wasn’t going to sit still for a beating.

He went upstairs and got into a hot shower. He supposed that he should start packing a weapon, until this was over.

12

C
rane turned up on time and rang his bell.

Stone picked up the phone. “I’m downstairs, in the kitchen.” He buzzed her in.

“On my way!” she yelled back, and he heard the door close.

She came into the kitchen wearing a short black sleeveless dress and gave him a big kiss. “Smells good,” she said. “What is it?”

“Osso buco,” he replied, then went to the bar, got her a drink, and replenished his own. He clinked her glass, and they sipped. “I’ll need your help in just a minute,” he said.

“Sure.”

He poured some olive oil into his copper risotto pan with a chunk of butter and some salt and added a dozen ounces of arborio rice and some salt, then took a wooden spoon and stirred while it took on a sheen. “Okay, now,” he said, handing Crane the spoon, “you add some chicken stock, like this”—he poured it from a carton—“and keep stirring. As soon as it’s absorbed by the rice, add some more.”

“For how long?”

“Until all the stock is absorbed—about twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

Crane began to stir. Twenty-five minutes and a downed glass of whiskey later, Stone mixed in a couple of fistfuls of Parmigiano-Reggiano, then added half a carton of crème fraîche. “Stir a little more,” he said, and while she did he arranged the already-cooked chunks of veal calf’s shank on a platter, added the sautéed haricots verts, then set it on the set table. He found a trivet for the risotto pan, then set that on the table, too, where an uncorked bottle of Far Niente Cabernet waited, breathing. He poured two glasses, then pulled the table out so she could slide behind it.

Crane tasted the meat. “Yum!”

“It’s Elaine’s recipe,” Stone said. “Did you know Elaine’s?”

“I was there a couple of times years ago. Don didn’t like it, because she wouldn’t give him her best table.” She tried the risotto. “This is terrific. Is it her recipe, too?”

“No, I got that out of
The New York Times Magazine
years ago.”

They dug in. “How was your day?” she asked.

“Good. In your absence I went up to the park and ran off my sexual anxiety.”

“Don’t worry, you won’t be anxious long,” she said.

“Tell me, do you know some acquaintances of Dugan who look like brothers, dark hair, six-two or -three, over two hundred pounds, one of them named Skip?”

“The Drago brothers,” she said, looking alarmed. “Don uses them for collection work. It’s a big part of his business. Where have you seen them?”