Fresh Disasters (7 page)

B
ob Cantor snapped to attention. He had been half dozing, but a movement on the terrace below had caught his eye.

One of the sliding glass doors had opened, and now a tall blonde, wearing a floor-length robe that appeared to be silk, swept onto the terrace. He recognized her immediately. It was Marilyn, the masseuse.

Marilyn set down a drink on a little table next to a double-width chaise longue, made a motion with her shoulders and the robe fell in a puddle at her feet, revealing a lithe, naked body with high-hung breasts. She pulled something from her hair and shook it loose.

Cantor grabbed the camera and sighted through the long lens. The low afternoon sunlight washed over her pale body, turning it gold, as he focused and fired off a couple of shots. He checked the screen on the back of the camera to be sure he had it right. He had it right. The girl was now rubbing some sort of lotion on her body, and Cantor was getting an erection.

Suddenly, Cantor’s erection wilted. Bernard Finger stepped out onto the terrace with a drink in his hand. He was stark naked, and it was not a pretty sight. Marilyn did not leap up to meet him but patted the other side of the chaise. Finger sat down, they clinked glasses and began to chat.

Marilyn was doing more than chatting. She had her hand in Finger’s lap and was kneading his genitals. Cantor clicked away. The lens was the perfect length; he might as well have been sitting next to them.

Marilyn rolled over and buried her face in Finger’s crotch, and his face took on an ecstatic grimace, which Cantor preserved in digital code. Then they changed positions, and Finger was doing the work in her lap. He was on his knees, his buttocks pointing to the sky. Cantor was almost as ecstatic as Finger. He continued photographing until both Marilyn and Finger had collapsed in a tangle of love.

Cantor took out a small laptop computer and the little portable color printer he traveled with, and, minutes later, he had a sheet of postage-stamp–sized prints, half a dozen enlargements and everything on a CD. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial number.

U
p at the
Post
on the floor where the Page Six staff worked, a phone rang and a young man picked it up. “Page Six.”

“You know who this is, Henry?”

“Yeah, I know who it is.”

“I want you to do two things: I want you to go down to your cashier and draw ten grand in hundreds and fifties, then I want you to meet me at the bar across the street. You’ve got an hour, and if you don’t bring the money, I go elsewhere.”

“What could be that hot?”

“If you don’t think it’s hot enough, you don’t have to give me the ten grand. I’m not going to hit you over the head and take it.”

“Give me a hint.”

“How’s this for a hint:
in flagrante delicto
?”

“Who is?”

“Trust me, you’re going to love it.” The caller hung up.

Cantor removed the lens from the camera, packed his equipment and took the elevator to the lobby, giving Tim, the doorman, a little salute as he passed. Half an hour later, he was in a back booth of a dark bar, nursing a dirty martini with two olives. Presently, Henry entered the bar, waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the light, or lack of it, then headed for the booth. He was carrying a small, zippered canvas envelope that bulged just a bit.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”

“First, I want complete confidentiality,” Cantor said. “I don’t want even your editors to know where this came from.”

“Guaranteed,” Henry said. “The paper loves it when we go to jail for not revealing sources. It makes them look brave, and they get a chance to run editorials about First Amendment issues.”

Cantor laid an eight-by-ten photograph on the table and switched on a penlight.

“Beautiful girl!” Henry enthused. “Who’s the guy with his head up her twat?”

Cantor laid another photo on the table and illuminated it.

“Holy shit!” Henry spat. “Is that Bernie Finger?”

“None other.” Cantor spread out more photos and held up the CD. “Many more where that came from.”

Henry was not actually salivating yet, but Cantor was afraid his prints were going to get wet. He scooped them up and put them, along with the CD, back into his briefcase. “There’s a backstory, too, a juicy one, but first, the ten grand.”

“First, the photos, the CD and the backstory,” Henry said.

Cantor snapped the briefcase shut. “You’re going to have to excuse me, Henry; I have another appointment in five minutes.”

“All right, all right,” Henry said, holding up his hands in surrender. He unzipped the leather bag, showed the money to Cantor, then rezipped it and handed it over.

Cantor unzipped it, riffled through the bills, then put the money into his briefcase and handed over the prints and the CD.

“Now, the backstory,” Henry said.

Cantor grinned. “Bernie Finger is, as you no doubt know, a ‘happily’ married man” [he made quotation marks with his fingers], “but he’s been promising the girl, a masseuse named Marilyn, that he’s getting a divorce any minute. To prove his undying love, he bought her the Park Avenue penthouse, or at least, that’s what he told her. I am reliably informed that the deed is in his name, not hers.”

“Good stuff,” Henry admitted, looking through the photos again. “I’m not sure we can actually print these, but we could certainly use them as evidence in defending a slander suit.”

“Come on, Henry. A little black tape in strategic places would do the trick. But hey, they’re your photos; do with them as you will.”

“The timing is good,” Henry said. “We’ve just had a little back and forth in the column between Bernie and Stone Barrington.”

“Who?”

“Another lawyer.”

“Never heard of him, but let me know if you want him photographed doing the nasty.” Cantor slid out of the booth, offered a quick handshake and was on his way.

B
ack in his car, Cantor hit another speed-dial number.

“Stone Barrington.”

“The deed is done,” Cantor said.

“Which deed?”

“All the deeds. And the rag paid so well that I’m not even going to charge you expenses.”

“You’re such a nice man,” Stone said.

“Well, we all know that. Listen, I haven’t heard from my nephew for a couple of days, and that’s unusual. He normally calls every day, wanting money.”

“Oh,” Stone said, “he called me and said he was being chased by some of his bookie’s leg breakers and needed to go to ground somewhere. I suggested a homeless shelter.”

“That doesn’t sound like the boy’s style.”

“Who cares about his style? He stayed one night with a girlfriend, then she kicked him out. He says he has nowhere else to go, said you weren’t talking to him, either.”

“That’s kind of true,” Cantor said. “Kind of true is as close as he ever gets to the truth. Let me know if you hear from him, will you? I promised his mother on her deathbed I’d look after him.”

“I hope I don’t, but if I do, I will. Any idea when the
Post
will publish?”

“Could be as early as tomorrow,” Cantor replied. “Henry will have to clear it up the ladder, but he’s hot to trot. Bye-bye.” He punched off the cell phone and drove home happily with the ten thousand in his briefcase.

J
oan brought in the
Post
just before lunch. “Story, but no pics,” she said, handing the paper to Stone, opened at Page Six.

Stone read the piece:

ATTORNEY NESTLES WITH MISTRESS IN LOVE NEST,
BUT DEED TO NEST IN WRONG NAME

“Cute,” Stone said, “but why no photos?”

“I expect they’re afraid of a suit from ol’ Bernie,” Joan replied.

“They need have no fear with those pictures in their possession. No, something else is going on here.”

A
t the
Post
, Henry Stead was sitting at his desk when he spotted the process server, a short, plump man in a wash-and-wear suit. Henry waved at him cheerfully. “Over here, Arnie! I’ll accept service!”

Arnie waddled over to the desk and ignored Henry’s outstretched hand, holding the summons close to his chest. “How come you’re so anxious to get sued?” he asked suspiciously.

“Arnie, you of all people are in a position to know that we get sued all the time.”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve never seen anybody here look so happy about it.”

“It breaks up the day, Arnie. Gimme the summons.”

Arnie handed it over with some reluctance. “This goes against my experience of these things,” he said. “Ordinarily I have to chase people around if they know what I’m doing.”

“Gimme the clipboard, Arnie,” Henry said, extending a hand.

Arnie handed over a clipboard holding a sheet of paper with space for a dozen signatures. “Sign on line six,” he said.

Henry signed with a flourish. “That’s it, Arnie; your work is done. I’m sure that up in heaven an angel just got his wings.” He picked up a little bell on his desk and tinkled it. A copy boy sprinted toward him. “False alarm, Terry,” Henry said. “That was a heavenly bell.”

Terry came to a screeching halt. “Don’t pitch me no balks,” he said sullenly, turning away.

“That was an oxymoron, Terry,” Henry called after him.

With a last, untrusting glance, Arnie turned and trudged toward the elevators.

Henry ripped open the envelope and read the document. “Bingo!!!” he yelled, and everybody in the room turned and stared at him as he sprinted toward his boss’s office. He ran into the room without knocking, startling a man who had just taken a big bite of a corned beef and chopped liver sandwich on rye with Russian dressing. “Bernie Finger came through like a champ!” Henry yelled, holding up the summons so his boss could read it without getting chopped liver on it.

The editor made a monumental effort to swallow, but required a slug of celery tonic to choke down the mass. He wiped his mouth with two napkins. “Okay,” he said, when he was finally able to speak, “run the pictures. In color.”

Henry skipped back to his desk, happy in his work.

S
tone was tidying up the kitchen when the doorbell rang. He picked up a phone. “Yes?”

“It’s Celia.”

Stone pressed the button that unlocked the front door. “Straight through the house and down the back stairs,” he said.

“I’m on my way.”

Stone made a quick check of the kitchen bar, which held a collection of liquor bottles, the ice bucket and a wine dispenser with two bottles of chilled white and two of red. He went to the stairway to meet her.

She came down the stairs in a fur coat, carrying two large grocery bags. He took them from her, set them on the kitchen counter, helped her off with her coat and hung it on a peg. She accepted a hello kiss.

“I’m sorry I didn’t meet you at the door, but it would have taken me twice as long before I could offer you a drink.”

“Do you have any champagne?” she asked.

“A rhetorical question,” he said, going to the fridge and removing a chilly bottle of Veuve Cliquot Grande Dame and working on the cork. “Can you grab a couple of flutes from over there?” he asked, nodding toward the china and crystal cabinet.

She was able to reach the top shelf with no difficulty and brought back the flutes.

Stone filled them, then filled them again when the bubbles had subsided. They raised their glasses and drank.

“That’s lovely,” she said. “I like it even better than Dom Perignon.”

“So do I,” Stone said. “Why didn’t you have the groceries delivered? I hate to think of you humping those bags around.”

“One bag was delivered; it was sitting on your doorstep, waiting for some homeless person to make his day. The other bag contains some of my preparations.” She set down her drink and began unpacking a sealed Tupperware container.

“And what is that?” he asked, peering through the cloudy plastic.

“That is boned chicken thighs, marinating in port as they have been for twenty-four hours.”

“I can’t wait,” he said.

“It’ll be on the table in forty minutes,” she said. “Starting from when we finish this glass of champagne.”

“I take it we should drink a red?”

“A full-bodied red, preferably a cabernet.”

“I have just the thing,” Stone said, going to the bar and bringing back a bottle. “I brought it up from the cellar in anticipation of your request.”

She peered at the label. “Phelps Insignia ’94; that should do nicely.”

“Can I help you do anything?”

She downed the rest of her champagne. “You can best help by keeping my glass full and otherwise staying out of my way.”

Stone refilled their glasses and sat down on a bar stool. “Proceed,” he said, retrieving a decanter for the wine.

And she did.

F
orty minutes later they were dining on something she called
poulet au porto,
chicken in port with sliced green apples, saffron rice and
haricot verts.

“God, this is good!” Stone enthused. “I can’t remember when anyone cooked for me, and I can’t remember ever eating anything as wonderful as this.”

“You say all the right things,” she replied. “You keep doing that.”

“I intend to.”

“You get to do the dishes,” she said, putting a last bite into her mouth and taking a sip of the wine.

“My housekeeper gets to do that in the morning,” Stone said.

“Does she serve breakfast in bed?” Celia asked.

“She does, on request.”

Celia smiled at him. “Good,” she said. “But first, we have to find the bed.”

Stone showed her where it was.