The Crasher (51 page)

To her surprise and relief he rolled back. Perhaps he was too much on the stuff to do anything. “Of course, I want to talk.”
He corrected himself. “I want you to talk, to explain why you hate my guts.”

“I don’t, I never did.” There was a vacant look in his eyes. Ginny thought fast. If she could get him high over dinner, there
was a chance the whole evening could go by without a major tussle and she’d do what she could to convince him she thought
he was the greatest photographer ever to get behind a lens.

Time was all she needed; time to stall Oz; to keep him from blabbing to the police until her meeting with Alex, when she would
decide once and for all whether her cousin was a stupid, easily led fool who’d lost his way, or whether he was a cold-blooded
murderer. If Alex kept his word-and at least he’d tried to reach her to make a date-then in no more than forty-eight hours,
giving Alex enough time to escape, she should be able to tell her side of the story in order to get Stern released.

“You promised me dinner.” Again Ginny gave Oz a big smile.

“Right, right” Oz ran his hand over her legging-covered knee up to her thigh. “The Tribeca Grill and then back here for brandy
and coffee and a touch of the metaphysical for the mystery girl”

It was so easy. She didn’t have to explain anything. She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but over dinner all Oz wanted
to do was talk about himself, his success, his new house in Malibu, his endless supply of women, and his new interest in submission.
Ginny kept her eye on the time, wondering if Johnny or Alex had called again, wondering with trepidation if either of them
would be waiting on her doorstep.

It was still only nine-thirty when, without Oz’s seeming to know or care what was happening, she hailed a cab outside the
restaurant and gave the driver her address. Before she
could stop him, Oz jumped in beside her, falling asleep on her shoulder. With little traffic, the cab soon arrived at the
loft.

She intended to send Oz home in the same cab, but unfortunately he woke up as soon as it stopped and handed the driver a twenty-dollar
bill.

“What are we doing here?” he slurred. “I thought you were coming back to my place. Are you up to your usual tricks, mystery
woman? Okay, we can start here.” He started to rattle the door handle to her building. “Give me a brandy upstairs.”

There was no way that was going to happen. “Tomorrow,” she cooed. “I promise I’ll come to see your fabulous den of delights
tomorrow.”

“Is that second-rate reporter Peet waiting for you upstairs? Is that the problem?”

“I haven’t got anyone, Oz, upstairs, downstairs, anywhere. I promise I really want to see everything, but hey, you fell asleep
on me. I don’t think you’re up to being a tour guide tonight.” To Ginny’s relief she saw another cab cruising by. “Taxi!”
It scooted to a stop and Oz, only feebly protesting, let her push him inside. She didn’t wait to see the cab drive off. She
rushed inside and double-locked the door. As soon as she got upstairs she would leave on Oz’s answering machine a provocative
message of something to look forward to. Despite what he thought, she wasn’t very good at playing games, but this one she
would play as if her life depended on it, because in a way it did.

It hadn’t started well. In fact, with Sorenson’s inability to beat around any bush for any period of time, it could not have
been worse.

He’d hardly finished pouring out Johnny’s scotch and soda before he’d given the game away with a wry grimace.

It wasn’t the little Peet the Sterns wanted to talk to; it wasn’t the pipsqueak Peet they hoped would write the redeeming
piece in
Next!
magazine, which would lead to their salvation. Good God, no. Through Sorenson’s acquaintanceship
with the son, the Sterns hoped he would be able to get them to the father.

Johnny congratulated himself on not losing his cool. His self-control had nothing to do with his recently acquired confident
frame of mind, all much too new to help him. He couldn’t stop flushing as Sorenson rushed the truth out. At the same time,
Johnny knew that his newly noncompetitive self
was
helping him to con the doctor with feigned willingness to help.

“Well, I can understand that.” Johnny surprised himself with the level of sympathy he heard in his voice. “Of course, it makes
perfect sense the Sterns would like to talk to my father, but why haven’t they approached him directly?”

“Their lawyer is dead against it and I’m not sure he’s wrong, but Muriel-Mrs. Stern-she’s not an easy woman to deny. She believes
in following her own instincts, and I must say she’s often been right.” Sorenson looked uncomfortable. “She doesn’t know your
father at all, but when she learned how much I think of you, she came up with the idea that you might be amenable to acting
as some kind of go-between… in a strictly confidential way, of course.”

Johnny plunged right in. “From what I’ve heard about Muriel Stern, I’m not surprised. She appears to be a remarkable woman,
but Dr. Sorenson-”

“Oh, David, please. We may not see each other, but I feel as if we’re old friends…”

“Well, then, David, you may remember my father isn’t the easiest of men. I’d be happy…” Johnny paused for effect. “I think
I’d have no trouble getting my father to meet them, but I could give no guarantee as to what position he might take. For that
reason, er, David, I feel it’s essential I meet the Sterns first, to find out what their expectations are…”

Johnny hoped he looked modest as he added, “I’ve grown more accustomed to assessing people’s motivations, their feelings.
I can be more helpful if I hear directly from the Sterns what they are trying to accomplish in meeting my father. After all”—seeing
Sorenson was in a quandary, again he
paused for effect—“what can I say to my father if I don’t know what the Sterns want from him?”

Johnny was secretly amazed at how little Sorenson appeared to remember after all, especially about the relationship between
his father and himself. If the doctor had remembered, he would have known there was no way Johnny would ever think of approaching
QP on the Sterns’ behalf. But if Sorenson didn’t remember what made him tick, he thought he could still sum up Sorenson pretty
well.

To Johnny’s relief the doctor now acted exactly as he’d hoped and expected him to.

“There isn’t much time to lose, Johnny, but I have to agree, what you say makes sense to me. Let me call Muriel right away
and see if she agrees. Can I say, subject to the proper understanding, you are willing to ask your father to meet with them?”

Johnny nodded in what he hoped was a solemn, significant way. “Yes, I am.”

When Sorenson reappeared in a few minutes he looked relieved. Johnny reckoned Muriel must have been nagging him into the ground
ever since the hapless Arthur had been released into her formidable custody the week before.

“They’re just about to sit down for dinner…” Sorenson waved his hands about apologetically. “They’re very time-oriented people,
always eat early, seven-fifteen dinner. Can you go over there for about fifteen minutes tonight, at, say, eight forty-fiver’

Johnny nodded. “Yes, I can do that.”

There was another grimace as Sorenson asked, “For an off-the-record meeting?”

Whatever that was supposed to mean. Again Sorenson received Johnny’s significant nod. “Will you be there?”

The doctor sighed. “I suppose so. I have to run a couple of tests anyway….”

Johnny sensed he would rather be a thousand miles away—or at least out at his Glen Cove house where, Johnny remembered, Sorenson
liked nothing better than sitting with his
adored golden Labradors beside him as he watched an opera video with his dull wife, who rarely came to the city. He couldn’t
blame Sorenson for his reluctance; but he’d also heard that although Muriel Stern was an overbearing, demanding boss, client,
and, more than likely patient, too, at least she paid handsomely for the privilege.

He gulped down the whiskey. “I won’t get in your hair any longer. I’ll meet you there. What’s the address?”

“No, no, no, I’ll pick you up.” Sorenson wanted to make sure he’d turn up. Well, that was understandable, too.

A short while later, when they arrived at the Sterns’ apartment house, Johnny felt self-conscious, expecting to see an ink-stained
wretch or two and some members of the paparazzi still hovering outside; but no, the wind was too chilly tonight and the story
too slow for anyone to be about.

At exactly 8:45 Sorenson and he were announced. After a few minutes, they were allowed upstairs. A gray-faced man in gray
livery to match waited at an open door, admitting them into a large marble foyer, which in size, beige tones, and lack of
individuality could easily have been compared to the entrance hall of any small, uninspired Manhattan hotel--except for the
glistening view of the East River clearly evident through a floor-to-ceiling picture window.

Ignoring Johnny, the servant said quietly, “Dr. Sorenson, Mrs. Stern isn’t feeling too well. Would you come this way, please?”

When Johnny turned to follow, gray face put up a barricading hand. “Please wait here, sir.”

Again David Sorenson shot Johnny his wry there’s-nothing-I-can-do-about-it expression. Johnny indicated he really didn’t care
and for the next ten minutes alternately admired the view and shuddered at the huge bowls of artificial flowers on two ormolu
hall tables.

He’d decided to explore and peep inside one of the doors off the hall, when a maid appeared. “This way please.”

He was shown into a small room with shamrock-embossed
dark green wallpaper. It reminded him of a wallpaper he’d once lived with in a country he now couldn’t remember.

There was a sound of angry voices in the hall. It sounded as if the maid was unsuccessfully trying to keep somebody out The
door burst open.

“Oh!” Arthur Stern stood awkwardly in the doorway. “Wait a minute… wait a minute… this isn’t Quentin Peet. Who are you?”

Didn’t this couple ever speak to each other?

Johnny knew he stiffened up as he replied as warmly as he could, “I’m Quentin Peet’s son, John Q. Peet.”

“That’s not who I’m expecting. Where’s your father?” Stern staggered as he went across the room to sink into an armchair.
It was obvious from his slurred syllables the man was half intoxicated, if not more so.

“What are you doing here?” The tone was unmistakably insulting. “Don’t tell me my sainted wife got her Peets mixed up? The
story I’ve got to tell isn’t for amateurs, son. My story is big, big enough for the almighty to hear, big enough, crissakes,
for the blessed Big Q himself to cover.”

Johnny had to stifle a strong urge to give Stern a punch in the jaw. What the hell was he doing here, wasting his time, helping
Sorenson play nursemaid? He wasn’t going to learn anything from this sick excuse for a human being. Where was the brains of
the family, Muriel Stern? Was he being set up?

To Johnny’s disgust Stern started to blubber. “D’you know what hell on earth it is, young Peet, to be watched night and day,
for the cops to know what time I pee, to live with this piece of police shit around your ankle?” Stern lifted his leg and
Johnny saw he was wearing an electronic monitor. “D’you know what hell it is to be locked up with a woman who wishes you’d
never been born?” He lurched over to a drinks tray in the corner and poured himself a large vodka.

“Women… they’re the root of all evil. If it wasn’t for a woman, you know, I wouldn’t be…” He gulped down his drink as if he
were dying of thirst. “This evil little temptress, this so-called designer with the face of an angel and the body
of a kid… she’s the reason I’m in this fucking mess.” Stern stopped sniffling, leering as he went on, “You’re young—you’re
probably used to these beanstalk model types, who only know how to come if they’re getting a fuck on the sly…” Stern wagged
his finger at Johnny. “The kinkier die better, the more public the better… this one… this one,” he growled, “she was trying
to unzip my fly when… when Svank got what was coming to him.”

Stern realized his listener was not reacting-was sitting stone-faced as he rolled out the lurid details. “I tell you, Peet,
it wasn’t worth it. No fuck’s worth what I’ve been through the last few days-”

“Arthur! What are you doing here?”

Johnny didn’t need to turn to know that the formidable Muriel Stern had entered the room. He jumped to his feet as Arthur
Stern cowered back in the chair, trying to hide his glass behind him. Muriel Stern stood, glaring at her husband, leaning
heavily on an ebony stick. There was no sign of Sorenson.

Although there was nothing in the world that could make him feel sorry for somebody like Arthur Stern, Johnny could understand
anybody quaking under Muriel’s unsparing gaze.

“I told you I would speak to Mr. Peet on your behalf.” She turned to look just as coldly at Johnny. “I hope Arthur has not
been wasting your time, Mr. Peet. He has a colorful way of describing the circumstances which have led to his wrongful arrest.
This has not helped him-us. Do please sit down.”

To Johnny’s relief Sorenson appeared behind her, but he wasn’t going to be of much help. “Johnny, I see there’s no need for
me to make any formal introductions.” The doctor looked pale, worn out. “If you will forgive me, Muriel, I think I’m going
to head out to the Island after all. I am reassured by your blood pressure and the other tests. I’ll come to see you again
on Friday-unless you need me before.”

“Not much good if I do. Why you want to spend valuable time commuting back and forth I don’t know. It’s not as if you
have any land! The helicopter can’t even get in there to bring you back when I need you.”

Sorenson had obviously heard it all before. He blinked his eyes in the semblance of a friendly wink, squeezed her hand, and
said again, “First thing Friday then. Thank you, Johnny. I know Mrs. Stern can rely on you.”

“David.” The pronunciation of Sorenson’s first name was an order. “David, I can think much more clearly if Arthur isn’t here,
drooling all over the furniture. Can’t you give him a shot or something to stop him drinking?”