Class Act

32

Once in the car, Tara said, “I’d better go straight home. I’ve got a big day tomorrow: buyers coming in from Atlanta and Dallas.”

“Of course,” Stone muttered. “Fred, would you drop me at home, then take Ms. Wilkes to Bucks County, Pennsylvania?”

There was a perfunctory good-night kiss, and she was gone. Forever, Stone reckoned.

Stone had finished his breakfast and was working on the Times crossword, with Morning Joe on the TV, when Dino called.

“What the fuck was that about last night?” Stone asked pleasantly.

“What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything.”

“You certainly blew Tara out of my life. She hardly spoke to me on the way home.”

“Then I take it she’s not breakfasting with you?”

“You made absolutely certain of that.”

“Viv made me do it,” Dino said, lamely.

“So you admit it! And the hell Viv made you. You were seething malice!”

“It wasn’t as bad as that.”

“It was worse. Now Tara thinks I’ve been going out with some gun moll.”

“Looks like she never left the city, doesn’t it?” Dino said. “Did you call her while she was still here?”

“I tried.”

“Let me guess: The number you have dialed is out of service.”

“She uses throwaways.”

“Something I’ll bet she learned from Joe Rossetti. He’s still going strong, you know. I’ll bet he was waiting at the Café Carlyle for her ten o’clock show to start. I did a little research on him. He’s at the track most days, and the only person he speaks to on the phone is his employer — or rather, his employer’s consigliere. What was it with you and Sal Trafficante? I saw that look on the way out.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never clapped eyes on the man before.”

“Well, he certainly clapped eyes on you, and who can blame him? You’ve been screwing one of his employees.”

“You don’t know that she works for him.”

“All right, so you’ve been screwing his girlfriend, the singer. It hardly matters which.”

“Where is Trafficante based?”

“The Don moves around. He has a place in Manhattan, and Sal lives right next door. You know, I’m fascinated by that look he gave you. People he looks at like that usually end up doing a midnight tap dance in the East River, wearing concrete tap shoes.”

“You have a rich fantasy life, Dino. You should be writing novels.”

“You know I’m right about Hilda Ross, Stone. We learn a little more every day, and it’s all bad. You should try and stay on her good side. Maybe she can keep you alive for a few more days.”

“Why would anybody want to kill me?” Stone asked plaintively.

“How about jealousy? A famous motive, jealousy. Comes right behind money on Roget’s List of Motives. That was a jealous look Sal gave you.”

“If I keep listening to this I’m going to lose my breakfast.”

“You’re going to lose a lot more than that, unless you listen harder. Never mind your breakfast.”

“I can’t talk anymore.” Stone hung up. He hadn’t been kidding about losing his breakfast; he was fighting to hold on to it. He wanted to call Hilda and demand an explanation as to why she wasn’t in Florida, but he didn’t have her number or her e-mail address.

Dino called back.

“What?”

“I was right.”

“Right about what?”

“Joe Rossetti was at a ringside table at the Café Carlyle for the ten o’clock show. I called a guy I know there, and he filled me in. The old man has a suite there, too, which he shares with his daughter. And by the way, Hilda’s appearance at the Café was booked eight weeks ago.”

“All right, so she’s a liar,” Stone admitted.

“When she calls you, and she will, don’t take the call.”

“I won’t.”

“And if you do take the call, don’t agree to see her.”

“I won’t.”

“And if you do see her, have Fred pick her up and take her somewhere to meet you. You might also ask Fred to frisk her for weapons — guns, knives, ice picks.”

“Dino, I can’t take any more of this.”

“Dinner at Patroon, eight-thirty?”

“Okay.” Stone hung up.