Contraband

57

Stone lay in bed and watched as Max modeled her clothes for him.

“Why does it matter what you wear to this meeting?” he asked.

“It’s got to be just the right thing: it can’t be dowdy, and it can’t be flashy. She has to look at me and say to herself, ‘Yeah, I can dress her, and I know just how to do it.’”

“I see, I think.”

“Look, you don’t want her to take one look at me and throw us out, do you?”

Stone thought that would be a grand idea. “I guess not,” he said.

Max pulled out something and slithered into it. It was a cashmere dress, essentially a long sweater. She looked fabulous in it. She fastened a necklace of stones around her neck. “There,” she said, consulting the mirror.

“Perfect,” Stone said, because he didn’t want to look at any more outfits.

“I’m glad you got my point,” she said.

“I get all your points,” Stone replied.

Max whipped off the dress and posed, revealing protruding nipples. “You mean these points?”

“Among others,” Stone said, holding out his arms.

Max ran to the bed and flung herself at him. “All yours,” she said, rubbing her breasts in his face.

Stone got hold of a nipple, rolled her over, and moved his lips back and forth, from one to the other. It got noisy after that.

They had fallen into a light sleep when Joan buzzed Stone.

Stone groped for the phone. “This better be good,” he said.

“Your two pals from the ATF are back and insist on seeing you, now.”

“Swell. Give me a few minutes.”

“What is it?” Max asked.

“Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms,” Stone said.

“You’re kidding.”

“I kid you not. It’s their second visit.”

“What did they want the first time?”

“I was never able to ascertain that.” Stone pulled on some trousers and a turtleneck, slipped, sockless, into some loafers, and went downstairs. The same two were there.

Stone pointed at some chairs and flopped down at his desk. “All right, gentlemen, state your business.”

“Our business is law enforcement,” one of them said.

“And which law are you enforcing today?”

“I’m sorry if we’re boring you, Mr. Barrington.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re here about cigars and caviar.”

“I should have thought that caviar would come under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”

That stopped them in their tracks for a moment. “All right, let’s talk cigars.”

“I despise cigars,” Stone said, “but go ahead and talk.”

“I understand that you are aware of the Florida smuggling operation recently put out of business.”

“That news has reached my ears.”

“We’re working on the distribution now.”

“You’re distributing contraband cigars?”

“Certainly not. We’re trying to figure out how such cigars could be distributed, especially at such exorbitant prices.”

“And what have you figured out?”

“Not much. How would you guess distribution would take place?”

“Gentlemen, I’m hardly an expert on tobacco distribution.”

“Indulge us, please.”

“All right. First of all, the exorbitant prices are a lure, not a barrier to sales. There are people out there with too much money, and they’re always looking for new ways to spend it. Also, cigars — for reasons that have always baffled me — have a certain romance about them, much like wine drinkers are romantic about what they buy and drink.”

“Neither of us smokes cigars, Mr. Barrington. We’ll have to take your word for that. How does it relate to distribution?”

“Well, none of us here has any memories of Prohibition, but I am reliably informed that many drugstores were distributing whiskey from under their counters, or decanting it into medicine bottles and slapping prescription labels on them.”

“We’ll take your word for that.”

“All right, imagine that you’re a cigar lover, and you purchase them from tobacco shops. The owner knows that you are very rich and will pay for the exotic. So one day, he says, ‘Sir, I have something very rare under my counter that I think might interest you, even though it is exorbitantly expensive.’ He removes a box from under the counter and says, ‘These cigars were made privately for the use of Fidel Castro, who smoked a dozen of them a day.’ He then explains about the tiny tobacco farm that grows and cures the tobacco, then about the nubile maidens who roll them against their thighs, and the next thing you know, he’s collecting six hundred bucks for the opportunity to sample this product. It is but a small step to paying thousands for a box. Are you getting the picture?”

“I believe we are, Mr. Barrington, but how would they be distributed?”

“One of two ways, I should imagine,” Stone said. “Either through normal channels of tobacco distribution — albeit very, very quietly — or through personal visits to the tobacconists from the smugglers’ own salespeople.”

The two agents exchanged a glance. “That is pretty much what we thought,” one of them said.

“Then, gentlemen, if you can imagine that process, why have you come to me for affirmation? I’m an attorney, not a dealer in contraband.”

“We apologize for the intrusion,” one said, then both men got to their feet and found their way out to the street.

“Joan!” Stone yelled.

“Yes, sir?”

“If we should receive any further visits from either of those two gentlemen, tell them I recently blew my brains out and am, thus, unavailable.”

“You want me to lie to a federal agent?”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do,” he replied, “right after you’ve booked me a lunch table for two at La Goulue, uptown.” He then got up from his desk and made his way back upstairs.

Max was asleep again.

He took in the view of her, glanced at his watch, and figured there was time to wake her again.

And he did so.