Cut and Thrust

9

Stone and Ann had a look around Ben’s house, then returned to Peter’s.

“I got the photograph,” Peter said.

Stone gave him Ann’s e-mail address, then he looked around the room. “What happened to the veep and Charlene?”

“Gone,” Peter said. “I heard him tell an aide to call Spago for a table.”

“Very good,” Stone said.

“Very good indeed,” Ann said, as she dialed a number. “The VP and Charlene Joiner will be arriving at Spago shortly,” she said to whoever answered. “Greet them and e-mail me the shots.” She hung up.

“Who was that?”

“A photographer acquaintance of mine,” Ann said. “He hangs around outside chic spots, waiting for celebs to show. He also has two spotters cruising the ones where he can’t be and they communicate by cell phone and he rushes over on his motorcycle.”

“In that case, please hold Peter’s shots,” Stone said. “Maybe use them later if you really need them.”

“All right, I’ll save my ammo.”

A buffet table was operating now, and they served themselves dinner.

“I didn’t get any lunch today,” Ann said.

“Poor girl.”

“Kate ran me off my feet. She visited four caucuses, spoke at two luncheons, and went to three cocktail parties, and she was still making ’em laugh at the end. Now she has two dinners to attend, but she excused me.”

“Good Kate,” Stone said, digging into his paella. A waiter brought them glasses of wine. “Are you encouraged by how things are going?” he asked Ann.

“They’re going so well, it scares me,” she replied. “Something’s got to go wrong soon, and I hope it doesn’t sneak past me.”

“Not much gets past you,” Stone said.

“You’re catching on pretty quick, yourself,” she said. “You’ve managed to find out what’s on the governor’s mind and plant lascivious things in the veep’s head and it’s not even eight o’clock yet.”

They had just finished dinner when Immi Gotham turned up, causing heads to snap. She came and greeted Stone, who introduced her to Ann.

“We’re all looking forward to your performance at The Arrington,” Stone said.

“I’m looking forward to it, too,” she replied. “Hattie and I have been rehearsing.” Immi was stolen away by somebody.

“I like it out here,” Ann said. “The quality of celebrities is better than in New York, and when they turn up, they’re more relaxed. Hattie is a pianist?”

“A brilliant one. And a composer, too. She scores all of Peter’s films.”

“All two of them?”

“And more to come. He and Ben never stop working, and Leo Goldman is thrilled to have them on the Centurion lot. They’ve turned Vance Calder’s old cottage into their offices.” Calder, the late movie star, had been Peter’s stepfather.

“How old can Peter be? Twenty-five?”

“Not that old. The boy is a prodigy.”

“Does he get that from you?”

“No, and not from his mother, either. It must be some sort of genetic mutation.”

“And who are Billy and Betsy Burnett?”

“That one is difficult to explain,” Stone said. “Someday, when I’ve known you for forty or fifty years, I’ll tell you the whole story. Billy is a jack-of-all-trades who has become an associate producer with Peter and Ben. He knows more about everything than anyone I know. And anyone you know, too. He can fix anything, build anything, and fly airplanes — he’s been instructing Peter, Ben, and Hattie. And I wouldn’t want to have him for an enemy.”

“I like his wife, Betsy.”

“She handles Peter’s PR, schedules interviews, and makes his travel arrangements, among other things. She’s made herself invaluable in the production office.”

“You seem to have such a perfect life, Stone. Do you have any enemies?”

“Apparently I do,” Stone said. “Last year I got into it with some Russians, out of Paris, and I thought it had ended.”

“Hasn’t it?”

“It seems there is an unending supply of greedy Russians. Last year they wanted The Arrington. Next year, who knows?”

Ann looked at her watch. “I know it’s early, but I’m fading fast.”

“Do you have a car, or do you want to ride with me?”

“I was dropped off by a campaign car. I’m with you.”

They said their good nights and found The Arrington’s car waiting for them out front.

They had just pulled away from the house when Ann’s phone buzzed and she answered it. “Oh, look,” she said, showing Stone the phone. “Marty and Charlene in Hollywoodland!”

The sidewalk in front of Spago was choked with paparazzi, and Stanton and Charlene were elbowing their way through the mob, smiles fixed on their faces, apparently enjoying themselves.

“I guarantee you,” Ann said, “that picture will be on the front page of the New York Post tomorrow morning. And a lot of other rags, too.”