Dirt

Chapter 17

Stone was home by dark; he came into the house at dusk, feeling oddly empty inside. Drained might be a better word, he thought, reminding himself of how he had spent the afternoon. He switched on the living room lights and walked to the study, sinking into a leather wing chair.

Stone had always thought of himself as having a large appetite for sex, but he had never before met anyone as voracious as Amanda Dart. He remembered, in a high school science class, seeing a captive black widow spider as it came upon a fly in its web and watching as the spider had sucked the life out of the fly. Now he thought he knew how the fly felt.

He was about to go upstairs when a red light on the telephone beside him began to flash. It was the fax machine in his office, and he wondered who could be faxing him on a Saturday evening. He walked downstairs, switched on the office lights, and went to the machine. It was just spitting out a sheet of paper, and he picked it up.

Oh, God, he thought, what now?

DIRT

Greetings, earthlings! Fabulous dinner party at dear Amanda Dart’s last evening, just fabulous! A roster from the A-list, distinguished one and all. There was Richard A. Hickock, dear Amanda’s publisher, whose nineteen-year-old mistress, one Tiffany Potts (no kidding) was, somehow, not invited. Tiffany resides in nineties splendor in a lovely brownstone apartment not a condom’s throw from Dickie’s own digs on Fifth Avenue, and she is not trotted out on such occasions. Though top-heavy, Tiffany’s tits are her own, not the gift of a quack, and we are reliably informed that they are what keeps Dickie coming back for more. The publisher’s mammary complex is well known-what’s the matter, Dickie, didn’t Mommy do right by you as a baby?

The gorgeous Vance Calder was there, too, sporting one of the lovelies he hopes will keep folks from asking too many questions about his erotic preferences. This one is said to have a brain, too!

Finally, there was the handsome lawyer-cum-gumshoe, Stone Barrington, who Amanda has retained to uncover little old us. Watch out, Stone, even though Amanda has just turned fifty, she’s as horny as ever she was. The former Ida Louise Erenheim, who hails from the downscale side of some small-town Georgia tracks, has bounced from bed to bed for thirty-odd years, improving her station with each hop. She’s discreet, we’ll give her that, but keep your fly zipped, Stone, or dear Amanda will be on you like a bunny rabbit!

Stone’s ears reddened as he read the sheet. The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Amanda. Another of those horrible faxes just came in, and I’ve got the number from the Caller ID box attached to my fax machine.”

“Give it to me.” She dictated the number, and Stone wrote it down. “I’ll check it out and get back to you,” he said.

“I’ll be out all evening, but you can get me first thing in the morning.”

“Right.” He hung up and switched on his computer. From a box on his desktop he selected a CD-ROM disk and inserted it into the computer. A few keystrokes later a window appeared on the screen. “Name or phone?” it asked.

He selected PHONE and typed in the number Amanda had just given him. “Searching,” the screen said. A few seconds later a name and address appeared on the screen. EDDIE’S MAILBOXES. The address was on Lexington Avenue in the upper seventies. Stone wrote it down, left the house through his office door, and hailed a cab. Less than ten minutes from when the fax had come in he was walking into Eddie’s Mailboxes. A young man stood behind the counter.

“Evening,” Stone said.

“Yeah,” the young man said. “Help you with something?”

Stone put the scandal sheet on the counter. “This was faxed to me a few minutes ago; can you tell me who brought it in here?”

“Well, the way I look at it,” the young man said, “that’s kind of confidential information.”

Stone put a twenty on the counter. “Describe the person.”

The twenty disappeared. “Hispanic, late teens, on the short side.”

“Male or female?”

“Male.”

“How long ago?”

“About forty-five minutes. He gave me the sheet and a list of numbers. The machine is still faxing them.”

“Can I see the list of numbers?”

“Well…”

Stone produced another twenty.

The young man produced a sheet of papers with around fifty numbers on it. Some were in New York, some in L.A.

“This Hispanic teenager; he ever been in here before?”

“I never seen him.”

“You ever fax something like this before?”

“First time. Entertaining, ain’t it?”

“Thanks,” Stone said, and turned to go.

“I’ll tell you this for free,” the young man said.

Stone stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“I think somebody gave the kid a few bucks to bring it in here, you know?”

Stone nodded and left, tucking the list of phone numbers into his pocket. He got a cab home, went back to his study, and poured himself a bourbon. The message light was flashing on his answering machine. Probably Amanda, he thought, pressing a button. The machine rewound quickly; only one message.

“This is Arrington Carter,” a woman’s voice said. “Give me a call when you get a chance.” She left a number.

“My goodness,” Stone said aloud while he dialed the number. “It certainly pays to stay home on a Saturday night.” The phone rang, and there was a click.

“Hi, I’m out, leave a message,” her recorded voice said.

Stone slumped with disappointment. He must have just missed her. “It’s Stone Barrington, returning your call,” he said. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

He hung up, and the phone rang almost immediately. He grabbed it on the first ring; it must be her. “Hello?”

“ Barrington?” a man’s voice said. He sounded angry.

“Yes.”

“This is Richard Hickock.”

“Hello, Dick.”

“Is it true that you’re working for Amanda on this thing?”

“What thing?”

“This DIRT business. The goddamned thing came in on my home fax machine. My wife could have seen it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that, Dick. You’ll have to talk to Amanda.”

“I’ll do that, don’t worry; I just want to say this: You find out who’s doing this, and I’ll double whatever Amanda’s paying you.”

“As I said, I can’t discuss it.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Hickock said, slamming down the phone.

Stone sighed. He’d rather it had been Arrington Carter. He went downstairs, started his computer, and began identifying the phone numbers on the DIRT distribution list. They were pretty much what he had expected – newspapers, TV shows, columnists. Halfway through he tired of the list, shut off the computer, and crawled into bed with a book.