Dirt

Chapter 24

Stone arrived at Arrington’s building on time and was announced by the lobby man. On the way up he reflected on the fact that he had once known another woman who had lived in this building, and the memory of that experience made him uneasy.

She came to the door wearing an apron over white pants and a white turtleneck sweater, seeming a negative image of the girl in black he had last seen that morning. There was a glass of wine in her hand. “Hi, come on in.”

He followed her into a small apartment, especially small for such a posh building. There seemed to be only a living room and, through an open door, a bedroom. A counter divided the larger room into living and kitchen areas. She waved him to a stool at the counter and poured him a glass of red wine from an open bottle that was already nearly half empty. “Or would you prefer booze?” she asked belatedly.

“This is fine,” Stone said, settling on the stool. “Smells good; what are you cooking?”

“A lamb dish,” she said. “One of a repertoire that includes only half a dozen recipes, all easy.”

“Easy is okay when it smells like that.”

“How was your day?”

“I went to a funeral in Brooklyn, that’s how my day was.”

“Oh. Somebody important to you?”

“Somebody I knew when I was a cop. Another cop, retired.”

“Are you sad?”

“I didn’t know him all that well, but he sometimes worked for me. He was a likeable guy.”

“I’m not sad anymore,” she said. “Again, I’m sorry about last night.”

“Last night had its rewards. And this morning.”

She smiled a little. “I’m glad you think so. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes; good thing you were on time.”

“I’m compulsively on time.”

“Not I.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She checked something in the oven, then pulled a stool up to face him. “I don’t get you,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t add up.”

“No?”

“No. You’re this extremely polished man; you live in this very impressive house; you dress beautifully; you have something to do with a prestigious law firm, but you don’t actually work there; and yet you’re retired, at an early age, from a blue-collar job that doesn’t produce a whole lot of polished men.”

“I was something of a misfit on the force,” he said.

“That I believe.”

“And I was never allowed to forget it.”

“How so?”

“Well, as my former partner once said to me, ‘Stone, the police force is a kind of mystic lodge, and you never joined.’”

“You didn’t buy into the cop culture?”

“Not really. I found the work fascinating and often rewarding, but, I confess, I was unable to become one of the guys. I knew it, and they knew it. The only cop I was ever really close to was my ex-partner, Dino.”

“Dino Bacchetti?”

Stone blinked. “How did you know that name?”

“I wrote something for New York magazine once, about a case at the Nineteenth Precinct. I interviewed him for it.”

“I’m surprised you got out of his office with your virtue.”

She laughed. “I nearly didn’t; Dino is very smooth.”

“That he is.”

“So you were white bread among the Italians, the Irish, and the Hispanics in the department?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“What, exactly, do you do for Woodman and Weld?”

“Their dirty work, mostly; the odd criminal case, the odd investigation.”

“Now I’m getting the picture.”

“So I add up now?”

“The house doesn’t add up.”

“I inherited it from a great-aunt, my grandfather’s sister.”

“Money, too?”

“Just the house. I did a lot of the restoration myself, but it damn near broke me.”

“I’m glad you’re not filthy rich,” she said.

“I’m not glad,” he replied. “I’ve got nothing at all against filthy rich. My father, God rest his soul, would be deeply ashamed of my attitude.”

“Your father the Communist?”

“Father and mother; they met at a Party meeting. They were idealistic; they had both broken with their families in New England and had been through a depression.”

“Your polish must have come from them.”

“Unlike some of their colleagues in the Party, they had abandoned a lifestyle, but not the manners acquired therefrom.”

“Good for them.”

“You would have liked my mother.”

“I love her work. How about your father?”

“He’d have been deeply suspicious of you.”

“Why?”

“He knew class when he saw it, and he wanted to live in a classless society.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

She went to the oven, removed an iron pot, and set it on a small table in the living room that had been carefully set. “Open another bottle of wine, will you? It’s right there on the kitchen counter.”

Stone found a corkscrew, opened the bottle, and took it to the table.

She poured them another glass of wine and raised hers. “Bon appétit.”

“Bon appétit.”

They sat among the ruins of dinner, sipping coffee.

“That was wonderful,” he said.

“Thanks; if you only cook half a dozen things, they have to be wonderful.”

“Tell me about this guy you just broke up with.”

She looked into her wineglass. “I’m embarrassed. Why do you want to know?”

“I just want to know where you are and how you got there. It seems to have become important to me.”

“I’m still embarrassed. He’s younger than I am.”

“How much younger?”

“A couple of years.”

“Not so bad; lots of men date women a lot younger.”

“It’s not the same for a woman.”

“Why not?”

“Men see younger women for sex, whereas…” She stopped.

“Whereas…?”

“Well, all right, I did it for the sex, too, mostly.”

“Is sex in such short supply for you?”

“It’s not that; I mean, anybody can get laid. For some reason, I was feeling old, so I was vulnerable.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-one. Do you always ask women that?”

“Always.”

“Why? It’s supposed to be rude.”

“It’s not important to know how old a woman is, but it’s important to know if she’ll tell you. It’s a matter of character.”

“Do you know how old Amanda Dart is?”

Stone shrugged. He could feel the tops of his ears turning red.

“She’s fifty; I have it on the best authority.”

Stone was surprised, but not shocked. “Why are we talking about Amanda Dart?”

“Because you’re involved with her.”

“Am I?”

“I could tell at dinner that night; not from your behavior, from hers.”

“You were wrong; we weren’t involved, except professionally.”

“Liar.”

“Not until the next day. We spent that… together.”

She shrugged. “I can’t say that I blame you. After all, you had just broken up with somebody, and she is quite attractive.” She looked at him levelly. “Everybody’s entitled to a sex life.”

“You have me at a disadvantage; you know more about me than I about you.”

“All right,” she sighed, “his name is Jonathan. He’s one of those young men who seem to earn their living by… being charming and attractive.”

“You mean, he was paid?”

“Not exactly. Men like Jonathan don’t ask for money; they just seem always to be broke. I picked up a lot of tabs.”

“I’ve known women like that,” Stone said. “Still, it’s more embarrassing for a woman paying for a man.”

The phone rang; Arrington didn’t move. On the third ring, the answering machine kicked in.

“It’s Jonathan,” a disembodied voice said. “I want to see you. I want…”

She got up and grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

Stone could no longer hear the young man’s voice.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ve no intention of doing that. I dropped by last night to tell you.” She listened for a moment. “It’s over, Jonathan. I have no desire to see you again.”

He was obviously giving her an argument.

“Jonathan,” she broke in. “It’s over; accept the fact and get on with your life.” She hung up and turned to Stone. “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” she said.

“I’m glad I heard it,” Stone said. He stood up and started clearing the table. Together, in silence, they put the dishes in the dishwasher and cleaned up the kitchen.

“He’s going to call back,” she said, but she was wrong. Instead, the house phone rang. She picked it up. “Yes? No, Jimmy, don’t send him up; put him on.” She waited a moment. “Listen to me very carefully,” she said. “I have company; I have no intention of seeing you, now or ever again. Please go away.” She hung up, seemingly on the verge of tears.

Stone took her shoulders and turned her toward him. “Are you all right?”

She buried her face in his chest. “I’m afraid of him,” she said. “When you leave, he’ll still be there.”

“Then I won’t leave.”

“I don’t want to stay here tonight,” she said. “Will you take me back to your house?”

“Of course. Is there a way out of the building, other than the front door?”

“Yes, we can take the elevator to the basement; there’s a door that opens onto the side street.”

“Get your coat and your toothbrush.”

She went into the bedroom, put some things into a duffel, got her coat, and came back, brushing away tears.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Stone said. “Come on, let’s go.”

She double-locked her door, and they took the elevator to the basement. She found a light switch, but it didn’t work. “Come on,” she said, “follow me. I have cat’s eyes.” A moment later they were at the side door of the building. “Will you look out and see if anyone is there? I don’t want him following us.”

“Sure.” Stone opened the door and stepped into the street while she hung back. A taxi came down the block and he whistled it to a halt. There was no one else visible in the street. “Come on, Arrington,” he called. They got into the cab, and Stone gave the driver the address. He watched out the back window, and he thought he saw someone, a man, come around the corner from Fifth Avenue, but in a moment they were gone.

For the second successive night, she slept in his bed, falling asleep immediately. Again, they did not make love.