Dirt

Chapter 51

Stone drove slowly back toward the city, through slush, ice, and fresh snow, which had turned into a blizzard. In spite of his recent shower he felt somehow dirty. His sex life had always been serendipitous, and he liked it that way; in the normal course of his life he would have enjoyed his encounter with Lou Burch and reflected pleasantly on it, but his life had taken a new course with Arrington, and it troubled him that he had not once thought of her until he was back in the car. Guilt was new to him, and he didn’t like it.

Just short of the George Washington Bridge traffic came to a complete halt, and he began to fear that it might be permanent. He got out his pocket phone and called Dino.

“Afternoon,” Dino said.

“Already?” Stone looked at his watch; it was nearly two.

“Happens every day.”

“Dino, I’ve finally got something on our boys.”

“Shoot.”

“An old acquaintance did some checking for me with what I believe was Central Intelligence. Turns out our boy, Jonathan, who has an electronics degree, underwent some training by those people and spent several years in their employ. He eventually got bounced. His real name is Thomas Bruce, and his brother’s name is Charles. Charlie is probably out of jail recently; he was doing five to seven at Chino, in California, and my guess is he’s jumped parole. That ought to be enough to pick him up on.”

“It would be if we got a request from California,” Dino said. “Hang on, let me check the computer.”

Stone heard some keystrokes, then some more.

“Okay, I’ve got his record; his sheet is short but sordid. Picked up for male prostitution when he was nineteen, suspended sentence; suspect in a dozen burglaries; finally got nailed in somebody else’s house, went up to Chino. No mention of parole; according to this, he’s still inside.”

“Maybe they’re slow to update records,” Stone said.

“Maybe. Oh, his picture looks a lot like his brother.”

“So there’s not enough to pick him up?”

“Not when he’s still in Chino, Stone,” Dino said drily.

“Can you check with California and see if he’s out, and if he’s been reporting to his parole officer? If he’s bolted, you’d have an excuse to arrest him.”

“My superiors wouldn’t think it was a very good use of manpower to start hunting down parole violators from California, when California doesn’t care enough to send out a bulletin.”

“Oh, come on, Dino, you’re not trying! I may even know where he is.”

“Where?”

“At the Chelsea Hotel, maybe.”

“Under what name?”

That stopped Stone; he hadn’t thought to ask Lou Burch about a new alias, and she was certainly not going to volunteer it. “I don’t know. Try Dryer, try Power, try Gable, try Bruce. Maybe he’s dumb enough to use his own name.”

“First, let me see what I can do with the state of California. I know a guy who might be of some help. Where are you?”

“Somewhere in New Jersey.”

“Oh, shit; in this weather?”

“I’m standing still just short of the Bridge, while snow is relentlessly rising around me.”

“Lotsa luck, pal. I hope I don’t read in the papers that you were one of hundreds who froze to death in their cars.”

“I’m moved by your concern. Get back to me.” Stone broke the connection.

Miraculously, traffic began to move, or rather to inch forward. Twenty minutes later, the road had been squeezed down to one lane, past a rear-ender that was blocking the other two. Once past the wreck, Stone was back up to thirty miles an hour, which, in the current conditions, felt like sixty. Shortly he was in Manhattan again. His pocket phone rang.

“Yeah?”

“Okay, he’s out of Chino, but he hasn’t busted parole.”

“You mean he’s still in California? I don’t believe it.”

“He’s not due to check in with his parole officer until day after tomorrow. If he doesn’t show up, my friend has got him flagged to go into the computer immediately as a runner, and he’s promised to fax me a request to pick him up.”

“But not until day after tomorrow?”

“Not until the day after that, at the earliest. Sorry, it’s the best I can do. Oh, I’ve got an address for him: the Santa Fe Residential Apartments, on Melrose, should you want to go looking for him.”

“Nah, he moved out of there a week or so ago. I think I’m going to go looking for him at the Chelsea Hotel.”

“You watch your ass, Stone. Remember Arnie; next time I see you I don’t want to see a tag on your toe. Are you carrying?”

“No.”

“Me, I wouldn’t go after these guys without a piece. You shouldn’t either.”

“See you, Dino.” Stone punched out, put away the phone, got off the West Side Highway at 48th Street, drove over to 9th Avenue, and headed downtown, trying to stay in the bus tracks.

“Gee, I’m not sure,” the man behind the desk said, looking at the ad Stone had ripped out of Vanity Fair.

Stone flashed the badge. “You don’t want to be thought of as harboring a fugitive, do you?”

The man shook his head and checked his guest list. “He’s in ten-oh-one.”

“Under what name?”

“Jeremy Spencer.”

“Is there somebody bunking with him?”

“No, he checked in alone last week, and I haven’t seen him with anybody else, except a girl or two. They always leave in the morning.”

“Passkey,” Stone said.

“Not a chance,” the desk clerk replied. “Not without a search warrant. I’m not getting into that kind of shit with my boss.”

Stone glared at him. “Okay, I’m going up there, and if you call up and tell him I’m coming, you’re going to find yourself in more shit than you would have ever believed possible.”

The man held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

Stone took the elevator to the tenth floor, trembling with anticipation. He was looking forward to meeting Mr. Thomas Bruce. The door was at the end of the hall, at the back of the building. The Chelsea was an old hotel with a reputation for harboring rebels, literary and rock. It had been fixed up yet again, and the carpet was new. The hallway wasn’t very wide, though; that was good. Noting that there was no peephole, Stone rapped at the door.

“Yeah, who is it?” a muffled voice replied.

“Bellman. Got a Federal Express for you.”

“You sure you got the right room? Who’s it for?”

“Jeremy Spencer; from somebody named Burch, in Rahway, New Jersey.” Stone braced himself against the opposite wall as he heard the door chain rattle. As soon as he saw the knob turn, he pushed off the wall and threw all his weight behind a kick at the door.

His timing was perfect. The door caught the man in the face and sent him flying backward across the room, and Stone was right on top of him. He held a forearm against the man’s neck. “Mr. Dryer, I presume,” he said, applying more pressure. “Or maybe I should say Mr. Bruce.”

Something hard hit Stone on the back of the head, but he didn’t pass out. Somebody grabbed him from behind and yanked him to his feet, pinning his arms behind him. Stone struggled to stay conscious as he watched Tommy Bruce get to his feet.

“You son of a bitch,” Bruce said, throwing a right to Stone’s gut.

“And I always thought I was such a nice guy,” Stone managed to say between gasps for breath.

Bruce hit him high on his cheekbone, snapping his head around.

Still, Stone remained conscious.

Bruce cupped a hand under his chin and raised his head. “How’d you find me?” he demanded.

“Phone book,” Stone said.

Bruce looked past him and said, “Hey, Charlie, meet Stone Barrington, the comic.” He hit Stone on the other side of the head. “Did I ever tell you I fucked his girlfriend?”

“Oh, yeah, the lovely Arrington,” Charles Bruce said from somewhere behind Stone’s swimming head.

“And I fucked your sister,” Stone said.

“What did you say?”

“Oh, yeah; the lovely Lou.”

Bruce hit him again, and this time Stone started to go dark. His last memory was Tommy Bruce’s shoe, coming at his head.

He came to in an ambulance, hurting everywhere. He tried to raise a hand to his face and discovered that his arms were strapped down. A paramedic was taking his blood pressure, and a cop dozed on a bench beside the litter. “Hey,” Stone said.

The cop’s head snapped around. “Huh?”

“Where we going?”

“Bellevue,” the cop said.

Stone winced as they hit a bump. “Let’s make it Lenox Hill,” he said. “They know me there.”