Foul Play

Twenty-One

Late on Sunday afternoon, Stone packed his change of clothes, picked up his briefcase, and went outside to listen for the arrival of the helicopter. Brooke came and sat beside him.

“Ah, Sunday afternoon,” she said. “It’s so sad.”

“Why is it sad?”

“Because tomorrow is Monday,” she said.

“How does Monday differ from any other day for you? You don’t have to go to an office, or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Yes, but it’s still Monday. I used to have to do all those Monday things, and it’s sad to remember them.”

“If there were no Monday, somebody would have to invent it.”

“I suppose.”

Stone heard the distant beat of the helicopter’s blades. He was about to struggle out of his armchair and walk the dozen steps to the helipad, when the machine appeared from the east. He had expected it from the west, or at the very least, from the south. Then he saw that it was black.

“Do you feel comfortable leaving your house unlocked?” Stone asked Brooke.

“It’s locked up tight,” she said.

“Never mind, it wouldn’t make any difference anyway, if they really want to get inside.”

“ ‘They’?”

“Haven’t you noticed that it’s the wrong helicopter? It’s the one that followed us out here.”

“Should I call the police?” she asked.

“What, the helicopter police? I don’t think East Hampton has one of those.” He glared at the chopper. “My kingdom for an RPG,” he said.

“What’s an ‘RPG’?”

“A rocket-propelled grenade.”

Then the black chopper peeled off to the east, and Brooke’s ex-husband’s aircraft appeared from the west and set down on the helipad. Stone and Brooke trotted out to the open door of the machine, Stone ducking, even though he had three or so feet of clearance between his head and the rotors. They boarded, buckled in, and a crewman closed and fastened the door, then they lifted off and turned west, toward the city.

Half an hour later the towers of Manhattan swam out of the smog and, in what seemed like a moment, they were alighting on the East Side helipad, where the Bentley and Fred awaited.

“Take me home,” Brooke said. “I don’t think I can stand any more of you.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.”

“I mean I’m sore, everywhere that counts, and I don’t think I can take any more of you until I’ve recovered for about a week.”

“I’ll try and take that as a complement,” Stone said. “Fred, drop me off at home, then take Ms. Alley up to Seventy-Third Street and assist her into her residence.”

Fred dropped him off, he kissed Brooke and said, “Get better soon.”

“God forbid,” she replied. “If I call you and invite you over sooner than a week from now, hang up on me.”

Stone trotted up his front steps and realized he was pretty sore himself. He went upstairs and sought a nap. He had hardly stretched out when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dino. You sound terrible.”

“I’m sore,” he replied.

“Where?”

“Everywhere that counts.”

“That’s what happens when you screw in the Hamptons,” Dino said.

“How did you know I was in the Hamptons?”

“Because you’re sore. Are you well enough to eat?”

“I don’t think so. I just laid down, and I don’t want to get up again, until at least tomorrow.”

“I hear you talked to Lance this weekend.”

“Jesus, is there anything you don’t know?”

“Not much.”

“Did Lance mention how bad everything is?”

“He did. What are you going to do?”

“If I survive until tomorrow, I’ll think about it then.”

“Sleep with a piece under your pillow.” Dino hung up.

Stone fell immediately asleep.

He was awakened by the dumbwaiter bell; breakfast was on the way. He looked at his watch. He had slept straight through the night, a good twelve hours, and he was still sore. He took some aspirin, ate his breakfast, watched Morning Joe, then read the Times and did the crossword. Afterward he showered, if only to keep from falling asleep again.

As he sat down at his desk, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“I’m feeling better,” Brooke said. “Dinner tonight.”

Stone hung up and tried to think of something else. The phone rang again, and he picked it up.

“You hung up on me!” she said hotly.

“I was just following instructions.”

She thought about that. “Oh.”

Stone hung up.

Joan came into his office. “Why do you keep picking up before I can get to it, then hanging up. Is some scam artist pestering you?”

“Something like that.”

“Let me deal with it, will you?”

“Okay, you do that.”

Joan went back to her office, and the phone rang again. Stone watched the light on the phone; it didn’t go out. Joan buzzed him.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Brooke Alley on one. Do you wish to speak to her?”

“Yes, but she has instructed me not to take her calls.”

“She instructed you not to answer?”

“That is correct.”

“Hang on.” She put him on hold.

Stone waited, watching the light on the phone. Joan buzzed.

“Yes?”

“She’s on the line, and she says she’s canceling her order for you to not speak to her.”

“I guess she can do that,” Stone said.

“I think she can.”

Stone picked up the phone. “You just want to get sore again, don’t you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but you’re getting the general idea.”

“Tell you what: I’ll call you when I’m not sore anymore.”

“That seems fair.”

“I’m glad you think so. Goodbye.” He hung up, then sat staring at the phone. When nothing happened, he went back to work.