Kisser

18

THEY HAD FINISHED LUNCH and the second bottle of champagne and were on coffee.

“Rita,” Stone said, “I need your help on something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I need to find Mitzi a temporary place in a good building on the Upper East Side, somewhere she can operate from. Her address will be the first thing Derek Sharpe will learn about her, and it has to impress him.”

Rita turned to Mitzi. “Mitzi, why don’t you just bunk with me? I live in my parents’ apartment in a nice building. They spend most of their time at their house in the Hamptons, and there are comfortable guest rooms.”

“Thank you, Rita,” Mitzi replied. “That’s very kind of you.”

Stone relaxed; that had gone just the way he had hoped. He heard the phone ring in the kitchen.

Helene stuck her head out the back door. “Phone for you, Mr. Stone!”

“Will you ladies excuse me?” Stone said. He took the call so they would have an opportunity to get to know each other better in his absence. He went into the kitchen, sat down at the counter, and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Brian Doyle.”

“Hey, Brian. Thanks for putting Mitzi on this. I’ve introduced her to a woman who can help her get to know the scene, and she now has the best address on Park Avenue.”

“That’s good news,” Brian said. “I have some of my own.”

“Shoot.”

“Mr. Mervin Pyle, aka Derek Sharpe, does not have a record under either of those names.”

“I’m surprised to hear it,” Stone said.

“Don’t be too surprised; he has records under three other names. Apparently our boy took to identity change as a way of life in his youth. He lived in Dallas, L.A., and San Francisco, where he managed an art gallery for a while.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Burglary, embezzlement, battery, attempted murder, all under different names.”

“Did he do time?”

“Only while awaiting bail. His IDs were so good that, each time he pled out, and as, supposedly, a first offender, he got no jail time.”

Rita and Mitzi came into the kitchen, and Stone asked Brian to hang on.

“Do you mind if we have a look around your house?” Rita asked.

“Not at all. Explore to your heart’s content.”

She handed him a card. “You might have your secretary have some cards like this printed for Mitzi.”

Stone took the card: “ 71 East Seventy-first Street? I thought you lived on Park.”

“It’s the side-door address for those who want to be discreet. Maybe you should use 740 Park on her cards for Sharpe’s edification.”

“Sure.” The women wandered off, and Stone went back to his call. “I’m back.”

“I was particularly interested in the battery and attempted murder charges,” Brian said, resuming. “I got hold of a San Francisco detective who worked the latter case, and he told me that Sharpe has a very bad temper, especially when drinking, and he has a propensity for violence. The attempted murder case arose out of a fight between him and another guy he nearly beat to death. It took four cops to pull him off.”

“What was the battery charge about?”

“He beat up a girlfriend, and she called the cops.”

“Mitzi tells me her partner is out of town until tomorrow,” Stone said.

“And she won’t start until then,” Brian replied. “Her partner, Tom Rabbit, is a big Irish guy who can handle anything and who is very protective of her.”

“Brian, can you get her a car to be driven around in? Rabbit could be the chauffeur.”

“Good idea. Let me check the pound and see what we’ve confiscated lately.”

“You were right,” Stone said. “She’s a very bright lady. Oh, here’s her new address: 740 Park Avenue.” Then he read out the phone number.

Brian let out a low whistle. “How’d you swing that building? I read a book about that place.”

“It’s where Rita Gammage lives; Rita works for Philip Parsons.”

“Then she’s a very rich lady.”

“Or her parents are.”

“Same thing,” Brian said. “I gotta run. Tell Mitzi to call me later today, and I’ll check on a car.”

“Nothing too flashy,” Stone said. “Let’s not overdo it.”

“Gotcha.” Brian hung up.

Stone walked to his office, then down the hall to Joan’s room. “Can you get some of these printed in the name of Mitzi Reynolds? 740 Park Avenue? Same zip and phone. It’s a rush job.”

“Sure,” Joan said. “I’ll run them over to our printer and wait for them.” She grabbed her coat.

“On nice stock,” Stone said.

“I get it.” Joan was gone.

Stone walked back to the kitchen, where Helene was washing the champagne flutes by hand. “Where are the ladies?”

“Haven’t seen them,” Helene replied.

“That was a delicious lunch,” Stone said, and Helene beamed at him.

He walked up to the living room and had a look there and in his study: no sign of the women. He walked upstairs and looked into a couple of guest rooms, then continued on to the master. As he approached, the door was ajar, and he heard giggling. He opened the door and stood there, transfixed.

The two women were in his bed, and, judging from the pile of clothing on the floor, they weren’t wearing any. He didn’t know what to say.

Rita took up the slack. “Join us?” she said.