New York Dead

Chapter 8

Stone had almost an hour and a half to kill before his appointment with Barron Harkness at the network. Rush hour was running at full tilt, and all vacant cabs were off duty, so he set off walking crosstown. He reckoned his knee could use the exercise anyway. He was wrong. By the time he got to Fifth Avenue, he was limping. He thought of going home for an hour, but he was restless, and, even though he had another interview to conduct, he wanted a drink. He walked a couple of blocks north to the Seagram Building and entered a basement door.

The Four Seasons was a favorite of Stone’s; he couldn’t afford the dining rooms, but he could manage the prices at the bar. He climbed the stairs, chose a stool at a corner of the big, square bar, and nodded at the bartender. He came in often enough to know the man and to be known, but not by name.

“Evening, Detective,” the bartender said, sliding a coaster in front of him. “What’ll it be?”

“Wild Turkey on the rocks, and how’d you know that?”

The man reached under the bar and shoved a New York Post, in front of Stone.

The photograph was an old one, taken at a press conference a couple of years before. They had cropped out Stone’s face and blown it up. DETECTIVE SEES SASHA’S FALL, the headline said. Stone scanned the article; somebody at the precinct was talking to a reporter.

“So, what’s the story?” the bartender asked, pouring bourbon over ice. He made it a double without being asked.

“What’s your name?”

“Tom.”

“When I find out, Tom, you’ll be among the first to know. I’ll be here celebrating.”

The bartender nodded and moved down the bar to help a new customer, a small, very pretty blonde girl in a business suit.

The bar wasn’t the only reason Stone liked the Four Seasons. He looked at the woman and felt suddenly, ravenously hungry for her. Since his hospital time and the course of libido-dampening painkillers, he had given little thought to women. Now a rush of hormones had him breathing rapidly. He fought an urge to get up, walk down the bar, and stick his tongue in her ear. COP IN SEX CHARGE AT FOUR SEASONS, tomorrow’s Post would say.

The bartender put a copy of the paper in front of her. She glanced at it, looked up at Stone, surprised, and smiled.

Here was his opening. Stone picked up his drink and shifted off the stool. As he took a step, an acre of black raincoat blocked his view of the girl. A man built like a pro linebacker had stepped between them, leaned over some distance, and pecked the girl on the cheek. He settled on a barstool between her and Stone. The girl leaned back and cast a regretful grimace Stone’s way.

Stone settled back onto his stool and pulled at the bourbon. His fantasy raged on, out of control. A five-minute walk to his house and they were in bed, doing unspeakable things to each other. He shook his head to clear it and opened the paper, looking for something to divert him. His view of the girl was now completely obliterated by the hulk in the black raincoat. Stone suppressed a whimper.

The Post was the first paper to get the Nijinsky story in time for a regular edition, and they had made the most of it. There was a retrospective of photographs of Sasha, from tot-hood to The Morning Show. There were shots of her as a schoolgirl, as a teenager in a beauty contest, performing as an actress at Yale, on camera as a cub reporter – even shots of her at the beach in a bikini, obviously taken without her knowledge.

Sasha looked damn good in a bikini, Stone thought. He wondered where that very fine body was resting at the moment.

He read the article slowly, trolling for some new fact about her that might help. When the bourbon was finished, he looked at his watch, left a ten-dollar bill on the bar, in spite of the bartender’s wave-off, and walked down to the street. The worst of rush hour was past, but rain was threatening, and half a dozen people were looking for cabs at the corner. The light turned red, and an off-duty cab stopped. Stone flipped open his wallet and held his badge up to the window. The driver sighed and pushed the button that unlocked the doors.

“ Houston Street and the river,” Stone said, and leaned his head back against the seat. Heavy raindrops began pounding against the windows. If he had been off women for a while, Stone reflected, he had been off booze, too, and the double shot of 101-proof bourbon had made itself felt. He dozed.