Son of Stone

12

L ater in the afternoon, Herbie Fisher called.

“Yes, Herbie?”

“Stone, the two guys are still outside. I can see them from my terrace. If I can’t get a carry license, I’m going to have to carry anyway.”

“Herbie, if you have ambitions to practice law, then you do not want a felony weapons charge on your record. You can understand that, can’t you? It would mean no law license, and the one you illegally obtained would be shredded.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

“Then what can I do?”

“We can call your uncle Bob and get a couple of his guys put on the job. They can watch your back.” Herbie’s uncle Bob was Bob Berman, a retired police officer who often did technical and security work for Stone.

“I don’t want to bring Uncle Bob into this,” Herbie said. “He’s getting used to my being a straight character, and I want nothing to change his mind.”

“Very well, I’m on the board of a very large, very able security company called Strategic Services. I can arrange for them to supply you with anything from a bodyguard to a fleet of black helicopters, bristling with air-to-ground missiles.”

“Sounds good. Let’s talk to them about something at the low end of that range.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Stone said, then hung up and dialed Mike Freeman.

“Yes, Stone?”

“Mike, I have a small security job for you.”

“How small?”

“Two armed men, round the clock?”

“Tell me about it.”

“A client of mine, a wealthy young man named Herbert Fisher, a law student, is attempting to disentangle himself from a poor decision called marriage. Although his wife has agreed to the terms of the divorce, she appears to be having him followed by two men who, on one occasion, have driven him off a yacht at knifepoint into New York Harbor. They’re still on him.”

“Is Mr. Fisher presently operating as a single man?”

“Yes, he likes women.”

“Then I have an idea,” Mike said, and told him about it.

“I think he would be very pleased,” Stone said.

“Eight o’clock tonight be a good starting time?”

“Yes, and I think it might be useful if your two men at some point had a conversation with the two sinister men regarding their intentions.”

“Of course. Tell Mr. Fisher to expect three operatives at eight o’clock this evening. They will identify themselves properly.”

“Thank you so much, Mike.” Stone hung up and called Herbie. “What are your plans for the evening, Herbie?”

“I was going to go to Elaine’s for dinner, but I don’t want to leave the house, so I’m just going to order in.”

“Reschedule,” Stone said, “and don’t bother getting a date, just be ready at eight.” Stone hung up.

Arrington and Peter bustled in from Radio City, shaking snow off their coats and rubbing their red cheeks. “I need a drink,” Arrington said.

“Right this way,” Stone replied, leading them to his study. He poured Knob Creeks for them, then made a hot cup of tea and honey for Peter. They all sat down.

“How was the show?” Stone asked.

“Spectacular!” Peter replied. “They even had three-D! And the Rockettes, wow!”

“There’s an old Jack Douglas story,” Stone said, “-he was a comedy writer for The Tonight Show -about a young couple who went to Radio City Music Hall on their honeymoon, and during the stage show, the young man got up to go to the men’s room, took a wrong turn, and was kicked to death by the Rockettes.”

Peter collapsed in laughter; it took Arrington a moment to get it, then she laughed, too.

“I’m going to tell all my friends that happened when we were there,” Peter said.

“Always attribute,” Stone replied. “It’s good manners.”

“Will you take us to Elaine’s tonight?” Arrington asked. “Peter is dying to go.”

“Of course.” Stone picked up the phone and made the reservation.

“We have some news,” Arrington said, glancing at Peter, who smiled broadly.

“What is it?” Stone asked, puzzled.

“You are looking at the most recent high school graduate of Peter’s school,” she said, pointing at her son.

“I don’t understand.”

“I had a call this afternoon from his headmaster. Peter neglected to tell me that he had a major oral examination just before the holidays.”

“It was more like a conversation with half a dozen faculty members,” Peter said, looking sheepish.

“I think that’s how they meant it to seem,” Arrington said. “Apparently, there was some concern among the faculty about Peter’s advanced state in all his courses, so they decided to test in depth his knowledge and comprehension of the high school curriculum. Long story short, he knocked the oral out of the park, and as a result they agreed, after he left, that the school had nothing further to offer him of any value. So, they have issued him a high school diploma, with honors, and recommended that he either be privately tutored or attend a good university with a program for exceptional students.”

“Congratulations, Peter,” Stone said, clapping him on the back.

“Well, it would have been boring to spend the rest of the academic year there, except for my film, of course, but I can work on that anywhere. All the footage is shot; I just have to edit and score it.”

“And,” Arrington said, “it looks as though Peter himself has already scoped out his next few years of education.”

“That, I have,” Peter said.

“Well, I have news, too,” Stone said. “Woodman amp; Weld are arranging for a petition for Peter’s name change to be lodged with a Virginia court, and also-this surprised me greatly-a Los Angeles judge is directing that Peter’s original birth certificate be reissued with his new name… and age.”

Peter was jumping up and down, now. “Yes, yes, yes,” he kept shouting.

“If you approve,” Stone said, “you will be named after your grandfather: Malon Peter Barrington the Second.”

“I love it!” Peter shouted.

They finally managed to calm him down. “Now, Peter,” Stone said, “does the name Letitia Covington mean anything to you?”

“Sure,” Peter said, “she’s the great old actress. Mom and I saw her in a big production at the Kennedy Center in Washington last year.”

“Well, Ms. Covington is a founder of the performing arts program at Knickerbocker Hall, and you have an interview with her on Monday afternoon at three.”

Peter’s jaw dropped. “How did you do this?”

“The lady is the mother of one of Woodman amp; Weld’s clients, and a phone call was made on your behalf. She wants you to bring with you what you have of your screenplay and film.”

Peter fell back onto the sofa, clutching his chest. “I’m having a heart attack!”

“Relax, and drink your tea,” Stone said.

“Oh, listen, I’d like to get my driver’s license,” Peter said.

“Peter!” his mother interjected. “You’re only sixteen!”

Peter smiled. “Not anymore,” he said.

“Oh, God,” Arrington moaned, “we’ve created a monster!”