Swimming to Catalina

33

They made their berth at Long Beach at a little after 3:00A.M. Stone, wearing some borrowed jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt, helped them to tie up and set the boat in order, and they walked up to the car park together.

Jennifer handed Stone a plastic shopping bag with a large, wet lump at the bottom. “Your clothes,” she said.

“Stone, can I give you a lift somewhere?” Helford asked. “Finding a cab will be tough this time of night.”

“My car is at Marina Del Rey; is that too far for you?”

“No problem. Jennifer, honey, you go back to the boat and get some sleep; I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“I’ll give you no argument,” she said wearily.

Stone climbed into a Mazda Miata with Tom Helford, and they set out.

“I keep having the feeling that I should be doing something more to help you,” Helford said.

“There really is nothing else you can do,” Stone replied. “Give me your address, and I’ll send you the jeans and sweatshirt.”

“Give them to the nearest homeless person.”

They pulled into the car park at Marina Del Rey.

“I wish I could tell you more about this,” Stone said, “but it’s a long, long story, and it wouldn’t make any sense, anyway.”

Helford scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Stone. “Here’s my address and number; I’d like to hear that story someday.”

“If it turns out to have a happy ending,” Stone replied. He reached into a pocket and came out with money.

Helford held a hand up. “Forget it.”

Stone peeled off three hundreds. “I’d like to buy you and Jennifer the best dinner you ever had.”

Helford grinned and took the money. “Since you put it that way.”

They shook hands, and Stone got out of the car and watched it roar away, then found his own car. He looked around and saw a night watchman a hundred yards away, headed in the opposite direction; then he opened the trunk of the car, tossed his sodden clothes inside, removed the tire iron, and closed the trunk.

Keeping a careful lookout for anyone who might be out at that hour of the night, he padded down the pontoons in his bare feet until he spotted the sports fishermanMaria. He came up on it carefully and found it dark; he doubted very much if Vinnie or Manny was sleeping aboard, but he wanted to be sure.

He stepped softly aboard and peered through the glass door into the cabin. The light on the pontoon illuminated the interior of the boat, and he could see no one. The cabin door was locked, but it was flimsy, and he made short work of it with the tire iron, making some noise in the process. He half hoped he would wake somebody aboard, so that he could use the tire iron in another way. He walked through the saloon and checked the sleeping cabins; both empty.

Free to work undisturbed, he found the engine room and switched on the lights. There were two large gasoline engines, and he inspected them carefully; they were cooled with raw sea water, as he had hoped. He found a screwdriver and loosened the clips that held the water hoses onto the seacocks, then he pulled the hoses free. He looked around for another opportunity but saw none, so he opened both seacocks and watched the sea water gush onto the engine room floor, then he went forward and did the same for the seacock at the ship’s toilet. Satisfied, he went back on deck, looked around for traffic, then padded back to his car. By dawn, he figured,Maria would be resting comfortably on the bottom.

He drove back to the Bel-Air Hotel and, avoiding the front parking lot, drove through a rear gate and parked as close as he could to his suite. Once there, he showered, changed clothes, threw away the jeans and sweatshirt, then packed and carried his cases to the car. As he drove away, the sun was rising. He went back to Le Parc, where he was still paying for a suite, drove into the garage, and carried his cases up the rear stairs to his suite. Then he got into bed and fell immediately asleep.

He woke at eleven, then called Rick Grant and made a lunch date.

Lunch was a hot dog on the Santa Monica Pier.

“How’s it going?” Grant asked.

“I’ll tell you, but I want it understood that I’m not reporting a crime; this is strictly off the books.”

“Agreed,” Grant replied.

“Yesterday, Onofrio Ippolito, called me at the Bel-Air and invited me to a dinner party aboard his yacht, anchored off Catalina. I went to Marina Del Rey for my ferry ride, which was conducted in a fast sports fisherman by Vincent Mancuso and a friend of his called Manny. When we were almost there, one of them pulled a gun, then they bound me hand and foot, attached a chain and an anchor to me, and kicked me overboard. Just before they did that, one of them said, ‘Compliments of Onofrio Ippolito.’”

Grant looked at him oddly. “And why are you still here?”

“I got very lucky, shed the anchor, and made it to a moored sailboat. Some very nice people brought me back to the mainland.”

“And you’re not reporting the crime? You don’t want me to arrest Ippolito and his boys for attempted murder?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. You could nail the two hoods, but I don’t think you could make the case against Ippolito on the basis of the phone call, and Vinnie and Manny sure aren’t going to implicate him.”

“Probably not. What do you want to do?”

“Well, I’ve made a start; I sank their boat,Maria, very early this morning. She’s right in the middle of Marina Del Rey; they’ll have a hell of a time getting her up, and it will be very expensive.”

Grant burst out laughing. “You’re tight, that’s a start. What next?”

“I told you I thought there was a bookie operation running out of Vinnie’s Deli. Can you have it raided?”

“I’d need probable cause for a warrant.”

“How about a tip from a snitch?”

“Who?”

“Me. You can even put my name on it, if you have to.”

“I think I can arrange a raid.”

“Good; I hope your guys won’t be too careful with the fixtures and fittings.”

“I’ll mention that. What else?”

“This guy, Martin Barone? I’d like to know everything there is to know about him and Barone Financial Services.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know somebody at the FBI that you can trust?”

Grant thought about that for a minute. “What part of the FBI?”

“Them that deal with financial institutions.”

“Yeah, I know a guy.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Tell him there might be a kidnapping involved; those guys love a kidnapping.”

“Okay. Where can I find you?”

“I’m back at Le Parc. I figure they won’t be looking for me there.”

“No, but they might send a cleanup crew.”

“Jesus, I hadn’t thought of that; I’d better get out of there fast.”

“You need a place? I live about three blocks from here; my kid’s in college, you can have his room.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather stick with hotels; I’ll let you know where I am.” Stone pulled out his cell phone and switched it on; it lit up, as usual. “Son of a bitch, it still works. I’ll have to write Motorola a nice letter.”

“I can check with you on that number?”

“Yep.”

“Anything else?”

“Rick, can you get hold of a handgun for me?”

“Something untraceable, I suppose.”

“I’d rather not fill out any federal forms.”

“Stone, are you planning to shoot somebody?”

“Not at the moment, but you never know.”