Unnatural Acts

16

While Herbie was transforming High Cotton Ideas and Mark Hayes into an actual business, Stone was shopping for groceries. He had received a call at four o’clock from Marla Rocker, telling him that the chaos was moderate, and she would join him at seven.

Stone left delivery instructions for his groceries and took a cab home. By seven, dinner was under way, and a bottle of vodka gimlets and one of martinis were in the freezer, chilling.

It was seven-thirty before Marla scratched at the kitchen door and was let in.

“Good evening,” Stone said. “Would you like a drink?”

“I would kill for a martini,” Marla replied, plopping down on the kitchen sofa.

Stone poured her the martini and himself a Knob Creek and sat down beside her. “Cheers,” he said. “Is the show coming into shape?”

“It is,” she said, “praise God. The structure is intact, and the lines, music, and choreography have been learned by my cast. Now we’re just working on not tripping over the scenery.”

“Congratulations on not having to panic at this juncture,” Stone said, clinking her glass with his.

“Mmmmm,” she said, sipping her martini. “Perfection. Don’t let me drink more than eight of these or I’ll make a fool of myself.”

Stone laughed. “I promise-not one more than eight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll talk to you from the direction of the stove.”

“What are we having?”

“Osso buco,” Stone said, “with risotto.”

“Doesn’t that take hours?”

“Not in the pressure cooker,” he replied. “The risotto takes half an hour, though-no way to speed it up.”

“It all smells wonderful, and I thank you for not making me dress up to go out to a restaurant.” She pulled up a stool to the stove and watched him add stock to the risotto and stir it in. “Let’s get this out of the way,” she said. “Tell me about your wife.”

“She was murdered by a former and insanely jealous lover,” Stone said.

“I hope he got the chair.”

“They don’t do the chair anymore, it’s the needle nowadays,” Stone said. “But, in any case, he’s still at large, probably in Mexico.”

“That must be hard to take.”

Stone shrugged and added more stock. “I’m not a vengeful person. He’ll be caught, eventually, and will spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“Not the death penalty?”

“I’m opposed to the death penalty.”

“On what grounds?”

“Religious, moral, and economic.”

“I can understand the first two, but economic?”

“The death penalty costs the state several times as much as a prisoner’s serving life without parole, what with appeals. And in prison, they can make him earn his keep, until he’s too old or sick to work.”

“I never thought of that,” she said. “I guess I’m more vengeful than you.”

“I’ll try never to earn your vengeance,” Stone said.

“Smart move. I can be a real bitch.”

“Or your anger.”

Stone turned off the pressure cooker and let it cool, but he kept stirring the risotto and adding the stock. Finally, when all the liquid had been absorbed, he folded in half a container of creme fraiche and a couple of fistfuls of grated Parmesan cheese, then raked the rice into a platter and made a wall of it around the rim. He opened the pressure cooker, spooned out four slabs of the veal, and poured the sauce over it. “Voila,” he said, setting the platter on the table. And seating her.

“Why so much?” she asked. “Are we expecting someone else?”

Stone tasted the wine and poured them each a glass. “Nope, but I’ll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow and maybe for dinner tomorrow night, too.”

“How long ago did your wife die?”

“A year ago Christmas.”

“And how long have you been dating?”

“You’re the first woman I’ve asked out in New York,” Stone said.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Stone raised his wineglass. “You have convinced me I’m ready.”

“I’m flattered.”

“I’m flattered that you’re flattered. Try your food.”

She forked a piece of the veal into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then tried the risotto. “You’re hired,” she said. “Can you come to the theater and make lunch every day?”

“I work every day,” he replied, “but I appreciate the offer.”

“Your offices are in the Seagram Building, aren’t they?”

“That’s right, but my office is right through that door and through a couple of rooms. It used to be a dentist’s offices, but when I inherited the house, I made it into my workplace. It houses my secretary, an associate, and me.”

“You inherited all this?”

“Yes, from a great-aunt, but it wasn’t in this good a shape. Took a lot of work.”

“I want to see the whole place,” she said.

“After dinner. Besides, I haven’t heard your life story yet.”

“Born in a small town in Georgia called Delano,” she said. “Learned to tap dance at four-a regular Shirley Temple-started ballet at six, and danced my way through school and college. Came to New York, auditioned for thirty-seven shows, finally got one, and I haven’t been at liberty since.”

“That was concise,” Stone said.

“Well, I skipped the early husband, who turned out to be gay, and a few unsatisfactory love affairs. Something I don’t understand about you: how did you make the leap from the NYPD to Woodman and Weld?”

“I graduated from NYU Law before becoming a cop. Then I was wounded and invalided off the force. An old law school friend, who was at Woodman and Weld, took me to lunch and convinced me I should take a cram course for the bar exam and get myself a license. He promised me work.”

“So Woodman and Weld was your first job?”

“Not exactly a job. I was ‘of counsel,’ which meant, in my case, that I handled the cases the firm didn’t want to be seen to handle.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, a client’s wife is involved in a hit-and-run, a client’s son is accused of date rape, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds sordid.”

“Actually, it was very interesting indeed. I had more fun than anybody over at the Seagram Building.”

“Is that what you still do for them?”

“No, I became a partner last year, after I made some rain.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I brought in some serious business.”

“What sort of business?”

“A large corporate security business called Strategic Services, Centurion Studios, the Steele insurance group, and a new hotel being built now in Bel-Air, California.”

“Sounds like a great list. Did you and your wife have any children?”

“A son, Peter, who’s at the Yale School of Drama now.”

“Studying acting?”

“Studying everything. He wants to direct. In fact, his first film is being released this fall.”

“An indie, of course.”

“Yes, but it got picked up by Centurion.”

“You have anything to do with that?”

“I introduced Peter to the CEO. He did the rest.”

“Sounds like a very bright boy.”

“You have no idea.”

They lingered over their wine, then he showed her the house. Just before eleven, she made her way back across the garden to her own place, unmolested.

Stone couldn’t remember ever having let that happen before.