Worst Fears Realized

35

STONE CHECKED INTO THE CARLYLE Hotel and instructed the desk that they were not to acknowledge his presence there unless the caller asked for Elijah Stone, which was his maternal grandfather’s name.

“Of course, Mr. Stone,” the desk clerk said.

Once in his room he called his answering machine. There was only one message, from Bill Eggers. He returned the call, and Eggers came on the line.

“It’s Stone.”

“You all right? I read the Times.”

“I’m all right.”

“You came off as something of a hero.”

“Don’t believe it. What’s up?”

“We’re all ready to close on your Connecticut house.”

“Oh, okay Today?”

“Yep. The seller has already signed off on everything. All we need is your signature, notarized, a couple of dozen times, and a cashier’s check for the purchase price and closing costs; or you can give me a personal check and we’ll pay it out of our trust account.” He gave Stone the exact amount.

“I’ll wire it to your trust account today, and you can issue the check.” He wrote down the law firm’s account number.

“Sure; you want to come over today?”

“Listen, Bill, I’m holed up at the Carlyle, and I don’t want to go out today. Could you come over here?”

“Sure, what time?”

“Come at noon; I’ll buy you a room-service lunch.”

“Okay, I’ll be there.”

“I’m in Room 1550, registered under the name of Elijah Stone.”

“See you at noon.” Eggers hung up.

Stone called his broker and asked him to wire-transfer funds from his money market account to the trust account of Woodman & Weld, then he called ABC Furniture and asked them to go ahead and deliver his purchases to the Connecticut house.

“We’ve got a truck going up that way tomorrow,” the woman said.

“That’s great,” Stone replied. He called the housewares store and asked for overnight delivery on his purchases, then he called Bob Berman.

“I thought you were on your way to England,” Berman said.

“Change of plans. I didn’t want to go back to the house, so I’m at the Carlyle Hotel. I wonder if you’d do me a big favor?”

“Name it.”

“Would you go over to the house tonight – and I mean in the dead of night – make sure the house isn’t being watched, then let yourself in. You’ve still got a key?”

“Yeah, not that I need one; I installed your security system, remember?”

“I remember. Go up to my study; there’s a gun safe in a cabinet under one of the bookcases. Can you pick the lock?”

“Is the pope Polish?”

“Get the little Walther.765 automatic and its shoulder holster, and a spare clip. Then get the car out and take it to the Carlyle garage – it’s open twenty-four hours – and tell the attendant it’s for Mr. Stone in 1550. Lock the gun in the glove compartment.”

“I can do that,” Berman said.

“Thanks, Bob, I owe you one.”

“Only one?”

“All right, a couple of dozen.”

“That’s more like it. Good luck on staying alive.” Berman hung up.

That done, he called the Klemm office in Washington, Connecticut, and got the numbers of the local utilities and the phone company. By the time Bill Eggers rang the doorbell, he’d arranged for water and electricity, and he had phone numbers for the house.

Bill Eggers came in, followed by Joan Robertson, who had earlier offered to help with Stone’s secretarial work. She greeted him cheerfully, as if he had not nearly gotten her involved in his current dangerous mess.

“Why don’t we order lunch now, and then we can close while they’re preparing it?” Stone suggested. “Joan, will you join us?”

“Thanks, but I have a lunch date; my mother is in town.”

They found a menu, and Stone and Eggers ordered, then they got down to business. Eggers handed Stone a series of documents, Stone signed them, and Joan notarized them. The whole business took three-quarters of an hour. Finally, Eggers handed Stone a completed document. “Here’s your deed; you want us to file it for you?”

“Please, and put it in your safety deposit box for the time being,” Stone replied.

“Congratulations, you now own a house in the country. I’ll get the completed documents and the check to the seller this afternoon.”

The doorbell rang, and a waiter wheeled in a cart bearing their lunch.

“I must run,” Joan said. “I’ll deliver the documents to the seller’s law firm on the way to lunch, if you like.”

“Thank you, Joan,” Stone said, “and when all this is over, I’ll take you up on your offer of help.”

She left, and Stone and Eggers sat down to lunch. “I want her, Bill,” Stone said.

“Don’t you have enough women?”

“I want her for a secretary; I’m giving you fair warning.”

“Then you’ll have to make her an offer she can’t refuse.”

“I’ll do that. By the way, I hear you have a client who makes offers like that, from time to time.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You never told me you represented Eduardo Bianchi.”

Eggers stopped buttering his bread. “And where did you hear that?”

“From the horse’s mouth.”

“Which horse?”

“Bianchi, himself.”

“You know Bianchi?”

“I know lots of people.”

“You know Bianchi, personally?”

“I had dinner with him the night before last.” Stone was enjoying this.

“Bianchi doesn’t go out since his wife died.”

“I had dinner at his home.”

“Let’s get this straight; we do not represent Eduardo Bianchi; we represent his charitable foundation.”

“Ah, that keeps the hands clean, does it?”

“It’s perfectly legal. We do it pro bono.”

“Let me get this straight,” Stone said, slipping the needle in a little deeper. “You represent a Mafia chieftain pro bono?”

“It’s not only legal, it’s downright noble.”

Stone laughed aloud.

“And how did you come to be acquainted with Bianchi?” Eggers asked.

“Why? Have you never met him?”

“Many times, since he came to us about the foundation. Well, he sort of came to us. I got a call from somebody who’d gotten a call from somebody who’d gotten a call. Apparently, Bianchi is very sensitive about being rebuffed because of his family’s reputation. He always feels out situations before presenting himself. Saves embarrassment on both sides, I guess.”

“Yes, he does seem to be a cautious fellow.”

“Finally, he came into the office, and we set up the foundation for him, with his daughter as its president. Tell you the truth, I was very impressed with him. With his daughter, too,” Eggers said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Yes, she’s quite something, isn’t she?”

“We’ve got a couple of associates down at the firm who would do Mob hits on the side just to sniff her underwear.”

“She comes into the office a lot?”

“The foundation’s offices are one floor up from us. We got them the space.”

“And what sort of giving does the foundation do?”

Eggers put down his fork. “This goes no further, right?”

“Right.”

“I mean, Bianchi is a bear about discretion, and he’s not the sort of guy you want to cross.”

“I will be the soul of discretion.”

“They do arts grants. He’s supporting a dozen young painters. Also, the foundation owns his art collection, and they lend to museums. Mostly old masters.”

“What’s the organization’s name?”

“The Briarwood Foundation.”

“I’ve seen that name on public television, as a sponsor of various stuff.”

“They do that, too. Basically, they give to whatever interests the old man. Okay, your turn. How did you meet Bianchi?”

“He’s Dino Bacchetti’s father-in-law.”

“What?”

“I kid you not. The older daughter; they’ve been married, seven, eight years.”

Eggers shook his head. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

“And that goes no further.”

“As you wish.”

They finished their coffee, and Eggers looked at his watch. “I’ve got a deposition; gotta go.”

“Thanks for coming over here.”

“Not at all. When do we get to see the Connecticut place?”

“Give me some time to get it sorted out. By the way…” Stone wrote some numbers on his card and handed it to Eggers. “Here are the phone and fax numbers. They should be working by tomorrow night, but keep them to yourself for the time being.”

“Okay, see you soon.” They shook hands, and Eggers left.

Stone pushed the tray into the hall, then sat down and picked up the Times. He read the paper thoroughly, as he always did, and in the Arts section a theater listing caught his eye. It read, “Judson Palmer presents A Poke in the Eye with a Sharp Stick, a revue.”

The name registered, and it brought Stone back to the problem at hand. What the hell, he thought, I’m not getting anywhere on my own. He fished Eduardo Bianchi’s card from his wallet and dialed a phone number. The ringing stopped, and he heard a beep, no message.

“This is Stone Barrington,” he said. “I can be reached at the Carlyle Hotel, 744-1600. I’m registered as Elijah Stone, Room 1550.” He hung up. Was this the first step on the road to perdition?