D.C. Dead

31

Stone called Holly on her personal cell phone.

Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Well, hello, stranger. How long has it been?”

“Uh, night before last?”

“Oh, right. I’m beginning to feel that I’m on a Stone-restricted diet.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to feel deprived. How about tonight?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Room service and what you once so charmingly referred to as a ‘bounce.’”

“Oh, yes, I think I remember.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” Stone said, contriving to sound hurt.

“Ah, yes, it’s coming back to me, now. That sounds like a good plan. You know those vodka gimlets you make at home?”

“I believe I recall the consumption of vodka gimlets.”

“Do you think you could make some for tonight?”

“I think I can manage to remember the recipe.”

“Oh, good. What is the recipe?”

“You’ll have to screw that out of me tonight, so to speak.”

“I’ll look forward to it. Is eight o’clock all right? I have to clear my desktop of some 1crap.”

“Eight will be just long enough for the gimlets to get frosty, before your arrival.”

“Until then, then.”

“Until then.” Stone hung up. “Oh, shit,” he said aloud to himself, then pressed the redial button.

“It’s me again,” she said.

“It’s me again, too. I forgot to ask you about something.”

“Does it involve national security?”

Stone thought about that. “I don’t know, but, as Fats Waller used to say, ‘One never knows, do one?’”

“Unlike yourself, I’m not old enough to remember who Fats Waller is, or was.”

“Was. The composer of ‘Honeysuckle Rose’ and a very great pianist.”

“Oh, yes. What was it you wanted to know?”

“Do you have any contacts at the DCPD?”

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Whether what you want to know from them is important enough for me to use up a favor over there.”

“Well, it’s important to me, since they may very well still consider me a suspect in the murder of Milly Hart. Is that important enough to use up a favor?”

“Hmmmmm.”

“Don’t be coy. You don’t want me arrested before tonight, do you?”

“Perhaps not. What do you want to know?”

“Do they still consider me a suspect in the murder of Milly Hart, and are there any new developments in that case?”

“That’s two favors.”

“Be cagey.”

“I can do that, I suppose.”

“You do it better than anybody I know.”

“That’s high praise, coming from you, slick.”

“I meant being cagey.”

“What a disappointment!”

“I’ll do my best to make it up to you.”

“Good. Suckle you later, honey.” She hung up.

Dino looked across the room at him. “I can only imagine her side of the conversation,” he said.

“Dream on,” Stone said, then picked up the phone again and called room service.

“Yes, Mr. Barrington?” a woman’s voice said. “Or is it Mr. Bacchetti?”

“Right the first time,” Stone said.

“What may room service serve you?”

“A bottle of your cheapest vodka and a bottle of Rose’s sweetened lime juice.”

“Is that dinner for one or two?”

“That’s cocktails, honest. I’ll order dinner later.”

“I’m afraid our cheapest vodka isn’t very cheap,” she replied. “Just between us, you’d do a lot better at a liquor store.”

“But then I’d have to go to a liquor store.”

“ size="3May I make a recommendation?”

“Of course.”

“Call the bell captain and have him send a bellman around the corner for your order. Tip him fifty dollars, and you’ll save a hundred and fifty.”

“What a grand idea! Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’ve obviously never bought a bottle of spirits from hotel room service before.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“Yes, you could send up canapes for two.” His attention was attracted by Dino, who was waving both hands. “Make that for three.”

“Hot or cold?”

“Room temperature.”

“It will be done. Good evening, Mr. Barrington.”

“Good evening.” They both hung up. Stone called the bell captain, and twenty minutes later a bellman appeared at the door with a brown paper bag, grinning in anticipation. Stone handed him a hundred and took the bag.

“Thank you,” the man said, then dematerialized.

Stone went to the bar and looked around. “We don’t seem to have a measuring cup,” he said.

“Do we have a shot glass?” Dino asked.

Stone looked further. “No.”

“How much vodka do you have to pour out of the bottle?”

“Six ounces.”

“Stop at the top of the label,” Dino said.

Stone found a tumbler and poured the six ounces into it, then he refilled the bottle with the Rose’s and held it up to the light. “That looks perfect,” he said. “Where did you learn that?”

“From you,” Dino said.

“When?”

“One night when we had finished a bottle of gimlets and you had to make some more. You had a measuring cup that time, but you were still sober enough to notice that, after pouring out six ounces, the vodka level was at the top of the label. You weren’t sober enough to remember it, though.”

“Now I know why I hang around with you,” Stone said, tucking the bottle of gimlets into the freezer compartment of the bar fridge.

“Nah,” Dino said, “you hang around with me to learn, not to remember.”

Stone held up the tumbler of spare vodka. “What am I going to do with this?”

“You’ll think of something,” Dino said.