Dirty Work

30

Dino had finished dinner and was back in his chair with the TV going, but he was having trouble staying awake.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” Mary Ann asked.

“It’s too early,” Dino replied. “I’d just wake up at four o’clock in the morning. Stimulate me. Talk to me.”

She left the sofa, crossed the room, and sat in his lap. “I’ll stimulate you,” she said, moving around on his crotch.

The phone rang.

“Ignore it,” she said. “Let the machine pick up.” She kissed him.

Dino kissed her back. He seemed to be waking up.

The machine clicked on. “Dino, it’s Elaine,” she said. “I need to talk to you now. Pick up.”

“Fuck her,” Mary Ann said.

“Right,” Dino replied, unbuttoning her blouse and reaching for a breast.

His cell phone rang. “That’s gotta be the precinct,” he said. “Let me get rid of them.”

“Oh, all right,” Mary Ann replied, running her tongue around his ear.

Dino fumbled under Mary Ann for the phone and got it open. “This better be good,” he said.

“It’s Elaine. Get over here.”

“What?”

“You remember that conversation about this woman finding Stone by reading Page Six?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a woman at the bar with the clipping, asking about Stone.”

“Describe her.”

“Well dressed, thirties, medium everything.”

“Do what you can to keep her there, but don’t piss her off. I’m on my way.” He shut the phone and kissed Mary Ann. “Sorry, baby, but something hot has come up.”

“Is she hotter than me?” Mary Ann asked, pushing him back into the chair.

“She’s committed four murders that we know of, and she’s at the bar, at Elaine’s.”

“I give up,” Mary Ann said, getting up and buttoning her blouse. “I’m never gonna get laid.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Dino said, grabbing his coat and heading for the door, the cell phone in his hand.

He grabbed a cab in front of his building. “Eighty-eighth and Second,” he said to the driver, then began dialing the precinct. “Gimme the duty commander,” he said. “This is Bacchetti. We got a rumble on a suspect in this afternoon’s shooting on Park Avenue. She’s at Elaine’s restaurant, Second between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth, west side of the street, sitting at the bar, her back to the window. I’m on my way there now. I want a SWAT team. . . . Scrub that, I want eight people in plain clothes, no visible weapons, no sirens on the way—shit, they can run all the way, it’s that close. Nobody parks out front, nobody enters the restaurant but me.”

The cab drew to a halt at the corner of Eighty-eighth and Second. Dino gave the driver a five and got out, still talking on the cell phone.

“I’m going into the restaurant now. I want two people on either side of the door, not visible from inside, and four across the street. Suspect is a white female, thirties, medium height and weight, alone, probably armed and very dangerous. Any questions?”

“No, Lieutenant,” the detective answered.

“Call me on my cell phone when everybody is in position.”

“Got it.”

Dino hung up and called Elaine’s, got her on the phone. “I’m coming in alone in just a minute. Is there an empty table by the bar?”

“No, but Sid Zion is at number four with two other guys. He’s got a couple of empty chairs. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“That’s good. Pay no attention to the woman at the bar. Don’t even look at her. Has she moved?”

“No.”

“I’m coming in now.” Dino checked his weapon, returned it to his holster, and walked into Elaine’s.

Suddenly, Marie-Thérèse was nervous. The bartender had said something to the restaurant’s owner, and she had made a phone call. Now she was on the phone again, and she had glanced at where she was sitting at the bar.

The front door opened and a man walked in: not too tall, Mediterranean-looking.

Dino walked toward table number four, where Sidney Zion, a journalist and writer, was sitting. “Hey, Sid,” Dino said, pumping his hand. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sit down, Dino,” Zion replied.

Dino took a seat with a good view of a woman at the bar he thought was probably Marie-Thérèse.

The man was a cop, she could feel it. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” she asked the bartender.

“Back that way, take a right, second door on the left.”

Marie-Thérèse left her coat on the bar stool, picked up her bag, and began walking toward the rear of the restaurant. Straight ahead, all the way to the back, was a door, but two large men were sitting at a table squarely in front of it. She turned right, toward the ladies’ room, first looking into the kitchen: no visible way out. She went into the ladies’ room; no one there. She tried the window. It was small, but she could fit through it. She got it open, but it was covered with burglar bars.

She opened her handbag and began removing things. She took the top off the toilet tank, wiped the CIA pistol and the ice pick with a towel, dropped them into the tank, and replaced the cover. She ripped up her false passport, dropped it into the toilet, and flushed. Then she got out her cell phone and started dialing.

Dino’s cell phone vibrated. “Bacchetti.”

“Lieutenant, everybody’s in place.”

“Tell them to sit tight. We’re going to wait until she’s ready to leave. I’ll follow her out the front door, then everybody converge.”

“Got it.”

Dino put the cell phone away and looked around. Still in the ladies’ room.

“Hello?”

“Ali?”

“Yes. Is this my appointment from this afternoon?”

“Yes. I think I’m about to be arrested, and I’m going to need a lawyer.”

“Where are you?”

“At a restaurant called Elaine’s, on Second Avenue, between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth streets.”

“You’re quite near the Nineteenth Precinct. They’ll take you there, unless they’re federal.”

“My guess is local police.”

“Your lawyer’s name is Sol Kaminsky. I’ll call him, and he’ll be there in half an hour. Say nothing to the police.”

“I’m going to talk to them, play it innocent,” she said.

“That’s your judgment to make. Are you dirty?”

“I’ve just cleaned up. I have a good passport.”

“Good. I’ll tell Kaminsky. Call his number from the police station and leave a message on his answering machine. Memorize the number.” He recited it to her.

“You’re sending me a Jewish lawyer?”

“We retain him. He’s good. What will your name be?”

“Marie-Thérèse du Bois.”

“Your real name?”

“Trust me.”

“What will you give for an address?”

“I don’t know.”

“We keep room one-oh-oh-three at the Hotel Kirwan, on Park Avenue South at Thirty-seventh Street. Use that address. I’ll get some women’s clothes and a suitcase over there, too.”

“Thank you.” She closed the phone, returned it to her handbag, checked her makeup, and left the ladies’ room. Maybe she was just paranoid. She hoped so. She returned to her bar stool. “Can I have the check, please?” she asked the bartender.

He brought her the check. “What’s your name, and how can I get in touch?” he asked. She took a pen and a small pad from her purse and wrote down her name and cell phone number. “Call me tomorrow,” she said. She put some cash on the bar, including a big tip, got into her coat, and started for the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the cop get up from his table and reach for his coat.

She walked outside and stood at the curb, her hand held up for a taxi. Then he was behind her.

“Freeze, police!” Dino said, his weapon stretched out before him. He kept a good six feet between them.

Marie-Thérèse looked over her shoulder, feigning surprise. “What?” she said.

Then they were all over her, cuffing her wrists, going through her handbag. “No weapons,” a detective said.

“Search the ladies’ room,” Dino replied, as they hustled her into a squad car.