Dirty Work

2

Dino patted the rest of the spilled Scotch off his hand with a cocktail napkin. “Is there any other kind?”

“Sure there is, and they give me plenty of it,” Stone said defensively.

“How dirty?”

“Just slightly grubby; I don’t have to kill anybody.”

“And who are you going to get to do it?”

“Well, Teddy’s dead, so I guess I’d better call Bob Cantor,” Stone said, digging out his cell phone and switching it on.

“Bob’s your man, as well as your uncle,” Dino observed.

Stone dialed the number and got a recording. He left a message, then dialed Cantor’s cell phone.

It was answered instantly. “Speak to me!” Cantor’s voice shouted over a babble of voices and steel-band music.

“It’s Stone. Where the hell are you?”

“Saint Thomas, baby!” Cantor yelled.

“Like in the Virgin Islands, Saint Thomas?”

“I’m not talking about the church.”

“Bob, I need some help. Are you sober?”

“Certainly not! I’ve had enough piña coladas to fill that hot tub at your house.”

“It’s not a hot tub; it’s just a big bathtub with the Jacuzzi thing.”

“Whatever. Why don’t you come down here, Stone? You wouldn’t believe the women.”

“I’d believe them.”

“What d’ya need, that you would interrupt a man’s drinking?”

Stone looked around and cupped a hand over the cell phone. “I need a second-story man who’s good with a camera.”

“You running a badger game?”

“Close, but not quite. And the shots have to be taken on a roof, so I need somebody who’s in good enough shape not to fall off the building and embarrass everybody.”

“Got a pencil?”

Stone dug out a pen. “Shoot.”

“Herbie Fisher.”

“Who’s he?”

“My sister’s boy. He’s young and bold and agile, and he’s a pretty good photographer.”

“The light may not be very good.”

“It never is in those situations, is it?”

“Right.”

Cantor gave Stone the number, and he wrote it on a cocktail napkin. “Tell him I sent you and not to screw it up.”

“Does he make a habit of screwing up?” Stone asked. But Cantor had punched off and returned to his piña coladas.

“I heard that,” Dino said, “but I didn’t hear it.”

“Good,” Stone said, punching in the number Cantor had given him. The phone rang five times before it was picked up.

“What!” a young man’s voice said, panting.

“Herbie Fisher?”

“Who wants to know? Jesus, can’t a guy get laid anymore?”

“My name is Stone Barrington. Your uncle Bob said to call you.”

“Gimme your number, I got something to finish here.”

Stone gave him the number, and he hung up.

“I think I interrupted him,” Stone said.

“In the saddle?”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“These kids!” Dino said, laughing. “Nobody would ever have caught you or me doing that.”

“Nah,” Stone agreed. Then he looked toward the door and froze. “Look over your shoulder and tell me if I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing,” he said.

Dino looked over his shoulder. “Carpenter!”

She was standing there in a beautiful cashmere coat that set off her dark brown hair, looking around, looking lost; she hadn’t seen him. Stone grabbed Michael, the headwaiter, as he passed. “The lady at the door,” Stone said. “Go over there and say, ‘Miss Carpenter? Mr. Barrington is expecting you.’ Then bring her here.”

Michael nodded and went to his work. Stone watched her face; no sign of surprise. Carpenter had never given much away. Michael led her back toward the table, and Stone and Dino stood up.

“What took you so long?” Stone said, embracing her and kissing her on the cheek.

“I came as fast as I could,” she said, her British accent smooth and creamy. “Dino, how are you?” She hugged him.

“Better now,” Dino said.

Stone took her coat, hung it up, and held a chair for her, then he sat down and waved Michael over again. “What would you like to drink, Carpenter?” He didn’t know her first name, nor her last name, for that matter. Carpenter was a handle, a moniker, a code name. They had met in London the year before, when he had gotten himself into a mess that required the assistance of British intelligence. Dino had been there, too.

“Bourbon, please,” she said, “no ice.”

“You get that, Michael?”

Michael nodded and went away.

“Since when does a limey girl drink bourbon?” Dino asked.

“Since Stone extolled its virtues,” she replied. A glass was set before her, and she sipped appreciatively.

“And what brings you to New York?” Stone asked. “Besides me, I mean.”

“Well,” she said drolly, “you were the most important consideration, of course, but there is a little job I have to do with an agency of your government that will require every waking moment that I can tear myself away from your presence.”

“I’ll see that there are not many of those moments,” Stone said. “Dare I ask which agency of my government?”

“The FBI,” she said.

“Oh, yes, they would be the folks who are roughly analogous to your own outfit, wouldn’t they?”

“Perhaps,” she said coolly.

“C’mon, Stone, she’s not going to tell you anything,” Dino said.

Elaine came back and pulled up a chair.

“Elaine Kaufman,” Stone said, “let me introduce . . .” He waited for Carpenter to fill in the blank.

“Felicity,” Carpenter said, offering her hand to Elaine and shooting Stone an amused glance.

“Really?” Stone asked.

“Sometimes,” Carpenter replied.

Stone’s cell phone rang.