Dirty Work

4

Stone stood at the door, his arms around Carpenter. “Can’t I get you a cab?”

“It’s only in the next block,” she said.

“What is?”

“The, ah, home of my friends.”

“What is it, a town house? An apartment building?”

“It’s very comfortable,” she said, “though I like it here better.”

“Then why don’t you move in for the remainder of your time in New York?”

“What a nice idea,” she said, kissing him. “Let me see if I can arrange it.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“Love it. I’ll come here at, say, eight o’clock?”

“See you then.” He watched her walk quickly down the street, then turn the corner. Then he went back inside and made himself some breakfast.

Herbie Fisher was forty minutes late for his appointment. He was small, ferret-like, sleekly dressed, and annoying. “Hey,” he said, plopping down in a chair across the desk from Stone.

“You’re late,” Stone said.

Herbie shrugged. “Traffic.”

“If I give you this job you can’t be late,” Stone said.

Herbie shrugged. “So get somebody else,” he said, standing up.

Stone picked up the phone and punched a button for a line that didn’t exist. “Joan,” he said, “get me that guy I used last month for the photography work.” He hung up and pretended to go through some papers, then he looked up. “You still here?”

“Okay, okay,” Herbie said. “I get the picture. I’ll do it your way, on time and everything. What does it pay?”

“Five hundred,” Stone said. “It just went down from a thousand. You want to try for two-fifty?”

“Five hundred’s fine,” Herbie said contritely. “Gimme the pitch.”

Stone handed him a sheet of paper. “The pitch is, you show up at this address at eight o’clock this evening. Can you pick a lock?”

“What kind of lock?”

“The street door of a town house with several apartments.”

“No problem.”

“If you can’t pick the lock, you’ll have to get somebody to buzz you in, or wait for somebody to leave the building so you can get in. If there’s an elevator, take it to the top floor; if not, walk up the stairs.”

“Carrying what?”

“At least two cameras, one wide lens, say a thirty-five-millimeter, one medium telephoto, a hundred-, a hundred-thirty-five-millimeter, in that range. Fast color negative film, no flash. This is strictly existing light. When you get to the top floor, get yourself onto the roof. The sixth-floor apartment has a skylight. There’ll be a man and a woman in the apartment around nine o’clock. I want explicit photographs of whatever they do to each other. Is that clear?”

“Clear as gin.”

“Then get out of there and process the film. Do it yourself; no labs. Got it?”

“Got it. Don’t worry, I got all the equipment. Who are the people?”

“I don’t know, and you don’t want to. I want the negatives and two sets of eight-by-ten prints on my desk, here, no later than ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“I got it,” Herbie said. “I want to be paid now.”

“Forget it. Five hundred, cash on delivery. If you do a clean job, no problems, and I like your work, I’ll give you a thousand. Tell me right now if there’s anything about this you can’t handle; you get only one shot at it.”

“I can handle it all, clean, no problems,” Herbie said.

Stone gave him his cell phone number. “Call me when you’re out of the building safely. Don’t write the number down, memorize it.”

“Got it,” Herbie said.

“Then get this, Herbie: You screw up, and I never heard of you. Don’t call me from a police station and ask me to make bail for you, understand?”

“I got it.”

“You get yourself busted, you’ll have to sit in jail until your uncle Bob gets back from the Virgin Islands.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get the picture,” Herbie said, picking up one of Stone’s cards from a tray on his desk.

“Put that back,” Stone said. “You and I have never met and have no connection whatever.”

“Jesus, you’re a hardass,” Herbie said, returning the card.

“Now you’re getting the picture,” Stone replied. “But just in case you didn’t, I’ll spell it out for you: You get caught, you’re looking at a Peeping Tom charge, and maybe attempted burglary, at the very least, and at worst, a blackmail rap. You could do time, and you’ll do it with no weekly visits and freshly baked cookies from me. In short: Fuck up and you’re on your own.”

Herbie held up his hands defensively. “I told you, I got it. I’m a pro. I know the risks, and I’ll take whatever, if things go wrong.”

“If you’re not back here with the goods at ten tomorrow morning, I’ll know things went wrong, and I’ll be joining your uncle Bob in Saint Thomas for a week or two. He’ll testify that I was with him the whole time.”

“You think Uncle Bobby would do that to me?”

“He’s already told me he would. He doesn’t like fuckups, either.”

Nodding furiously, Herbie got up and fled the premises.

Stone hoped to God he’d made an impression on the kid.

He buzzed for Joan.

“Yes, Stone?”

“Book me a table for two at Café des Artistes at eight-thirty, please.”

“Sure, and I promise not to tell Elaine.”

“You’d better not. If I’m dead, you’re out of a job.”

“You have a point.”

“And if a woman named Carpenter calls, give her my cell phone number. I don’t want to miss her call.”

“Somebody new, Stone?”

“Somebody old, but not all that old.”