Lucid Intervals

25

Stone awoke the following morning to find Felicity lying next to him.

She opened an eye. “You didn’t know when I came home last night, did you?”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” he said, running a hand up the inside of her thigh. “But this feels familiar.”

“It should,” she said. “It’s wet, too.”

“I notice that. It must be some sort of signal.”

“It must be,” she agreed.

He gathered her into his arms and made the most of things.

LATER, WHEN THEY were lying on their backs, sweating and catching their breath, Stone said. “What do you know about a guy named Jim Hackett?”

“Strategic Services?”

“Yes, that Jim Hackett.”

“I met him once at a dinner party in London; there wasn’t much opportunity for one-on-one conversation. I looked him up after that: owns a very large private security company, is a contractor for the American and British governments and for many corporations, owns a factory that converts ordinary motorcars into virtual tanks, not averse to being paid in cash by foreign clients and stashing the funds in Switzerland or those little islands south of Jamaica.”

“Is he clean?”

“As clean as anyone can be in that business. Nothing outright unsavory about him, as I recall.”

“Has your firm used his company’s services?”

“No,” she replied. “Her Majesty’s government frowns on that sort of thing, except when they do it themselves. Why are you interested in Hackett?”

“I’m playing tennis with him at the Racquet Club this evening. It occurred to me that he’s the sort of person who might have run across Stanley Whitestone at some point, and I thought I might ask him about Whitestone.”

Felicity smiled. “What a good idea,” she said. “He is exactly the sort of person who might know something about Stanley. You see, Stone, this is why I hired you: you are imaginative as well as lucky. I want a complete report tonight when you come home.”

“Does he know who and what you are?” Stone asked.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she replied. “He’s the sort who would make it his business to know.”

“Mind if I drop your name? It might help.”

She thought about that for a minute. “Yes I mind,” she said, “and certainly in the same conversation in which the name of Stanley Whitestone is mentioned. I don’t want him making a connection between Stanley and me. My position is that Stanley is ancient history and nobody at my firm gives a flying fuck about him. Please remember that.”

“How could I forget it?” Stone asked.

“I’m going to have dinner at Elaine’s with Dino,” Felicity said. “Meet us there when you’re done with Mr. Hackett, or vice versa.”

IN TENNIS CLOTHES, Jim Hackett was revealed to have a muscularly gnarled body that appeared to have lived through many difficult moments. His broken nose was a perfect representation of the rest of him. His tennis game was murderous; he thought nothing of aiming a shot between the eyes of an opponent who had come to the net. Stone knew this, because he had been struck between the eyes. It tended to make one more cautious on the court, which was exactly what Hackett intended.

Hackett and his partner, Mike Freeman, an employee of his who appeared to have been hired entirely for his tennis game, defeated Eggers and Stone in straight sets, 6-4 and 9-7. Stone felt as if he had played fifty tiebreakers at Wimbledon.

Afterward, at dinner in the member’s grill, Hackett bought the drinks and collected a couple of hundred in cash from Eggers. “You two gave us more of a match than I had anticipated,” he said.

“Where did you find Freeman?” Eggers asked. “At the U.S. Open?” Hackett laughed and shook his head. “Mike was a middling pro a very long time ago, but he made a very fine living for many years allowing gentlemen to nearly win their matches at some of the world’s finest clubs.”

“The man is an assassin,” Eggers said.

“That must be what he does for you these days,” Stone said. “When he’s not assaulting people on the courts.”

“No. Jim is a client’s man; he has great charm, and he’s a fine organizer of teams for special sorts of work,” Hackett said. “Stone, what exactly do you do for this upstanding law firm of Bill’s?”

Stone looked sideways at Eggers. “Oh, I handle the cases that Bill and his white-shoe colleagues don’t want to be seen to handle.”

“Is that a good description, Bill?” Hackett asked.

“Not far off the mark,” Eggers replied, a little uncomfortably.

“You should be very pleased to have Stone,” Hackett said. “Every business needs someone like him, and certainly every law firm.” Hackett passed Stone a business card. “Stone, if Bill ever stops appreciating you, give me a call. You’d find a very comfortable home at Strategic Services.”

“Jim,” Eggers said, “that is an outright attempt at theft, and I resent it. I mean, it’s not like you let me win at tennis first.”

“On the contrary, Bill,” Hackett said, “knowing that you have someone like Stone on the payroll impresses me, makes me more likely to want to hire your firm. He also kept you alive in the second set, even after I knocked him senseless at the net.”

“Stone has his uses,” Eggers said. “Standing between me and cannon fire is one of them.”

“I understand that you two impressed Lord Wight yesterday at lunch,” Hackett said.

“We had a pleasant conversation,” Eggers said, “even if Stone had to leave to get someone out of jail.”

“Hah!” Hackett roared. “I love it! Someone from Woodman and Weld fishing a client out of the pokey!”

“And I have the only record of his arrest in my pocket,” Stone said.

“I hope to God he didn’t murder anybody,” Eggers said.

“No,” Stone replied. “He merely pressed a disagreement over a traffic ticket a little too far and got himself a free ride to the precinct.”

“That’s what I mean,” Hackett said. “A firm needs somebody like Stone.”

AS EGGERS WAS being shown into his chauffeured car after dinner, he turned back toward Stone. “I hope you didn’t take that offer from Jim Hackett seriously.”

“I hope you did,” Stone said, turning toward home.