Sex, Lies & Serious Money

39

Butch Crane was working on a display in the Purple Label room when he looked up to see Curly walk in. There were half a dozen people, clients and sales associates, in the room. He strode across the room. “May I help you, sir?” he asked with a stone face.

“Yeah, sure. Where’s the cash register?”

“The men’s room is on the lower level. Take the elevator,” Butch said, smiling. Then, sotto voce, “In the park, Fifth and Seventy-second, half an hour.”

“Thanks, pal,” Curly said, then left.

Butch went back to his work.

“Who the hell was that?” an associate asked.

“He was in the wrong store.”

“He sure was. He looked like that guy with the Three Stooges.”

“I didn’t notice.”

Butch took his lunch hour and ambled over to the Central Park entrance at Fifth and Seventy-second, as if he were taking lunch in the park. He saw Curly on a park bench, just across the street; he crossed and sat down at the other end of the bench, taking the Times from his pocket and opening it. “What the hell do you mean, coming into the store?” he asked without turning his head.

“I go where the fuck I like,” Curly replied. “Last night I was in Stone Barrington’s house.”

“Hayward’s lawyer? Are you nuts? The guy’s an ex-cop and best friends with the police commissioner. Theresa told me about him.”

“And I had to read about him in a tabloid piece about Hayward. I couldn’t count on my old buddy Butch to clue me in.”

“Clue you in about what?”

“The guy’s rich — not as rich as Hayward, but he’s got a house full of stuff. I found myself a fence who knows the high-end market, so I’m branching out.”

A police car pulled up across the road, and Butch and Curly both fell silent.

“Relax,” Curly said, “they’re just eating their donuts.”

Butch said nothing; he found the Arts section of the paper and folded it to show the crossword puzzle, then started to work on it. “Curly,” he said, trying not to move his lips, “listen to me. I’m done with you — no more money, no robberies or burglaries, no anything. If I hear from you again for any reason, I’ll kill you.”

“Kill me, you little piece of shit?”

“It’s a promise,” Butch said, “a guarantee.” He heard a car door slam.

“Oh, shit,” Curly said, then he got up and sprinted away from the bench.

Butch looked up from the crossword in time to see a cop chasing him, while the other started the police car and drove farther into the park. Butch went back to the crossword.

Five minutes later two cops walked up to him, both of them sweating and panting a little. “Excuse me, sir,” one of them said, “do you know the man who was sitting next to you?”

Butch looked at the empty bench. “What man?”

“The one who was sitting there until we started chasing him.”

Butch shook his head. “There was somebody there when I sat down, but I didn’t really take any notice of him.”

“What brings you to the park today?”

“Lunch hour,” Butch replied. “I work over at Ralph Lauren, on Madison.”

“Do you have an employer’s ID?”

“Sure.” Butch fished out the card from his pocket and handed it to him. “Who was the guy you were chasing?”

“Somebody on the wanted list.” The cop returned his card. “Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Crane.”

“Not a problem,” Butch said, then went back to his crossword. He waited five minutes, then took a cab home. He let himself into the apartment and went to the kitchen drawer where Theresa’s little .25 automatic lived. He unloaded it, field-stripped it, and wiped every surface with an oily rag, then reassembled it, wiped every round clean, reloaded the magazine, shoved it home, and put it into his pocket after wiping the exterior.

He left the apartment with a new feeling of confidence, rimmed with anxiety. He’d shoot the bastard if he saw him again, he swore to himself.

He was back in the Purple Label room in time to serve a customer who bought two suits, then was coaxed by Butch into a third. This day would end better than it started, he thought, as he took fitting notes from the tailor, then rang up the client’s purchases, which came to nearly $10,000.

Laurence and Theresa were met at Teterboro by Oliver, his driver, who put their luggage and Theresa’s Santa Fe purchases into the Bentley.

“Laurence,” Theresa said, “do you think we could invite my brother, Butch, to the Strategic Services party? I’d like you to get to know him better.”

“Well, since it’s at our apartment, I’m sure that would be all right. I’ll mention it to Mike Freeman when I get the chance.”

They let themselves into the apartment, and Marge was there to greet them. “Welcome home,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Marge,” Laurence replied. “Any significant mail or calls?”

“Both are mostly begging letters and calls, but one from the police commissioner.” She handed him a slip with the number.

Laurence tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll call him later.”

“Call him now,” Theresa said, “and I’ll unpack for you. Who knows your dressing room better than I?”

“Okay.” Laurence went into the study, picked up the phone and called Dino.

“Commissioner’s office,” a crisp, female voice said.

“Laurence Hayward, returning the commissioner’s call.”

“One moment.”

Dino came on the line. “Welcome home, Laurence.”

“Thank you, Dino. It’s good to hear from you.”

“I hear on the grapevine that you bought a place in Santa Fe.”

“You pick your grapes well.”

“Have you met Ed Eagle and his wife, Susannah?”

“We traded dinners. Your grapevine was there, too, with a very fetching woman.”

“Met her last night, and you’re right. Listen, I’ve had some news of the intruder in your apartment.”

“Wonderful. What news?”

“Two of my uniformed park patrol spotted him sitting on a bench at the Seventy-second Street entrance earlier today.”

“Did they grab him?”

“It turned into a footrace, and the guy, big as he is, got the better of them. The good news is, they made him from your security camera shots, so there’ll be other opportunities.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Laurence said. “I’d better let you get back to keeping the city safe.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Dino said, and they both hung up.