Sex, Lies & Serious Money

8

Laurence had breakfast with Stone the following morning, then he took a cab to the far West Side, where the automobile dealers lived. He found one that had everything he wanted, since they dealt in both Porsche and Bentley.

He found a beautiful Flying Spur on the showroom floor and had lost himself in the window sticker information when a salesman materialized at his side and introduced himself. “I’m Paul Dumont.”

“I’m Laurence Hayward,” he said.

“Would you like to drive it?”

“Of course, but first, is the equipment list pretty complete?”

“We order our cars loaded,” the man said. “It’s how our customers like them. We also have one in black, with magnolia upholstery.”

“I like these colors. What are they called?”

“Aspen metallic green and the upholstery is saffron.”

“Let’s drive it.”

It took ten minutes to remove the car from the showroom, then Laurence spent ten minutes throwing the car around on the streets.

“Good,” he said, as he parked the car in front of the dealership. “Now let’s look at Porsches.”

“Right this way,” the man said, and led him to the showroom adjacent to the Bentley one. “Turbo, perhaps?”

“No, it’s a little too splashy-looking, what with the spoiler. I like the Carrera 4S.”

“I don’t have one in stock, but I can do a dealer search. Let’s find a computer.” They sat down at a desk. “Color?”

“What’s that color there?” Laurence asked.

“Umber — very nice with cognac and espresso upholstery.”

“Good.”

Dumont typed a few strokes on the keyboard. “No one has that car in stock,” he said, “but I see that we have one incoming. It’s on a ship right now, and it will be here in about three weeks. It has just about all the options, including ceramic brakes.”

“I’m going to need a driver for the Bentley,” Laurence said.

Dumont handed him a card. “This is a service that provides chauffeurs,” he said, “on an hourly basis. If they send you one you like, steal him.”

Laurence laughed. “I like the way you think. How much are we talking about?”

“For the Porsche and the Bentley?”

“For the Porsche and both Bentleys.”

“Ah.”

Haggling ensued, and shortly they had made a deal, and Laurence got out his checkbook. “Will you call the service for me and get a driver over here right now?”

“That’s short notice, but we’ll work something out.” He made the call, then covered the phone. “They have a man who can be here in forty minutes. He has to take the subway from Brooklyn. If you don’t want to wait, I can have him deliver the car to you. Do you have garage space?”

Laurence gave him the address.

“And what would you like to do with the other Bentley?”

“I’d like it to be sent to Mr. and Mrs. Richard Chalmers, Ocean Drive, Palm Beach, and I’d like to include a card.”

Dumont produced a card and an envelope, and Laurence wrote: An expression of my affection and my gratitude for your many kindnesses in a difficult time. “I’d like the green car registered in Florida, please, but I’ll be using it here.” He gave the address of his father’s house. “Register it at that address.”

Dumont repaired to his office to do the paperwork, then returned for Laurence’s signature on the documents. “It will take us ten days or so to get Florida plates, but you’ll have a dealer plate that will make you legal. I expect you’ll want insurance?”

“Only liability — twenty million dollars.”

“Let me make a call.” He was back in ten minutes and gave Laurence the card of an insurance broker. “You’re covered. I’ve given him your address and other details, and I’ve told him that you want chauffeurs covered.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’m having the satellite radio programmed. We’ll give you a year’s subscription, free.”

“With each car,” Laurence said.

“Of course.”

Shortly, a man in a blue suit appeared in the showroom. “Mr. Hayward?” he asked nobody in particular.

Laurence waved him over. “That’s me.”

“I’m Oliver,” the man said, “from Chauffeurs Unlimited.”

“Paul, please give Oliver the keys to the car. It’s outside, Oliver. I’ll be out shortly.”

Oliver took the keys and went to the car.

“Is there anything else I can possibly do for you?” Dumont asked.

“Probably,” Laurence said. “I’ll let you know. By the way, all this must remain entirely confidential. I don’t want to see my name mentioned anywhere.”

“Of course, and I’ll call you with a specific delivery date for the Porsche.”

“In three weeks, I’ll be out of town,” Laurence said. “Hold it for me until I return.”

“Of course. Would you like the Porsche sent to your garage?”

“Good idea.” He gave Dumont the address. “Just leave the keys with the garage manager.”

The two men shook hands, and Laurence went to his new Bentley, where Oliver was waiting with the door open.

“Oliver,” he said, “I want you to drive up to Fifty-seventh Street and Madison Avenue, then drive very slowly up Madison.”

“Yes, Mr. Hayward,” Oliver said, closing the door and getting behind the wheel. “Beautiful car, a pleasure to drive.”

“And, Oliver, please turn on the satellite radio to the Light Classical channel.”

“Yes, sir.”

Driving slowly up Madison Avenue, with a Chopin étude wafting around the interior of the car, Laurence did some window-shopping for galleries and made notes on which ones he wanted to visit. At Seventy-ninth Street, he put away his notebook. “All right,” he said, “let’s go home.”

“Yes, sir,” Oliver replied, “and where would that be?”

“The Fairleigh, on Park Avenue. The garage entrance is on the side street.”

“Yes, sir.”

Laurence took the elevator to 15 and let himself into the apartment. A strange young man walked out of his bedroom.

“Laurence Hayward?”

“Yes, and who are you?”

“I’m Butch Crane. My sister, Theresa, is putting your clothes in your dressing room. She asked me to help.”

“I hope there wasn’t too much heavy lifting,” Laurence said. He walked into his bedroom and found Theresa fussing with the final location of everything. “Good afternoon.”

“Oh, hello, Mr. Hayward.”

“It’s Laurence, please.”

“Hello, Laurence,” she said.

“You’re fired,” he replied.