by Stuart Woods
“Smart guy, Johnny.” Sal hung up.
* * *
—
Manny got home late, his suit filthy and ruined. He’d never known how hard it was to corral hundred-dollar bills in a breeze, but it was all secured, and there was a new Airstream in lot five, all hooked up. Not that he was happy about it.
“Hilda!” he shouted. He was hungry, and he wanted dinner now.
“Shut your mouth,” she called from upstairs. “I’ll be down when I’m ready.”
This was grounds for severe punishment, but he was too tired to go upstairs and administer it. Then he saw the pile of suitcases in the living room. He walked in there and hefted a couple. All packed.
There was a rap on the door, and two men in workmen’s clothes opened the door and walked in. “Outta the way,” one of them said to Manny. “We’re taking the rest of her stuff.”
“The hell you are,” Manny said, and he produced enough adrenaline to propel him up the stairs. He stopped at the top and panted a little. He heard the front door close and a truck start up outside.
“Hilda!” he screamed.
Hilda came out of the bedroom, fully dressed and carrying her mink coat on a hanger. “Oh, shut up,” she said, producing a silenced pistol from under the coat.
“What the fuck?” Manny said.
“You,” she replied. “You’re fucked.” She shot him in the head, and he collapsed in a heap, then she put another one in his brain. “Compliments of Sal and the Don,” she said, then walked downstairs to a waiting car with a driver, who held the door for her.
“All done?” he asked.
“Done,” she said.
“Somebody’s coming to torch the place,” he replied.
“We won’t wait,” she said. “I’ve got a plane to catch.”
* * *
—
Vinnie was sitting in his new Airstream, tidying his new desk. The two safes had been installed and the toilet charged with the requisite chemicals. There was a pot of coffee on the stove, and the fridge was stocked with beer and diet drinks. His cell phone rang.
“This is Vinnie.”
“It’s Johnny,” he said.
“Speak of the devil,” Vinnie said, laughing. “You know who was just asking about you?”
“Who would that be?”
“Sal. He’s consigliere now.”
“Good for him.”
“I’ll give you a number, you ever need anything.”
Jack wrote it down. “Why would he want to hear from me?”
“He holds you in high regard, the way you handle things. He asked me to make you happy, if I got a chance.”
“I’ll pocket that one for a while.”
“Oh, I’m sitting here in a brand-new Airstream trailer, not that you would care about that. And I’ve got Manny’s job.”
“What happened to Manny?”
“I hear he went on an extended vacation. You ought to see this trailer. It’s really something!”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“You’re happy then?”
“Pretty much.”
“Any problems?”
“Just one, but I’ll solve that problem eventually.”
“Call me if you need something. Or if it’s really important, call Sal.”
“Give Sal my best.” He hung up.
23
Stone and Dino arrived at Patroon in Dino’s car, and their appointed drinks awaited them on their table.
“What’s new?” Stone asked.
“Not much.”
“I thought the NYPD was constantly aboil. Have the criminals taken a vacation?”
“They’re working pretty good at Hialeah,” Dino said. “Did you see the exploding trailer on TV?” Security camera footage of the explosion had gone viral.
“How could I miss it. And I loved the part with the guy on his hands and knees, raking up C-notes.”
“That was Manny Fiore, the mob’s big-time bookie down there.”
“If he’s so big, what’s he doing on his hands and knees? Don’t those guys have minions for that sort of work?”
“I guess, where C-notes are involved, they want people they can trust. Still, he’s not a worry anymore.”
“Did he have an, ah, accident?”
“The kind of accident that gets you two in the head. They found what’s left of him a few hours ago, in the ashes of his house. The autopsy turned up two 9mm slugs.”
“He must have missed a few hundreds.”
“Word has it he’s already been replaced by a guy named Vinnie Rossi, who worked for him. Interestingly, somebody recently spotted Vinnie on Fifth Avenue and gave the department a call.”
“What interest would the department have in the activities of Hialeah mobsters?”
“We like to know if guys like that come to town. Just between you and me, the FBI has a master list of guys who might be important. If there’s a sighting, it goes into the computer.”
“Did he blow up the trailer?”
“No indication of that. He worked for the guy who worked in the trailer. The FBI wants to talk to the girl who lived with Manny, name of Hilda Ross, a nightclub singer.”
“Nightclub singers still exist?”
“As long as there are nightclubs,” Dino said.
“Nightclubs still exist?”
“In Florida, yeah. They can’t play golf all the time. Even a few left in New York.”
“I don’t get it. If the guy is dead, why do they want to talk to the girlfriend?”
“Well, when they went through what was left of his house, they didn’t find a single female garment there. Plenty of neckties, etcetera, but no frilly bras and such.”
“So she packed up before the house burned?”
“That’s the idea.”
“This story gets more and more interesting,” Stone said.
“It gets more interesting than that,” Dino said, handing him the New York Post, opened and turned back. A small ad in the corner held a photo of a beautiful woman in a low-cut gown, and a headline read:
RETURN ENGAGEMENT TONIGHT: HILDA ROSS SINGS JAZZ
“I like the near-absence of the dress,” Stone said. “Have you called the FBI?”
“Certainly. You and I are meeting a G-man I know there for the ten o’clock show.”
* * *
—
The club was better than Stone had expected: it was roomy and the tables didn’t put you elbow-to-elbow with others. The decor was handsome, and when the trio began to play, the sound system was good. They were given a good table, and a moment later a decently dressed FBI agent joined them.
“Stone Barrington, meet Brian Goode,” Dino said.
Stone shook his hand. “Good to meet you, no pun intended. I hear you have a fugitive at large in the building.”
“Not at large, exactly,” Goode said. “There’s no warrant. But she’s been a confidential informant for nigh onto a year, and I hear she sings well. And we want to talk to her.”
Stone leaned near to Dino’s ear. “Has he heard about the two slugs in the autopsy?”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that,” Goode said. “And I read lips pretty good.”
“Don’t fuck with the FBI,” Dino said.
“Is she a suspect in the shooting?” Stone asked.
“Not yet,” Goode said. “Though we’ll have some questions to ask her about that.”
* * *
—
The trio finished its number, and a voice over the PA system said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back Hilda Ross!” The applause was enthusiastic.
The velvet curtains parted and a curvy woman in a tight, green dress with auburn hair followed her impressive cleavage onto the stage, to a waiting microphone.
The group ripped into Rodgers and Hart’s “Johnny One-Note,” an up-tempo number that gave her an opportunity to use her big voice.
Stone was impressed.
When the set was over Dino said to Stone, “I know, you want to meet her.”
“Only if she’s innocent of wrongdoing,” Stone said.
But Brian Goode was already escorting her to the table and pulling out a chair for her.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, shaking each hand and apparently remembering their names.
“That was a great set,” Stone said. “I’m a lover of Rodgers and Hart.”
“Who isn’t?” she asked. “Are you all law enforcement?”
“Just Brian and me,” Dino said. “I’m a local. This guy used to be”—he jerked a thumb at Stone—“but the work was too honest for him. Now he’s a lawyer.”
“Do I need a lawyer, Brian?”
“Everybody needs a lawyer now and then.”
“Then you’d better give me your card, Stone.”
Stone did so, and she made it disappear somewhere in her cleavage.
She tucked a card of her own into Stone’s breast pocket. “I’m in town for a week, maybe two,” she said.
“That ought to be long enough,” Dino muttered.
“I’ll call you when you least expect it,” Stone said.
“Then I’ll expect the unexpected,” she replied.
“Hilda,” Brian said, “can we have a little chat at the bar for a minute or two?”
“My time is yours, G-man,” she said, and the two of them left the table.
“Very nice,” Stone said.
“I thought you would think so.”
24
Stone and Hilda left the club immediately after her midnight show.
“Are you worn out after all that work?” Stone asked.
“Hardly,” she said. “I’m in shape for it.”
“My house is between here and your hotel,” he said. “Can I force a nightcap on you?”
“That’s an interesting way to put it,” she said. “Why not? ‘The night is young and you’re so beautiful,’ ” she sang.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” Stone replied. He bent over and kissed her on the nape of her neck.
“That was nice,” she said.
“More?”
“Yes, but let’s not start something we can’t finish in the back of a cab.”
The cab stopped at Stone’s house, and they walked up the front steps. “Nice view,” she said, looking up and down the block.
“It’s even nicer inside.” He let them into the house and walked her through the living room to his study, where he lit a fire and poured them a brandy. She set down her drink, reached up, and helped him off with his jacket.
“Thank you,” he said. “Is there anything I can help you off with?”
She made a motion toward her dress. “This is all there is,” she said.
Stone reached behind her and pulled the zipper down as far as it would go. The dress fell into a puddle, and she kicked it away.
The sight of her was breathtaking, Stone thought.
She dealt with his belt buckle and the trousers, while he got out of his shirt. Soon he was naked and she, nearly so. He peeled away her thong and sat her down on the sofa, then knelt in front of her and began explorations.
“You know,” she said, “if you were a horse, you’d be called a fast starter.” He sat down on the sofa, and she took him in her hand. “And there are other equine resemblances,” she said.
After that, everything was a blur for the next half hour.
* * *
—
Finally, they made it upstairs to his bedroom, where they had a shower together.
“Let’s take it again from the top,” she said. And they did. Sometime during the dark of night it happened again, and nobody complained.
* * *
—
When there was sunlight streaming through the windows, Stone ordered breakfast for them, then took the tray off the dumbwaiter and set it between them. Stone switched on CNN, just in time for a replay of the exploding trailer.
“That was the former office of my former boyfriend,” Hilda said.
There was another shot of Manny picking up hundreds that made her laugh. “That is not the sort of work he’s accustomed to,” she said. “He’d better hope his bosses don’t see it.”
“I think they probably did see it,” Stone said, “resulting in his disappearance.”
Hilda swiveled her head. “What?”
“I heard about it last night, from Dino. The fed knew, too, didn’t he mention it?”
“Has he turned up?”
“He turned up in the smoking ruin of his house, deep fried. An autopsy found two bullets in his head.”
“Jesus,” she said. “I slept in that house until a couple of days ago.”
“Sounds like your timing for leaving was good.”
“I hadn’t planned it, I just got fed up. He came home while I was moving out, and words were spoken. I was lucky I got out of there without a broken nose.”
“Were there witnesses who saw you leave and got a look at him, too?”
“Yes, there were: two guys from the storage place and a cabdriver, who drove me to the airport.”
“Don’t forget their names or how to get in touch with them.”
“Did Brian Goode know about this?”
“I think he was the one who told Dino.”
“I wonder why he didn’t mention it to me.”
“You could put that to him in the form of a question. Oh, and expect to be hearing from the local cops down there.”
“Should I be worried?” she asked.
“Not if the three guys cover you. One would be enough, but three is solid gold.”
“Whew! I mean, I’m sorry Manny’s dead, but not sorry enough to get blamed for it.”
“Who hated him enough to do this?”
“How long have you got? He was not a lovable guy most of the time, and burning down the house is just the sort of thing he would have done himself when he was angry—and he was plenty angry the last time I saw him.”
“Have you got a cell phone?”
“Yes, but I turned it off when I was performing—ah, singing—last night, and I didn’t turn it back on.”
“Chances are you have a message or two relating to Manny.”
She found her purse and switched on the phone. “You’re right,” she said, “but I don’t feel like talking to them now.”
“There’s not likely going to be a time when you’ll feel like talking to the police about somebody who’s been murdered, so don’t put it off. It will just get harder.”
“Then I may as well suck it up,” she said. “Excuse me for a while.” She went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
* * *
—
Stone was halfway through the Times crossword before she emerged again, this time wearing her dress and brushing her hair.
“How’d it go?”
“Okay, I think, but you never know about those guys.”
“Did they read you your rights?”
She looked at him. “No. Should they have?”
“They should have. You may want to remember that later, if they come back.”
“Are they likely to?”
“It’s almost guaranteed.”
“What should I say to them then?”
“Say, ‘Gentlemen, I’ve told you everything I know about these events, and I will have nothing further to say about them.’ Then hang up. If they keep trying, call me before you talk to them again.”
She sat down on the bed and kissed him. “You’re a dear, not to mention terrific in the hay.”
“Another horse reference,” Stone said.
“Now, I’ve got to go to my hotel and put on some civilian clothes. I have an appointment with a record producer for lunch.”
“Don’t get stuck with the tab,” Stone said, kissing her goodbye. “My driver will meet you downstairs and drive you to your hotel. If you like, he’ll wait and drive you to lunch, too.”
“Oh, how nice!”
“His name is Fred. If you encounter a Labrador retriever on the way out, his name is Bob—so you won’t confuse them.”
She gave him another kiss, then left.
Stone called Fred and gave him his instructions.
25
Stone took a call from Dino later that morning. “Hey.”
“Has she cleared the premises yet?”
“Who? What premises?”
“Guess who, and which premises.”
“Oh, you mean Hilda?”
“That’s right. She has a name.”
“She does. Feel free to use it when speaking of her.”
“You sound a little defensive,” Dino said. “That means she stayed the night, huh?”
“It was late when she finished her second set. I wouldn’t put a young woman out in the street in the dead of night.”
“Not if you could put her to bed instead,” Dino said.
“Why are you giving me a hard time about Hilda?”
“Because you don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I believe I do. I’ve traversed that terrain before, and I’ve never regretted it.”
“Well, let’s hope she’ll be allowed conjugal visits at Bedford Hills Women’s Prison.”
“Why would she have any need to? She can just come here. By the way, ‘conjugal’ refers to her marital status. I never sleep with married women. Not on purpose, anyway.”
“I know at least three married women you’ve slept with.”
“Well, accidents will happen.”
“The Bureau thinks Hilda’s a contract killer.”
“Yeah? Who, exactly, at the Bureau?”