Class Act

by Stuart Woods

  “Then why don’t you stop by on your way out and check their response time.”

  “I would, if I thought they knew I’m the police commissioner,” Dino said. “If they didn’t recognize me, I might catch a couple of rounds.”

  “Don’t you go anywhere near that table, Dino,” Viv said firmly.

  “I’m just speculating,” Dino said.

  “If you do, I’ll take you outside and beat you up. Your guys would never try to stop me.”

  “Speaking of your guys, Dino,” Stone said. “Where are they?”

  “They’re standing around outside, smoking cigarettes and waiting for something terrible to happen.”

  “You stole that line,” Stone said. “It’s from Alex Atkinson’s article on Spain, in the September 1963 issue of Holiday magazine. I think he was referring to Franco’s Guardia Civil. I remember, because I gave you the piece to read.”

  “Whatever,” Dino said

  “Come on, Stone,” Viv said. “Who remembers stuff like that from September 1963?”

  “There’s a tiny corner of my brain that involuntarily stores that sort of information,” Stone said. “Nothing I can do about it.”

  Tara was laughing into her Scotch. “You people know each other too well,” she said.

  “The paella looks good,” Viv said.

  “In that same article,” Stone said, “Atkinson says he once ate a paella in Valencia that almost certainly contained the left forefinger of a rubber glove.”

  “I’m skipping the paella,” Tara said. “What else is good?”

  “If it’s on the menu, it’s good,” Dino said.

  “I’ll have the paella,” Stone said to the hovering captain. “I want to see what I can find in it.”

  “Lotsa stuff,” the captain replied smoothly.

  Tara ordered fish, the Bacchettis ordered the paella, and Stone chose a big white Burgundy to accompany everything.

  It was around eight-thirty before they considered the dessert menu. Stone noted that the Don and his consigliere were on about the same schedule, and the two of them were on their second bottle of wine.

  “I didn’t know Mafiosi came to restaurants like this one,” Tara said. “I always think of them dining in dimly lit clam houses.”

  “No,” Dino corrected her. “Dimly lit clam houses are where they shoot each other.”

  “I stand corrected,” she replied. “I’m glad they’re not doing it here.”

  “The night is young,” Dino said.

  Then a woman entered a corner of Stone’s vision, wearing a fur coat. She shucked it off and gave it to the coat-check woman, revealing a low-cut green dress Stone had seen somewhere before.

  Dino had seen her, too. He beckoned the captain and waved him close to his ear. “Who’s the lady with the cleavage, dining with the Don?”

  “I forget her name,” the captain said, “but I know she’s a singer, because she’s appearing at the Café Carlyle, around the corner. She has another show at ten.”

  The consigliere stood to greet her, but not the Don. He allowed himself to be pecked on the cheek, then waved her to a chair. Someone brought her a glass of champagne, and she ordered a dessert.

  “Why are you two staring?” Viv asked. “Anybody we know?”

  “Vaguely,” Stone said.

  “Vaguely, my ass,” Dino chipped in.

  “I’m trying very hard not to turn around and look,” Tara said.

  “Don’t worry,” Viv replied. “You’ll catch her on our way out.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Tara said, “after that table-wide reaction.”

  “Her name is Hilda Ross,” Stone said, “née Rossetti. The captain was right; she’s a singer.”

  “Stone knows her better than he should,” Dino remarked.

  * * *

  —

  They finished dessert and coffee, and Stone paid the bill. Then they all got up and started for the street. Stone looked ahead; the Don and his consigliere were seated side by side on the banquette, Hilda was on the other side of the table, facing away from Stone.

  As they passed the table, the Don took no notice at all: he paid people to do that. However, Trafficante, the consigliere, locked eyes with Stone for about three seconds as his party made their way toward the front door. It was a steady gaze and cool, but there was something else in it that Stone did not like. It was no more than a flicker at the corner of his mouth, but it spoke to Stone of hatred. From a man he had never seen before tonight. It was unsettling.

  Hilda never noticed their passing.

  As they were getting into the car, Tara said, “Who is the singer—what’s her name?”

  “Hilda Ross.”

  “Why is she so interesting?”

  “She’s supposed to be in another state,” Stone replied. Tara didn’t bring it up again.

  32

  Once in the car, Tara said, “I’d better go straight home. I’ve got a big day tomorrow: buyers coming in from Atlanta and Dallas.”

  “Of course,” Stone muttered. “Fred, would you drop me at home, then take Ms. Wilkes to Bucks County, Pennsylvania?”

  There was a perfunctory good-night kiss, and she was gone. Forever, Stone reckoned.

  * * *

  —

  Stone had finished his breakfast and was working on the Times crossword, with Morning Joe on the TV, when Dino called.

  “What the fuck was that about last night?” Stone asked pleasantly.

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything.”

  “You certainly blew Tara out of my life. She hardly spoke to me on the way home.”

  “Then I take it she’s not breakfasting with you?”

  “You made absolutely certain of that.”

  “Viv made me do it,” Dino said, lamely.

  “So you admit it! And the hell Viv made you. You were seething malice!”

  “It wasn’t as bad as that.”

  “It was worse. Now Tara thinks I’ve been going out with some gun moll.”

  “Looks like she never left the city, doesn’t it?” Dino said. “Did you call her while she was still here?”

  “I tried.”

  “Let me guess: The number you have dialed is out of service.”

  “She uses throwaways.”

  “Something I’ll bet she learned from Joe Rossetti. He’s still going strong, you know. I’ll bet he was waiting at the Café Carlyle for her ten o’clock show to start. I did a little research on him. He’s at the track most days, and the only person he speaks to on the phone is his employer—or rather, his employer’s consigliere. What was it with you and Sal Trafficante? I saw that look on the way out.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never clapped eyes on the man before.”

  “Well, he certainly clapped eyes on you, and who can blame him? You’ve been screwing one of his employees.”

  “You don’t know that she works for him.”

  “All right, so you’ve been screwing his girlfriend, the singer. It hardly matters which.”

  “Where is Trafficante based?”

  “The Don moves around. He has a place in Manhattan, and Sal lives right next door. You know, I’m fascinated by that look he gave you. People he looks at like that usually end up doing a midnight tap dance in the East River, wearing concrete tap shoes.”

  “You have a rich fantasy life, Dino. You should be writing novels.”

  “You know I’m right about Hilda Ross, Stone. We learn a little more every day, and it’s all bad. You should try and stay on her good side. Maybe she can keep you alive for a few more days.”

  “Why would anybody want to kill me?” Stone asked plaintively.

  “How about jealousy? A famous motive, jealousy. Comes right behind money on Roget’s List of Motives. That was
a jealous look Sal gave you.”

  “If I keep listening to this I’m going to lose my breakfast.”

  “You’re going to lose a lot more than that, unless you listen harder. Never mind your breakfast.”

  “I can’t talk anymore.” Stone hung up. He hadn’t been kidding about losing his breakfast; he was fighting to hold on to it. He wanted to call Hilda and demand an explanation as to why she wasn’t in Florida, but he didn’t have her number or her e-mail address.

  Dino called back.

  “What?”

  “I was right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Joe Rossetti was at a ringside table at the Café Carlyle for the ten o’clock show. I called a guy I know there, and he filled me in. The old man has a suite there, too, which he shares with his daughter. And by the way, Hilda’s appearance at the Café was booked eight weeks ago.”

  “All right, so she’s a liar,” Stone admitted.

  “When she calls you, and she will, don’t take the call.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And if you do take the call, don’t agree to see her.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And if you do see her, have Fred pick her up and take her somewhere to meet you. You might also ask Fred to frisk her for weapons—guns, knives, ice picks.”

  “Dino, I can’t take any more of this.”

  “Dinner at Patroon, eight-thirty?”

  “Okay.” Stone hung up.

  33

  Stone was cleaning up his desk after his day when Joan rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Hilda Ross on one for you.”

  “Tell her I’m on a conference call. And ask her for a number, one that works, and I’ll call her back in a few minutes.”

  After a moment, the light on the phone went out. Joan came back. “She says she’ll call you.”

  Stone continued to rearrange his desk for another half hour. “The hell with her,” he said, finally. Then his cell phone rang.

  “Stone Barrington.”

  “Hi, it’s Hilda.”

  “Hi, there. Sorry I couldn’t talk before.”

  “That’s all right. Listen, about last night.”

  “How did your appearance at the Carlyle go? I’ll bet your dad enjoyed it.”

  That stopped her for a count of about four. “I guess I have some explaining to do,” she said finally.

  “One thing about explaining,” Stone said. “You never have to do it, if you don’t lie.”

  “If I could tell you everything—but I can’t—you’d understand why I lied.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he said, “but when you want to, then I’d appreciate either the truth or silence.”

  “That’s fair enough, I guess.”

  “Anything you want to tell me now? I’m listening.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you at Caravaggio last night.”

  “Nor I, you.”

  “I got the Carlyle gig on short notice and had to fly right back from Florida.”

  “Lies one and two,” Stone said. “Try harder.”

  “What do you mean ‘lies one and two’?”

  “One: you made the Carlyle booking eight weeks ago. Two: you didn’t go to Florida. I’m still listening.”

  “All right, here’s some truth: watch your back.”

  “I guess that’s always good advice. Should I watch for anything or anyone in particular?”

  “If Sal wants you dead, you’ll never see it coming.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Sal.”

  “Now who’s lying? I was sitting with him last night at the restaurant!”

  “I didn’t know anyone at that table except you, and I’m not so sure about you.”

  “Sal Trafficante is the number two man in the East Coast mob,” she said. “His dining companion was Antonio Datilla, who’s number one.”

  “You know such interesting people,” Stone said. “Why would this Sal be concerned with my back?”

  “Because of me.”

  “Have I been unknowingly competing with Sal for your affections?”

  “Sal thinks so, except for the ‘unknowingly’ part.”

  “Is Sal a psychic in his spare time?”

  “Pretty much,” she replied.

  “Well, let’s do a little ESP,” Stone said. “I’d never seen nor heard of Sal until last night. The only person I know who is acquainted with Sal is you. Ergo, you told Sal that I was his competition.”

  “Not exactly. He figured it out.”

  “Based on what knowledge?”

  “I may have said something that included your name.”

  “What sort of something?”

  “Something in bed.”

  “What did you tell Sal about me?”

  “Nothing. He had never heard your name until I spoke it.”

  “In bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you say, exactly, about me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But you spoke my name?”

  “I screamed your name!!! When Sal and I were fucking!!! Now do you get it?”

  Stone was momentarily at a loss for words. “I hope you lied to him,” he said, finally.

  “What could I say? That I made up somebody else’s name while I was fucking him?”

  “That would have been a start.”

  “I said it was the name of an old boyfriend from college,” she said. “That didn’t work.”

  “What worked?”

  “The truth. It was all I had left.”

  “And that worked?”

  “Well, he didn’t beat me up, so I guess so.”

  “Did you tell him who I was?”

  “I didn’t need to. It took him about three minutes to have somebody, ah, research you. It’s not a common name, you know.”

  “What else does he know about me?”

  “Have you ever googled yourself?”

  “Not for a long time.”

  “Maybe you’d better have a look at Wikipedia.”

  “Maybe I’d better,” Stone admitted.

  “Look, this will blow over. I can convince him that you’re nothing to me.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “I don’t know. I won’t be bringing up your name, though.”

  “That’s good to know, but not very comforting.”

  “I could come over there and comfort you,” she said.

  “I think that would be an apocalyptic lapse in judgment,” Stone said.

  “He won’t know. He’s already left town.”

  “I expect he’s acquainted with persons who have not left town. And from what you’ve told me, they could be following you, as well as me.”

  “You think so?”

  “What phone are you talking on?” Stone asked.

  “The phone in my suite, at the Carlyle.”

  “Oh, swell,” Stone said. “That’s really confidential. He’s probably already hired a staff member to give him a daily rundown on your calls in his absence.”

  “I didn’t think of that. Next time I’ll use a throwaway.”

  “Listen to me, Hilda. You cannot communicate with me by any means.”

  “For how long?”

  “Forever is almost long enough. If he learns something that will make him want to kill me, he will probably include you on his revenge list.”

  “All right, I won’t call again.”

  “Or write or e-mail or FedEx or send carrier pigeons.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “Then goodbye, my dear. I hope we’ll both live long enough to meet again after somebody has put two in Mr. Trafficante’s head.” He hung up.

&n
bsp; He had only one thought. Jesus, what a mess!

  34

  Stone made it to Patroon by eight-thirty. As he entered, he looked to his usual table and saw Dino drinking with a woman whose back was to him, but who was not Viv. It didn’t look like Hilda, either.

  He approached the table cautiously. It was Tara Wilkes. She stood up and hugged him. “I’m so sorry for my behavior last night,” she said.

  He held her a little away from him and looked into her eyes. “Why are you sorry?”

  “I had an unreasonable fit of jealousy, and I behaved badly. Will you forgive me?”

  “Nothing to forgive,” Stone said, reseating her, then seating himself.

  “Welcome back into the fold,” Dino said.

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  “Please excuse me,” Tara said, and allowed herself to be steered toward the ladies’.

  “Me back in the fold? I thought it was Tara, and the fold was mine.”

  “It’s a female thing,” Dino said. “She asks your forgiveness, but what she’s really doing is forgiving you.”

  “You’ve been reading Cosmopolitan, haven’t you?”

  “Sometimes I pick it up at the barbershop,” Dino admitted. “It’s unisex. You look like you don’t feel well,” he said.

  “I don’t particularly. I mean, I’m not sick, I’ve just had some bad news.”

  “Share with me. Maybe that will help.”

  He told Dino about his conversation with Hilda Ross.

  Dino’s eyes widened. “She screamed your name while in Trafficante’s arms? That’s unbelievable!”

  “Trafficante believed it. It didn’t take him long to get a fix on me, either. He knows everything but my underwear size and Social Security number.”

  “Is Sal the jealous type?”

  “Yes, and one who can turn jealousy into revenge in a flash.”

  “So that’s why he looked at you that way last night?”

  “Here comes Tara,” Stone said. “Try to look cheerful and unconcerned.”

  “Sure,” Dino said, pasting a wide smile on his face. Stone did the same.

  Tara sat down. “What are you two so happy about?”