by Stuart Woods
It was seven-thirty before Marla scratched at the kitchen door and was let in.
“Good evening,” Stone said. “Would you like a drink?”
“I would kill for a martini,” Marla replied, plopping down on the kitchen sofa.
Stone poured her the martini and himself a Knob Creek and sat down beside her. “Cheers,” he said. “Is the show coming into shape?”
“It is,” she said, “praise God. The structure is intact, and the lines, music, and choreography have been learned by my cast. Now we’re just working on not tripping over the scenery.”
“Congratulations on not having to panic at this juncture,” Stone said, clinking her glass with his.
“Mmmmm,” she said, sipping her martini. “Perfection. Don’t let me drink more than eight of these or I’ll make a fool of myself.”
Stone laughed. “I promise-not one more than eight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll talk to you from the direction of the stove.”
“What are we having?”
“Osso buco,” Stone said, “with risotto.”
“Doesn’t that take hours?”
“Not in the pressure cooker,” he replied. “The risotto takes half an hour, though-no way to speed it up.”
“It all smells wonderful, and I thank you for not making me dress up to go out to a restaurant.” She pulled up a stool to the stove and watched him add stock to the risotto and stir it in. “Let’s get this out of the way,” she said. “Tell me about your wife.”
“She was murdered by a former and insanely jealous lover,” Stone said.
“I hope he got the chair.”
“They don’t do the chair anymore, it’s the needle nowadays,” Stone said. “But, in any case, he’s still at large, probably in Mexico.”
“That must be hard to take.”
Stone shrugged and added more stock. “I’m not a vengeful person. He’ll be caught, eventually, and will spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“Not the death penalty?”
“I’m opposed to the death penalty.”
“On what grounds?”
“Religious, moral, and economic.”
“I can understand the first two, but economic?”
“The death penalty costs the state several times as much as a prisoner’s serving life without parole, what with appeals. And in prison, they can make him earn his keep, until he’s too old or sick to work.”
“I never thought of that,” she said. “I guess I’m more vengeful than you.”
“I’ll try never to earn your vengeance,” Stone said.
“Smart move. I can be a real bitch.”
“Or your anger.”
Stone turned off the pressure cooker and let it cool, but he kept stirring the risotto and adding the stock. Finally, when all the liquid had been absorbed, he folded in half a container of creme fraiche and a couple of fistfuls of grated Parmesan cheese, then raked the rice into a platter and made a wall of it around the rim. He opened the pressure cooker, spooned out four slabs of the veal, and poured the sauce over it. “Voila,” he said, setting the platter on the table. And seating her.
“Why so much?” she asked. “Are we expecting someone else?”
Stone tasted the wine and poured them each a glass. “Nope, but I’ll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow and maybe for dinner tomorrow night, too.”
“How long ago did your wife die?”
“A year ago Christmas.”
“And how long have you been dating?”
“You’re the first woman I’ve asked out in New York,” Stone said.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Stone raised his wineglass. “You have convinced me I’m ready.”
“I’m flattered.”
“I’m flattered that you’re flattered. Try your food.”
She forked a piece of the veal into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then tried the risotto. “You’re hired,” she said. “Can you come to the theater and make lunch every day?”
“I work every day,” he replied, “but I appreciate the offer.”
“Your offices are in the Seagram Building, aren’t they?”
“That’s right, but my office is right through that door and through a couple of rooms. It used to be a dentist’s offices, but when I inherited the house, I made it into my workplace. It houses my secretary, an associate, and me.”
“You inherited all this?”
“Yes, from a great-aunt, but it wasn’t in this good a shape. Took a lot of work.”
“I want to see the whole place,” she said.
“After dinner. Besides, I haven’t heard your life story yet.”
“Born in a small town in Georgia called Delano,” she said. “Learned to tap dance at four-a regular Shirley Temple-started ballet at six, and danced my way through school and college. Came to New York, auditioned for thirty-seven shows, finally got one, and I haven’t been at liberty since.”
“That was concise,” Stone said.
“Well, I skipped the early husband, who turned out to be gay, and a few unsatisfactory love affairs. Something I don’t understand about you: how did you make the leap from the NYPD to Woodman and Weld?”
“I graduated from NYU Law before becoming a cop. Then I was wounded and invalided off the force. An old law school friend, who was at Woodman and Weld, took me to lunch and convinced me I should take a cram course for the bar exam and get myself a license. He promised me work.”
“So Woodman and Weld was your first job?”
“Not exactly a job. I was ‘of counsel,’ which meant, in my case, that I handled the cases the firm didn’t want to be seen to handle.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, a client’s wife is involved in a hit-and-run, a client’s son is accused of date rape, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds sordid.”
“Actually, it was very interesting indeed. I had more fun than anybody over at the Seagram Building.”
“Is that what you still do for them?”
“No, I became a partner last year, after I made some rain.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I brought in some serious business.”
“What sort of business?”
“A large corporate security business called Strategic Services, Centurion Studios, the Steele insurance group, and a new hotel being built now in Bel-Air, California.”
“Sounds like a great list. Did you and your wife have any children?”
“A son, Peter, who’s at the Yale School of Drama now.”
“Studying acting?”
“Studying everything. He wants to direct. In fact, his first film is being released this fall.”
“An indie, of course.”
“Yes, but it got picked up by Centurion.”
“You have anything to do with that?”
“I introduced Peter to the CEO. He did the rest.”
“Sounds like a very bright boy.”
“You have no idea.”
They lingered over their wine, then he showed her the house. Just before eleven, she made her way back across the garden to her own place, unmolested.
Stone couldn’t remember ever having let that happen before.
17
Herbie slept his usual six hours and made it into work at seven-thirty a.m.. He walked into his office, which was oddly dark, and felt for the light switch. He was in the wrong office.
“What do you think?” Cookie asked from behind him.
Herbie looked at her, then turned back to the strange room. It was now lit by lamps in the four corners and one behind an Eames lounge chair, with a matching ottoman, which seemed to have replaced the desk. A glass coffee table sat next to that, and a leather sofa on the opposite side, with matching armchairs on the other two sides of the table. A beautiful oriental rug glowed golden in the light from the lamps. Sunlight was shut out by venetian blinds that matched the wood in the floor.
“Do I work here
?” Herbie asked.
“You do, if you want to,” Cookie said. “I can send it all back, if you don’t like it.”
Herbie went and sat in the beautiful chair and put his feet on the ottoman. His back didn’t hurt. “I like it,” he said. “No, I love it. Where’s all my stuff?”
“In the credenza at your right hand,” she replied. “There are four file drawers and eight ordinary ones.”
Herbie reached to his right and his hand fell on the phone. Next to that was a marble pencil box. He looked around and saw handsomely framed pictures on the walls and a Chinese terra-cotta horse in the center of the coffee table.
“It’s T’ang dynasty,” she said, “about eleven hundred years old.” She handed him a sheet of paper. “Here’s the bill for everything.”
Herbie looked at it: $54,540. “You’re nearly five grand over budget.”
“Tell me what you’d like to send back,” she said.
Herbie looked around. “Absolutely nothing. How’d you get this done so fast?”
“ABC has people who are accustomed to putting together whole rooms for movies and TV commercials in short order. I know one of them.”
“Cookie,” Herbie said, “how’d you like to redo my apartment in your spare time?”
“What’s my budget?”
“You can go to half a million, if you have to, but that won’t include art-I like the art I have.”
“My fee is five percent of what I spend,” she said.
“You’re hired.”
She poured him a cup of coffee, and it tasted much better than it had the day before.
“This isn’t my usual coffee,” he said. “It’s a lot better.”
“I’m glad you like it,” she responded. “Excuse me, I have to get to work on your closing Friday morning.”
“We’ve got a real estate department for that,” Herbie said.
“I know how to put a closing together,” she said, “and it will take me a third less time than if they do it.”
“Then go to work.”
Herbie looked around for his phone messages: there were two, one from Stone Barrington and one from Mike Freeman. He called Mike first, and was surprised when he answered his own phone. “Hey, Mike. Don’t you have a secretary anymore?”
“She doesn’t get in this early,” Mike said. “Only the boss does.”
“Thank you so much for sending your team down to High Cotton,” Herbie said.
“They’re back this morning-they’ve got the whole building to wire.”
“That’s great. With your help, I’ll turn this little venture into a real business.”
“From what Marshall Brennan tells me about their ideas, that will happen very quickly,” Mike said. “Tell me, Herbie, how’d you like a new client?”
“I’d like nothing better!”
“I hired a guy yesterday, and he’s going to set up a new division for me that will specialize in bodyguard training. We’ve always done that for our own people, but now we’re going to offer the training to our clients’ employees. We’ve bought an old road racing track upstate a ways that we’ll turn into a high-performance, defensive-driving school, and there’ll be four firing ranges, too-everything from handguns to automatic weapons.”
“Sounds terrific, Mike. How can I help?”
“I’d like you to create a corporate framework for the division, set up the accounting and a purchasing system for equipment. Though it’s wholly owned, I’d like it to operate like a separate company.”
“I can do that.”
“The guy I’ve hired, who’ll be the CEO, is called Josh Hook. He’s ex-CIA, spent a little over twenty years there, in operations. His experience is broad and deep. I’ll have him call you.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from him, Mike, and I’ll go ahead and set up the company as a client. You have a name yet?”
“Strategic Defense,” Mike said.
“Got it.”
“You’ll hear from Josh later today.” Mike said goodbye and hung up.
There was a knock, and Herbie looked up to find Bill Eggers leaning against the doorjamb. “What the hell is this?” Eggers asked.
“Come in, Bill, and have a seat.”
“I didn’t authorize you to redecorate,” Eggers said.
“No, and you didn’t pay for it, either,” Herbie pointed out.
“In that case, I’ll have a seat.” He settled into an armchair and looked around. “I didn’t know you had taste this good, Herbert.”
“I don’t,” Herbie said, “but I have good taste in secretaries. She’s out in her cubicle right now setting up a real estate closing for Friday.”
“We have a department for that,” Eggers said.
“She’ll use their checklist, but she can do it faster and cheaper. You can bill High Cotton Ideas for your department.”
“You only got this piece of business yesterday, didn’t you?”
“That’s right, but it’s not a business yet, just a collection of ill-groomed computer geeks. I’m turning it into a business.”
“So I heard. And I hear you’ve got Strategic Services involved, and an architect, too. Are we going to make any money out of this?”
“I billed fifteen hours yesterday, and my associate as many. By the way-thanks. I like Bobby Bentley.”
“Good.” Eggers stood up.
“Oh, and I got a new piece of business this morning.” Herbie told him about his conversation with Mike Freeman.
Eggers listened, nodding, his face not betraying much. “Herbert,” he said, when Herbie had finished. “How much did this new stuff cost?”
Herbie picked up the bill and handed it to him.
Eggers folded the bill and tucked it into his coat pocket. “I’ll take care of this,” he said.
Herbie smiled. “Thank you, Bill. Oh, and I’d like to give my secretary a fifteen percent raise.”
Eggers nodded. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, then he turned and walked back down the hall.
“Cookie!” Herbie yelled. “Get in here!”
18
Herbie Fisher was sitting in his new office, letting the past two days wash over him, luxuriating in his new status, his new clients, and a new kind of self-regard that had always been out of his reach until this moment. His phone buzzed.
“Mr. Joshua Hook to see you,” Cookie said.
“Send him right in,” Herbie replied. He got to his feet as his new client entered his office. The man was six-two or — three, two-twenty, thick salt-and-pepper hair, tanned, and very fit-looking. He looked around Herbie’s office. “Holy shit!” he muttered, half to himself.
“Josh, I’m Herb Fisher. Please have a seat.”
The man gave Herbie a bone-crushing handshake, settled into a big chair, and set his briefcase and a cardboard tube on the coffee table. “This is the first lawyer’s office I’ve ever felt comfortable in,” Josh said.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“If it’s very strong,” he replied.
Herbie poured him a mug. “Try this.”
Josh sipped it. “A man after my own heart,” he said. “This stuff would eat its way through the stomach wall of an ordinary human being.”
Herbie thought the statement said as much about the man himself as about the coffee. “I’m glad you like it. And congratulations on your new job at Strategic Services.”
“I work at Strategic Defense,” Josh said. “Strategic Services just owns me.”
“I understand you had a career at the CIA,” Herbie said.
“I did.”
“What did you do there?”
“None of your fucking business,” Josh replied, coolly.
Herbie laughed. “No, I guess not. I take it you were on the operational side, though-that’s according to Mike Freeman.”
“I would have made a poor support man,” Josh said, “and an even worse analyst.”
Herbie produced a legal pad. “Mike has told me you’ll need to s
et up a corporate structure. I take it you’ll be CEO?”
“That’s right. Mike will be chairman of the board. If you do decent work I might ask you to join the board.”
Herbie jotted all this down. “I take it there’s a piece of property upstate somewhere.”
Josh popped the end out of the cardboard tube and shook out a thick sheaf of papers. “There is,” he said, “and this is what we’re going to put on it.” He unrolled the papers and tucked one side under Herbie’s T’ang dynasty terra-cotta horse, and Herbie set his marble pencil box on the other end.
“As you can see,” Josh said, “we’ve got a dozen buildings, six of which have just been completed, four outdoor firing ranges, each with a high earthen berm to stop the lead, and two indoor ranges, as well. We’ve already got a five-thousand-foot runway in place, with two large hangars and a fuel farm. Mike bought a private field intact, along with another six hundred acres.”
“You’re expecting a lot of executive aircraft, then?”
“It’s more secure to fly your students in. We don’t want to arouse attention at a commercial airport-Stewart International is the nearest-and a lot of them will be bringing in personal weapons.”
“I see.”
“You ever fired a weapon, Herb?”
“Yes,” Herbie replied, “but in a coffeehouse, not a firing range.”
“Did that get you arrested?”
“It did, but I was released after a short time. I had a good lawyer who made a good case to the DA for self-defense.”
“Did you hit anybody?”
“Only the man I was aiming at.”
“That’s the idea, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is,” Herbie said.
“I’d like you to come up to our place and do a course with us.”
“That would be interesting,” Herbie said.
“It will be more than that,” Josh said. “It will be educational, in the best sense of the word.”
“Then I’ll do it,” Herbie replied, smiling. “I could use some more education, especially since it’s something of a practical nature.”
“It’s a dangerous world,” Josh said. “It’s practical to stay alive and unharmed.”
“I’m in favor of both of those,” Herbie said. “Did you come directly to Mike from the Agency?”