by Stuart Woods
“Now I’m impressed.”
“Be sure and let him know it, or he’ll be hurt.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had dinner with a real live movie star.”
“Superstar, darling; if you forget, he’ll remind you.”
“And his girl?”
“One never knows with Vance. She might be a princess or a whore – more likely both.” She sipped her drink. “I’ve not asked you, Stone; is there a woman in your life?”
“There was until yesterday.”
Amanda smiled. “How convenient. I hope you’re not too crushed.”
“I’m managing.”
“Something I should mention before the others arrive: don’t be the last to leave, all right?”
“Whatever you say.”
“It’s not that I wouldn’t want you to stay, it’s just that I don’t want to start any rumors.”
“As you wish.”
“As a reward for giving up a late evening with me, how would you like to drive out to the country tomorrow?”
“Sounds lovely.”
“It will be. The autumn leaves are at their peak, and the weather forecast for tomorrow is perfection.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Will you meet me downstairs at nine sharp? We’ll take my car; it’s new, and I can’t get enough of it. Do you drive?”
“I do, but I’ve always thought of a car as a liability in this city.”
“It is, unless you have a convenient garage and a driver.”
The doorbell rang, and Amanda looked at her watch. “That will be Dick Hickock,” she said. “He always comes to dinner exactly on time, damn him.”
A moment later, the maid ushered in the Hickocks and introductions were made. A man appeared to mix drinks while the maid went to answer the door again.
Hickock was a stocky, balding man in an expensive suit; his wife, Glynnis, looked expensive, too.
Hickock fixed him with a stare. “What do you do, Barrington?” he asked.
“I’m a lawyer, and please call me Stone.”
“You can call me Mr. Hickock.”
“Thanks, Dick.”
Hickock managed a small smile. “What firm?”
“I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld, but I practice privately, too.”
“What sort of practice? Financial?”
“Only if the transaction is perceived as being of a criminal nature.”
“Ah, a mob lawyer, eh?”
“No, my clients seem to arrive one at a time.”
“But they’re criminals?”
“I represent only the innocent, even if they’re proven guilty.”
Hickock laughed aloud. “And what did you think of this O.J. business?”
“If I should ever be charged with a double murder, I would be very pleased for Johnnie Cochran, Bob Shapiro, and Lee Bailey to represent me.”
Bill and Susan Eggers entered the room and greeted everyone. Stone liked Bill, but had always found Susan to be cold, even haughty. She had been Bill’s entree to the Four Hundred, such as they were. She shook Stone’s hand and seemed ready to ward off any attempt at a kiss.
Vance Calder arrived last, no doubt to make an entrance, and Stone found him to be just as handsome and charming as he was on the screen. He had been called the new Cary Grant, and Stone thought that appropriate. He also thought that Calder’s date was probably the most beautiful woman in New York. She was as tall as Calder, which wasn’t as tall as Stone had expected; she had shoulder-length hair the color of ranch mink and was wearing a mannish pinstriped, double-breasted suit. “This is Arrington Carter,” the actor said after he had shaken Stone’s hand. “Arrington, this is Stone Barrington.”
“Mr. Barrington,” the young woman said with a pleasingly southern accent, “you and I must never, ever marry.”
Stone and Calder both erupted with laughter, while she regarded them coolly. “Gentlemen, you make my point for me,” she said.
Stone had an urgent desire to sweep her out of the room someplace where he would not have to share her company with anyone else. Then he reminded himself who her date was, and what his own chances were of taking her away from a man whom People magazine, only the week before, had dubbed “the most beautiful man in America.”
They sat at a beautifully set round table and dined on caviar, followed by a crown roast of lamb, with bearnaise sauce on the side, and very good, fairly old wine. Stone was placed between Amanda and Arrington, and his hostess gave him the distinct impression that she would have arranged things differently if she had met the other woman beforehand.
Hickock was holding forth about the newspaper business. He took a swig of the Opus One ’89 and addressed Stone. “Do you read my newspaper?”
“Only for Amanda’s column,” Stone replied.
“Isn’t he sweet?” Amanda said, squeezing Stone’s thigh under the table.
“What about my editorial page?” Hickock asked.
“I only read your editorial page if I want to be annoyed,” Stone said.
Everybody laughed but Hickock. “I take it you’re a Democrat,” he said.
“A liberal Democrat,” Stone replied.
“These days nobody decides to become a liberal Democrat,” Hickock said. “It must run in your family.”
“On the contrary, my father was a Communist; so was my mother.”
Hickock looked genuinely shocked. “You can’t be serious.”
“Entirely,” Stone said. “I can’t really complain about it, because their politics brought them together. Where would I be if one of them had been a Republican?”
Vance Calder spoke up. “What work did your father do?”
“He was a carpenter.”
Bill Eggers broke in. “…and something of a genius as a maker of furniture and cabinet work. If he had been working in this country during the eighteenth century, Sotheby’s would be selling his work for very high prices today.”
“Why did he become a Communist?” Hickock asked.
“He had a Republican father,” Stone explained.
Amanda spoke up. “Stone’s mother was Matilda Stone.”
Hickock and Calder looked blank.
“The painter,” Amanda explained.
Arrington Carter was smiling broadly. “I own one of her pictures,” she said to Stone. “Of Washington Square in winter.”
Stone was surprised. “What good taste you have.”
“I certainly do.”
“Arrington has a very good collection,” Vance Calder said.
“I explained that to Vance,” Arrington said to the table. “He only knows about clothes, scripts, and leading ladies.”
Coffee was served in the library, and Stone declined brandy. “I really have to be leaving,” he said, rising. “I have an early appointment tomorrow morning.” He collected a grateful smile from Amanda, shook hands with the other guests, and went home.
As he lay in bed, waiting for sleep, he thought of Arrington Carter, but tried to dismiss her from his mind. He couldn’t compete with the likes of Vance Calder.
Arrington Barrington. He laughed aloud.
Chapter 16
Stone took the wheel and pulled away from Amanda’s apartment building. “Wonderful car,” he said, heading across Seventy-ninth Street toward the West Side Highway.
“Isn’t it?” Amanda agreed. “This is the first time I’ve sat in the front seat.”
As he accelerated onto the highway, Stone realized for the first time what twelve cylinders meant. “Unbelievable,” he said.
Amanda smiled. “Don’t get a ticket; I don’t want to waste a minute of today.”
After paying the toll as they left Manhattan, Stone set the cruise control at a reasonable number and relaxed, letting the amazing car do the work. The leaves along the Sawmill River Parkway were beginning to change color, but as they drove north, the colors intensified. By the time they were north of Danbury, the maples were so brilliant as to be distracting
. Following Amanda’s instructions, Stone ran the car along the winding Connecticut roads through Brookfield and Bridgewater. South of Washington, they turned down a narrow road into the woods, and after two miles they came to a beautiful little colonial house set back from the road behind a screen of birches and flaming maples. A handful of geese sunned themselves beside a small pond.
“Spectacular,” Stone said, as they got out of the car.
“I bought it twelve years ago for peanuts, and I’ve been redecorating ever since,” Amanda said. “After Sister Parrish died, I did it mostly myself. Will you get the basket from the trunk, please?”
Stone followed her through the front door and to the kitchen, where he deposited the basket. Amanda got a bottle of Krug Brut from the fridge and poured them both a glass. “Ready for lunch?” she asked.
“I’m ready for anything,” Stone replied.
“I’m delighted to hear it. Why don’t you light the fire in the living room, and I’ll be in in a moment. Take the champagne with you.”
Stone followed instructions, kneeling on a deep sheepskin rug to fan the fire. He tossed his jacket onto the sofa and sat cross-legged on the sheepskin, staring into the crackling flames.
“I love a fire,” Amanda said, setting down a silver tray and joining him on the rug. Having shed her coat, she was wearing a red cashmere jumpsuit that zipped up the front. The tray contained a lobster salad and a loaf of French bread, and they dug into it. When they had finished, Amanda pushed the tray aside and stretched out on the rug, her head in Stone’s lap. Sunlight streamed into the room, bringing out the soft colors in the carefully chosen furnishings. “Mmmm, I feel almost perfect,” she said.
“What would make you feel completely perfect?” Stone asked.
She laughed a low laugh and turned on her side. Gently, she put her mouth on his crotch and softly bit at his penis through his trousers. “That would,” she said. “Why are we wearing all these clothes?”
“I can’t imagine,” Stone replied.
She sat up and began working on his buttons. When she had stripped him of all his clothing, she stood, tugged at the long zipper, and stepped out of her jumpsuit. He was already fully erect, and she knelt on the sheepskin and took him into her mouth.
“If you do that much longer there won’t be anything left,” Stone panted.
She stopped and climbed on top of him. “I’ll be the judge of when there’s nothing left,” she said, taking him inside her. For better than half an hour they lay on the sheepskin, changing positions occasionally, experimenting, until she let out a sharp cry and began her orgasm. Stone rose to meet her, and they came nearly together, noisily, groping and gasping. Finally she fell, panting, beside him on the rug. “What a wonderful first time,” she breathed, stroking his damp penis.
“Wonderful is the word,” Stone agreed.
“Let me tell you how it’s going to be with you and me,” Amanda said.
“All right, tell me.”
“We’re not going to become an item around the city,” she said. “We’re not going to fall in love. We’re going to be friendly, maybe even friends, and we’re going to meet when we feel like it, not out of any sense of mutual obligation, but when we both feel like fucking each other, and when we do, we’re going to do it well. Can you live with that?”
“Oh, it’ll be a struggle, I suppose, but I think I can manage.”
“Not too cold and hard a relationship for you?”
“A fellow needs all sorts of relationships. Why don’t we try it and see how it goes?”
“I’d love that, but you have to understand, I don’t get involved. My life is too complicated for anything beyond sex.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Keep this in mind, too: there isn’t anything you can do to me, excepting violence, that I won’t enjoy, and there’s nothing you could want that I wouldn’t love doing to you. All my life I’ve had a voracious sexual appetite, and I love doing to just as well as being done to. Am I beginning to sound like the perfect woman?”
“Just about.”
She laughed. “I’m not jealous, either; you can fuck whomever you like, and it won’t bother me. But please understand: discretion must be absolute. Nobody knows we’re together or where we are, and that’s the way I want to keep it.”
“Not even Martha?”
“Not even Martha. With this scandal sheet thing happening I must be very, very careful. We can fuck at my apartment or at your house or here, but only when we’re absolutely alone, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
She was kneading his penis, then she swallowed it for a moment and stopped. “Do you particularly like this?” she asked.
“Particularly,” he managed to reply.
She found an orifice with a finger. “And this?”
“Oh, yes.”
She returned to his penis, but did not remove her finger.
Stone found her buttocks with his hand and returned the favor. For the next several minutes they used only lips and fingers until both came again. When they had exhausted their orgasms, Amanda left for a couple of minutes and came back with a basket of hot towels. Slowly, they sponged the sweat and fluids from each other’s body; then they stretched out again onto the sheepskin and relaxed.
“I wish we could stay the night,” Amanda said, “but I have to be back in the city this evening for an important engagement.”
“It’s all right,” Stone replied. “If we stayed the night I might be dead by morning.”
She giggled. “But you’ll be ready again when we’ve dozed for a while, won’t you?” She took a light hold on his penis and squeezed.
“I am entirely in your hands,” Stone breathed.
She laughed. “Easy now; rest for a little while.”
“Amanda, I’ve never met anyone quite like you,” he said.
“My darling, you have no idea, as yet, just how true that is. But you will.”
Somehow, he knew she was right.
Chapter 17
Stone was home by dark; he came into the house at dusk, feeling oddly empty inside. Drained might be a better word, he thought, reminding himself of how he had spent the afternoon. He switched on the living room lights and walked to the study, sinking into a leather wing chair.
Stone had always thought of himself as having a large appetite for sex, but he had never before met anyone as voracious as Amanda Dart. He remembered, in a high school science class, seeing a captive black widow spider as it came upon a fly in its web and watching as the spider had sucked the life out of the fly. Now he thought he knew how the fly felt.
He was about to go upstairs when a red light on the telephone beside him began to flash. It was the fax machine in his office, and he wondered who could be faxing him on a Saturday evening. He walked downstairs, switched on the office lights, and went to the machine. It was just spitting out a sheet of paper, and he picked it up.
Oh, God, he thought, what now?
DIRT
Greetings, earthlings! Fabulous dinner party at dear Amanda Dart’s last evening, just fabulous! A roster from the A-list, distinguished one and all. There was Richard A. Hickock, dear Amanda’s publisher, whose nineteen-year-old mistress, one Tiffany Potts (no kidding) was, somehow, not invited. Tiffany resides in nineties splendor in a lovely brownstone apartment not a condom’s throw from Dickie’s own digs on Fifth Avenue, and she is not trotted out on such occasions. Though top-heavy, Tiffany’s tits are her own, not the gift of a quack, and we are reliably informed that they are what keeps Dickie coming back for more. The publisher’s mammary complex is well known-what’s the matter, Dickie, didn’t Mommy do right by you as a baby?
The gorgeous Vance Calder was there, too, sporting one of the lovelies he hopes will keep folks from asking too many questions about his erotic preferences. This one is said to have a brain, too!
Finally, there was the handsome lawyer-cum-gumshoe, Stone Barrington, who Amanda has retained to uncover little old us
. Watch out, Stone, even though Amanda has just turned fifty, she’s as horny as ever she was. The former Ida Louise Erenheim, who hails from the downscale side of some small-town Georgia tracks, has bounced from bed to bed for thirty-odd years, improving her station with each hop. She’s discreet, we’ll give her that, but keep your fly zipped, Stone, or dear Amanda will be on you like a bunny rabbit!
Stone’s ears reddened as he read the sheet. The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Amanda. Another of those horrible faxes just came in, and I’ve got the number from the Caller ID box attached to my fax machine.”
“Give it to me.” She dictated the number, and Stone wrote it down. “I’ll check it out and get back to you,” he said.
“I’ll be out all evening, but you can get me first thing in the morning.”
“Right.” He hung up and switched on his computer. From a box on his desktop he selected a CD-ROM disk and inserted it into the computer. A few keystrokes later a window appeared on the screen. “Name or phone?” it asked.
He selected PHONE and typed in the number Amanda had just given him. “Searching,” the screen said. A few seconds later a name and address appeared on the screen. EDDIE’S MAILBOXES. The address was on Lexington Avenue in the upper seventies. Stone wrote it down, left the house through his office door, and hailed a cab. Less than ten minutes from when the fax had come in he was walking into Eddie’s Mailboxes. A young man stood behind the counter.
“Evening,” Stone said.
“Yeah,” the young man said. “Help you with something?”
Stone put the scandal sheet on the counter. “This was faxed to me a few minutes ago; can you tell me who brought it in here?”
“Well, the way I look at it,” the young man said, “that’s kind of confidential information.”
Stone put a twenty on the counter. “Describe the person.”
The twenty disappeared. “Hispanic, late teens, on the short side.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
“How long ago?”
“About forty-five minutes. He gave me the sheet and a list of numbers. The machine is still faxing them.”