by Stuart Woods
The following morning Stone walked stiffly out of the hospital and rode home in a cab with Arrington.
“You need some help with the steps?” she asked.
“I’ll manage,” he said. but the climbing made his ribs hurt. While Arrington went to consult Helene about lunch, he took the elevator upstairs and went to the safe in his dressing room. He took out a German.765 caliber automatic pistol, a small but damaging weapon, then he dressed in pajamas and a robe and put the pistol into a robe pocket. Finally, and with some difficulty, he knelt next to his bed, retrieved the shotgun from its hiding place under the bed. and set it where he could easily reach it. Only then did he prop himself up in bed. When he next met the Messrs. Bruce, he intended to be ready.
Enrico Bianchi got out of his car on a narrow street in Little Italy and walked into the La Boheme Coffee House. He nodded to several people at tables, then went straight through to a rear room, where a nattily dressed young man awaited him.
“Good morning, padrone,” the young man said.
Bianchi tapped his ear with a finger and made a circular motion in the air.
“It was swept ten minutes ago,” the young man said. “We’re all right.”
“What happened yesterday?” Bianchi asked, taking a chair.
“A waiter who runs numbers spotted them on West Forty-fourth Street. He got excited and took their photograph, and they ran. He tried to follow them, but they were gone. We checked the block and found out they had checked in at the Mansfield Hotel less than half an hour before. They returned there, got their bags, and left in a hurry.”
“And now?”
“They’ve gone to ground. As soon as they hit the streets, we’ll have them.”
“Let me see the photograph,” Bianchi said.
The young man handed him a snapshot.
“Yes, that’s our boys.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find them.”
“We have a new problem. I had a call this morning; the police are now looking for them, and they’ve got photographs, too, although we managed to slow the prints down a little.”
“That’s not good.”
“It means that we will just have to find them first, and if we do, we won’t have as much time as I’d hoped to fake a crime. The important thing, though, is that they are dead.”
“I understand.”
“I want a dozen men on the streets on the Upper East Side, ready to do the work at a moment’s notice. Give them stolen cellular telephones, and tell them to be brief when they use them.”
“No problem.”
“Be sure each man has a silenced weapon, too, and tell them to use knives if at all possible. This will have to be done quickly and with little fuss.”
“What about bystanders?”
“Leave no one alive who could identify our people. I don’t want this to come back to us.”
“Yes, padrone.”
“Get to me the minute you have news.” Bianchi left the coffeehouse and went back to his car.
Dino stood in the squad room handing out photographs. “Sorry these took so long, but we had problems with the photo lab. We’re looking for these two for aggravated battery, but the thing is, we think one or both of them may have capped Arnie Millman, so this is an all-out push. Those of you on a beat, I want every doorman in a hotel or apartment building to see these pictures. If you glom onto these guys, don’t try to take them; call for backup. I don’t want no dead heroes. Got that?”
There was a murmur of assent from the gathering.
“Okay, get on it,” Dino said, then went back to his office and called Stone. “How you feeling, pal?”
“A lot better, thanks.”
“The pictures of the Bruces are on the street; we’re doing a full-court press.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Stone, I hope you won’t go looking for these guys.”
“You can always hope.”
“It’s better to let us find them. You can be the star witness at the trial. Stay home and get well.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You got a piece?”
“I have.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“I never fail to take your advice twice, Dino.”
Stone hung up the phone, got undressed, shaved, and showered. Arrington rewound the Ace bandage around his sore ribs.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“It’s okay; I’m really feeling a lot better.”
“I’m going out for a while; will you be okay?”
“Sure. Where you going?”
“I’ve got to see somebody at The New Yorker, and then I want to run by my place for a minute. In my rush to get to you I forgot half my makeup.”
“You wear makeup?”
“You’re sweet.”
Chapter 55
Richard Hickock had just finished a sandwich at his desk when he heard the fax machine ring in the outer office. His secretary was at lunch, so he got up and walked through the large double doors that separated him from his four office workers and checked the machine. As he watched, a single sheet of paper was fed into the bin. He picked it up.
DIRT
Greetings, earthlings! Time for the BIG story!
Those of you who have followed the riches-to-riches career of Richard Hickock, and who may have admired the taste and style of his many publications, might like to know about the underside of Dickie’s paper empire.
Our Dickie owns a corporation you never heard of, one called WINDOW SEAT. Remember that name, because you’re going to be reading a lot about it, though maybe not in Dickie’s papers. WINDOW SEAT, which is operated on a day-to-day basis by Dickie’s brother-in-law, Martin Wynne, is a holding company based in Zurich that holds interests in publications as diverse as The Infiltrator and two equally lascivious European tabloids, one in London, one in Dusseldorf. So while spouting off about journalistic integrity, Dickie is licking the cream off a pie that also contains three gay porn magazines, and an Internet business that sends out photos of charmingly posed, quite beautiful children in the arms of less charming grownups.
These “organs” are pumping cash, at the current rate of $70,000,000 a year, straight into bank accounts in the Caymans and in Zurich. (We have the account numbers, for those who are really interested.) What we know will shock you to the core is that our own dear Internal Revenue Service has never seen so much as a sawbuck in taxes on these swill-gotten gains! (Admit it, aren’t you shocked?)
Just in case there are any doubters among you, we’ve prepared a dozen packets containing chapter and verse and addressed them to some of our nation’s leading newspapers and television networks, not to mention the boys and girls at the IRS. Once these are sent, we predict that less than twenty-four hours will pass before Dickie is in either a federal lockup or Brazil! Stay tuned for more!
P.S. Dickie, the above copy is for your eyes only. To prevent those packets from going out, call the number below before five today, which is when Federal Express is due to pick them up, It’s a cellular phone, so don’t try to trace its location.
Before Hickock was halfway through this bulletin, his bowels were turning to water. He finished reading it in his private john, and when he read the postscript, his relief was palpable. He finished up in the john, locked the door to his office, and called the number.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hickock,” a pleasant voice said.
“Who else did you send this to?” Hickock demanded.
“Just you, just this once, if you follow instructions. Got a pencil?”
“Yes.”
“Write this down very carefully,” the voice said, “because it would not react to your benefit if you made a mistake.”
“Go ahead.”
“Before the close of business today you are to wire-transfer the sum of two million dollars from the Window Seat Zurich account to the Bank of Europe in Luxembourg, account number 353-67-6381. Got that?”
Hick
ock repeated the information.
“You’ve got just this one chance to get it right,” the voice said. “If you don’t make a mistake, the funds will be in Luxembourg tomorrow morning. If you do make a mistake, those packets of information will be at their destinations by three P.M. tomorrow, and you will spend the rest of your life either in prison or running.”
“Look, I’m not sure I can raise that much today.”
“You’re not listening, Mr. Hickock. And by the way, if you make any attempt to find us, or any attempt to bring pressure to bear on the Luxembourg Bank to find out who we are, it will be over for you instantly. We can still make a very nice buck by hawking the story, but we’d rather keep it clean and simple. Since this is the last time we’ll ever speak, Mr. Hickock, is there anything else you’d like to say?”
“Yes. I know who you are, Mr. Bruce, you and your brother, and I have your photographs.”
“Big mistake, Mr. Hickock; that little outburst cost you one million dollars. So that’s three million dollars to the Luxembourg account by the close of business. And if either of us should ever meet with an unfortunate accident, you may be sure that the packets will automatically be sent by our designated representatives. Good-bye, Mr. Hickock. I hope you make the right decision.” The connection was broken.
Hickock sat at his desk for half an hour, his face in his hands, sweat dripping onto the desktop. His mind raced like that of a cornered rat looking for escape. But there was no escape. Finally he turned to the computer on his desk and opened a fax file to his Zurich bank. He typed in the instructions for the wire transfer to Luxembourg, followed by the code known only to him and his banker. With a sob, he pressed the send key, then he sat back in his chair and wept. Less than a minute later, he sat bolt upright. Enrico Bianchi’s people were out looking for those two men now, he remembered, and if they found them…
“Oh, my God,” he said aloud. He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. The phone rang twice and an electronic voice said, “Leave… your… message… at… the… tone,” followed by a short beep.
“Message for Mr. Crown,” he said into the phone. “Contact Mr. Gold at the earliest possible moment, utmost urgency.”
“Thank… you,” the voice said.
Hickock hoped to God Bianchi was wearing his beeper. He sat back to wait for the call. A moment later, his pocket phone rang. “Yes?” he said.
“Dick, it’s Amanda. I’ve been doing some thinking and believe that before this business goes any further, you and I should sit down and talk about a new contract.”
“Amanda, we’ve just signed a contract,” he said, astonished. Then he began to see.
“Yes, but I think the circumstances call for something much more substantial, don’t you? After all, you and I have become something like partners, haven’t we?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, resignedly.
“Lunch? Twenty-One? Twelve-thirty?”
“I’ll be there.” He hung up. The phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“This is Mr. Crown. Do you wish to meet?”
“There isn’t time,” Hickock said. “Listen to me…”
“Stop, don’t talk. Same place as last time. One hour.”
“Yes,” Hickock said. The connection was broken.
Hickock struggled into his coat, headed for the door, then stopped and went back to his desk. He dialed a London number.
“Hello?” a familiar voice said.
“It’s Dick,” Hickock said. “Your son-in-law in L.A. has talked too much; he may have blown the lid off everything.”
There was much swearing at the other end of the line.
“Yes, I feel pretty much the same way. I may be able to head this off, but I thought you should know about Peebles. I’ll leave it to you how to handle him.”
“I know exactly how to handle him,” the man said.
Hickock hung up and ran for his meeting with Bianchi.
Chapter 56
Arrington saw her editor at The New Yorker, and they had lunch at the Royalton Hotel; then she did some shopping at Bloomingdale’s. It was growing dark when she got out of a cab in front of her apartment building.
“Good afternoon, Miss Carter,” the doorman said, holding the cab door for her. “We haven’ seen you for a while.”
“I’ve been staying with a friend, Jimmy; I just came by to pick up some things.”
“I’ve been keeping your mail for you,” Jimmy said. “You want it now?”
“I’ll pick it up on the way out,” she said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“Very good, Miss.”
Arrington took the elevator to her floor, rummaging in her bag for the key. She kept a key in each of her bags, and today she had taken the big one. The key was at the very bottom, as usual. She inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. To her astonishment, there was someone sitting at her desk. Then something struck her on the side of the head, and she fell to the floor, only half-conscious.
“Jesus Christ, Tommy!” she heard somebody say. “You never said she might come home!”
“I didn’t think she would,” Jonathan Dryer’s voice replied. “There’s a roll of duct tape in my bag, Charlie; hand it to me, will you?”
She was rolled onto her back, and before she could focus on the face above her, a wide strip of tape was slapped across her eyes, and another across her mouth.
“What are we going to do with her, Tommy?” the first voice said. “We can’t leave her here alive.”
“I guess not,” Tommy replied, “but we’re going to be here until tomorrow. Wouldn’t you like to fuck her while we wait to hear from the bank?”
Arrington was rolled roughly onto her stomach. and her hands were taped behind her back. She was blind and dumb, but her head was beginning to clear, and she digested what she had just heard.
“Sure,” Charlie said, and he sounded greedy.
“She’s hot stuff, take it from me,” Tommy said. “I won’t tape her feet.” He hauled her to her feet and dumped her on the sofa. “You’ll want to be able to spread her legs, won’t you?”
“Right,” Charlie said, chuckling. “Just let me finish this fax to the Luxembourg bank.”
Out on Fifth Avenue, Detective Ernie Martinez was on foot, doing a patrolman’s job. It was beneath him, but Martinez had his own reasons for working so hard that day. He saw a doorman standing outside an apartment building, at least the fiftieth he had talked to that day. “How y’doing?” he asked the man, flashing his badge.
“Pretty good, officer. Can I help you?”
Martinez produced the two photographs. “You ever seen either one of these guys before?”
The doorman looked carefully at the two photographs, then glanced back at Martinez. “Maybe, one of them,” he said.
“There’s twenty in it for you, if you do me some good here,” Martinez said.
“Yeah, I know this guy,” the doorman said, holding up one of the photographs. “He’s spent a lot of time with the lady in Nine-A, Miss Carter.”
“That’s Nine-A?” Martinez asked.
“Yeah. Pretty lady, Miss Carter.”
“You think he might be up there right now?”
The doorman hadn’t seen any money yet, so he played the detective along. “Could be,” he said.
“Thanks,” Martinez said, turning away.
“Hey, what about my twenty?”
Martinez stopped, produced a twenty, but snatched it back when the doorman grabbed for it. “You don’t say nothing to nobody about this, right? I was never here.”
“Right,” the doorman said, “you were never here.” This time he was allowed to grab the twenty.
Martinez hoofed it around the corner and found a pay phone.
“Yeah?” a voice said.
“This is Ernie Martinez. You know those two guys you’re looking for?”
“Yeah.”
“I just might have them for you.”
“Yeah? W
here?”
“You’ll tell the big guy that Ernie Martinez phoned it in?”
“Yeah, sure, Ernie.”
“Ten-eleven Fifth Avenue, Apartment Nine-A. Doorman says they might be up there right now.”
“Thanks, Ernie; we’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll have to phone this in, but I’ll wait an hour, okay?”
“Yeah, that’s good, Ernie.”
“Don’t forget to tell him.”
But the man had already hung up.
Martinez found a coffee shop on Madison and settled himself on a stool with his paper, a cup of coffee, and a doughnut.
It was dark now, and Arrington hadn’t returned. Stone was getting worried. He found her diary with the name of her appointment at the magazine, and he called the editor.
“This is Stone Barrington; I’m a friend of Arrington Carter. I believe she had an appointment with you this morning.”
“That’s right,” the woman said. “We had lunch after that.”
“What time did she leave you?”
“Sometime after three. She said she was going to Bloomingdale’s.”
“Thanks very much,” Stone said, then hung up. He looked at his watch. Bloomingdale’s had been closed for forty-five minutes. She had said she was going to her old apartment, hadn’t she? He dialed the number, but only got her answering machine. He heard the beep. “Hello, Arrington? Are you there? If you’re there, pick up.” He waited a moment, but she didn’t answer. “If you get this message, call me at home.” He hung up. He’d wait a few minutes, then call again.
Richard Hickock rode up in the freight elevator, and when he emerged onto the empty factory floor it was dark. A moment later, half a dozen low-wattage bulbs came on, and Enrico Bianchi stepped from behind a column.
“You’re late, Dick,” Bianchi said. “I’ve been waiting over an hour.” He did not sound happy.
“I’m sorry, Ricky, we were stuck in the Midtown Tunnel the whole damned time; there was a big pileup. When we got out I called your beeper, but there was no answer.”