Sex, Lies & Serious Money

by Stuart Woods

  “What’s that color there?” Laurence asked.

  “Umber—very nice with cognac and espresso upholstery.”

  “Good.”

  Dumont typed a few strokes on the keyboard. “No one has that car in stock,” he said, “but I see that we have one incoming. It’s on a ship right now, and it will be here in about three weeks. It has just about all the options, including ceramic brakes.”

  “I’m going to need a driver for the Bentley,” Laurence said.

  Dumont handed him a card. “This is a service that provides chauffeurs,” he said, “on an hourly basis. If they send you one you like, steal him.”

  Laurence laughed. “I like the way you think. How much are we talking about?”

  “For the Porsche and the Bentley?”

  “For the Porsche and both Bentleys.”

  “Ah.”

  Haggling ensued, and shortly they had made a deal, and Laurence got out his checkbook. “Will you call the service for me and get a driver over here right now?”

  “That’s short notice, but we’ll work something out.” He made the call, then covered the phone. “They have a man who can be here in forty minutes. He has to take the subway from Brooklyn. If you don’t want to wait, I can have him deliver the car to you. Do you have garage space?”

  Laurence gave him the address.

  “And what would you like to do with the other Bentley?”

  “I’d like it to be sent to Mr. and Mrs. Richard Chalmers, Ocean Drive, Palm Beach, and I’d like to include a card.”

  Dumont produced a card and an envelope, and Laurence wrote: An expression of my affection and my gratitude for your many kindnesses in a difficult time. “I’d like the green car registered in Florida, please, but I’ll be using it here.” He gave the address of his father’s house. “Register it at that address.”

  Dumont repaired to his office to do the paperwork, then returned for Laurence’s signature on the documents. “It will take us ten days or so to get Florida plates, but you’ll have a dealer plate that will make you legal. I expect you’ll want insurance?”

  “Only liability—twenty million dollars.”

  “Let me make a call.” He was back in ten minutes and gave Laurence the card of an insurance broker. “You’re covered. I’ve given him your address and other details, and I’ve told him that you want chauffeurs covered.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I’m having the satellite radio programmed. We’ll give you a year’s subscription, free.”

  “With each car,” Laurence said.

  “Of course.”

  —

  SHORTLY, a man in a blue suit appeared in the showroom. “Mr. Hayward?” he asked nobody in particular.

  Laurence waved him over. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Oliver,” the man said, “from Chauffeurs Unlimited.”

  “Paul, please give Oliver the keys to the car. It’s outside, Oliver. I’ll be out shortly.”

  Oliver took the keys and went to the car.

  “Is there anything else I can possibly do for you?” Dumont asked.

  “Probably,” Laurence said. “I’ll let you know. By the way, all this must remain entirely confidential. I don’t want to see my name mentioned anywhere.”

  “Of course, and I’ll call you with a specific delivery date for the Porsche.”

  “In three weeks, I’ll be out of town,” Laurence said. “Hold it for me until I return.”

  “Of course. Would you like the Porsche sent to your garage?”

  “Good idea.” He gave Dumont the address. “Just leave the keys with the garage manager.”

  The two men shook hands, and Laurence went to his new Bentley, where Oliver was waiting with the door open.

  “Oliver,” he said, “I want you to drive up to Fifty-seventh Street and Madison Avenue, then drive very slowly up Madison.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hayward,” Oliver said, closing the door and getting behind the wheel. “Beautiful car, a pleasure to drive.”

  “And, Oliver, please turn on the satellite radio to the Light Classical channel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  —

  DRIVING SLOWLY up Madison Avenue, with a Chopin étude wafting around the interior of the car, Laurence did some window-shopping for galleries and made notes on which ones he wanted to visit. At Seventy-ninth Street, he put away his notebook. “All right,” he said, “let’s go home.”

  “Yes, sir,” Oliver replied, “and where would that be?”

  “The Fairleigh, on Park Avenue. The garage entrance is on the side street.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Laurence took the elevator to 15 and let himself into the apartment. A strange young man walked out of his bedroom.

  “Laurence Hayward?”

  “Yes, and who are you?”

  “I’m Butch Crane. My sister, Theresa, is putting your clothes in your dressing room. She asked me to help.”

  “I hope there wasn’t too much heavy lifting,” Laurence said. He walked into his bedroom and found Theresa fussing with the final location of everything. “Good afternoon.”

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Hayward.”

  “It’s Laurence, please.”

  “Hello, Laurence,” she said.

  “You’re fired,” he replied.

  9

  THERESA BLINKED, and her jaw dropped. “Fired?”

  “I am mindful of your company’s prohibition against your having personal relationships with your clients, so I am no longer your client. Will you stay for lunch?”

  She smiled. “I’d love to.”

  “Do something with your brother,” he said. “No witnesses.”

  “I’ll speak to him.”

  He heard momentary sounds of an argument, then the door slammed.

  She returned. “Where are we having lunch?”

  “Here,” he replied, leading her into the study and the bar. “What would you like?”

  “You decide.”

  Laurence picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Good afternoon. I’d like a lobster salad for two, hold the celery, and a bottle of well-chilled Puligny-Montrachet. Thank you.” He hung up. “May I get you a drink while we’re waiting for delivery?”

  “A Campari and soda, please.”

  He poured the drink and himself some mineral water.

  “And how did you spend your morning?” she asked.

  “I went car shopping, then cruised Madison Avenue in search of promising galleries for later visits.”

  “You’re fond of art?”

  “Very.”

  “What will you be shopping for?”

  “Young painters with promise, occasionally older or deader artists.”

  “Auctions?”

  “I don’t like the idea of bidding against people with more money than I. I’d rather bargain with a dealer.”

  “Did you buy a car?”

  “A Bentley Flying Spur. That’s the smaller model.”

  “Nice choice.”

  “Thank you. Tell me about your brother.”

  “Butch? He’s just moved to New York and is job hunting. I’ve gotten him an interview with our personnel people for a sales position.”

  “Is that all he’s qualified for? He looks old enough to have some job experience at something.”

  “Oh, Butch has knocked around for years, since college. I think he’s finally decided to settle down and start a career.”

  “Good for him.”

  “The apartment is gorgeous. Didn’t I see a piece about it in the Times recently?”

  “You did, as did I. I fell in love with it immediately, and again at first sight. I’ve bought some new pieces of furniture and some pictures, which will be delivered this afternoon.”

  �
�I noticed you were missing a dining table.”

  “Among other things. The place was furnished, but I didn’t like everything. Ralph Lauren is well represented, though, and I didn’t send back any of his pieces.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so.”

  The doorbell rang, and Laurence admitted a waiter with a cart and pointed him to the study. He served lunch, poured the wine, and left them.

  “Thank you for arranging my dressing room,” he said.

  “I was happy to fill it for you. I noticed that you didn’t glance at a menu when you ordered.”

  “If they couldn’t make a lobster salad and come up with a good Puligny-Montrachet, I’d move out.”

  “I’ve also noticed that your accent has become very British.”

  “I have dual citizenship, but I’ve spent most of my life in Blighty. Somehow, the accent is more natural to me.”

  “What are your plans for the afternoon?”

  “After ravishing you? I have to see my lawyer, interview a woman for a job as my secretary, and sign my new will.”

  “Your first one?”

  “Yes. I never felt I needed one before, but since my father’s death . . .”

  “I see. And by the way, you’re not ravishing me this afternoon. I still have a job.”

  “We can talk about that at dinner,” he said. “Name a restaurant.”

  “I like the Monkey Bar,” she said. “It’s not far from here, in the Hotel Elysée.”

  “Done. I’ll call for you at seven.”

  “Sounds good.”

  They spent a pleasant hour together, then she left.

  —

  LAURENCE ARRIVED at the offices of Woodman & Weld on time, and was taken in to see Herb Fisher.

  “How’s it going?” Herb asked.

  “Very well, thanks.”

  Herb placed a thick sheaf of papers on his desk. “Here’s your will and a trust document, which you may take as long as you like to read.”

  “Tell me the short version.”

  “All right. Fifty million each to Eton and Magdalen College, Oxford, a hundred million to your mother, and the rest to a charitable trust, with Stone Barrington and I as administrators.”

  “Perfect,” Laurence said. “Have you a pen?”

  Herb handed him a silver Montblanc, and he signed the will and the trust document. “Beautiful pen,” he said.

  “The pen is a gift,” Herb said, “from the firm.”

  “Thank you, I’m grateful to the firm.”

  Herb glanced at his watch. “Are you ready for the job interview?”

  “Of course.”

  Herb made a call, and shortly a woman entered his office and offered Laurence her hand. “I’m Marjorie Mason,” she said. “Everybody calls me Marge.”

  “I’m Laurence—no mister, please.”

  “As you wish.”

  They offered her a chair. “Tell me what you’ve been doing recently,” he said.

  “I joined Woodman & Weld after college, and for the last eleven of those years I’ve worked for a partner, who recently died.”

  “And what did you do for him?”

  “As he used to put it, ‘Everything a wife does, except for sex.’ In short, I managed his life, dealt with his banking and investment people, found him domestic staff, arranged his social life, and anything else he could think of.”

  “That sounds like what I’d have you do for me. I’ll be traveling a lot, and you’d be on your own. Are you all right with that?”

  “I’m the best company I know,” she said.

  “Then I’ll offer you a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars a year, health insurance, and a 401k, I believe it’s called. Your office will be in my New York residence, at the Fairleigh. Four weeks of vacation a year, but not more than two at a time, and a clothing allowance. Is there anything else you need?”

  “I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I accept.”

  “When can you start?”

  “My late boss’s affairs are now in perfect order. I’ll take the rest of the day to clean out my office, sign my pension documents, and be at the Fairleigh at nine tomorrow morning.”

  He gave her a key to the apartment. “Let yourself in and find your office. It’s on the south side, not far from the kitchen. Order whatever you need for office supplies and get yourself set up with a computer and printer and anything else necessary.” He stood up and offered her his hand. “Thank you, Marge. See you tomorrow.”

  She shook his hand, thanked him, and left.

  “Now, Herb, if you’ll excuse me, I have furniture being delivered, and I need to place it.”

  “Of course. Good move with Marge,” Herb said. “She’s a great person.”

  “I could tell,” Laurence replied.

  —

  WHEN HE ARRIVED back at the Fairleigh, men with the dining table were waiting near the concierge’s desk. He waved them toward the freight elevator, then went upstairs to his apartment.

  For the next two hours, people arrived with furniture and paintings. He placed everything exactly where he wanted, then stood back to admire the results. With the fresh flowers he had ordered, the place was starting to look as though someone lived there.

  10

  THERESA ARRIVED HOME a little after six and at a run. As she closed the door behind her, she caught sight of a man in her living room. He was short, clipped bald, and had a flat nose: much like Curly of the Three Stooges, but with a more sinister mien. She stalked into the living room and found him pouring Butch a drink.

  “Hey, sis,” he said, waving his glass. “This is my pal Curly. You can see where he gets the name. We shared a cell for the last year. I thought that, since there are twin beds in my room, he could stay a couple of nights with us while he gets reoriented.”

  “You thought wrong,” she said. “I want you both out of the apartment NOW, and when I get home, about ten, you’d better be here alone. Got it?”

  Curly raised both hands in submission. “Hey, I don’t wanna be where I ain’t wanted.”

  “I’m glad you understand. Butch, get him out of here.”

  Butch tossed off the Macallan 12. “We’re gone,” he said.

  Theresa saw them out and bolted and chained the door behind her. She ran into her bedroom, threw her dress at a closet, stripped and dove into the shower. When she came out and went to her dresser for some things, she noticed that her underwear drawer had been disturbed. Someone had been searching for something. She did her hair, got into a dress, grabbed a jacket, and let herself out of the apartment. As she came out the front door, a green Bentley glided to a halt, and Laurence got out and held the door for her.

  “I would have come up for you,” he said.

  “Not necessary. My apartment is a mess, anyway. Butch brought home a friend, and they got into my scotch and God knows what else.”

  “Butch is staying with you?”

  “He’s moving to the Y tomorrow, but he doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Oliver, the Monkey Bar,” Laurence said, then turned back to Theresa. “I would not deny you shelter, should you need it.”

  “Would you like to shelter Butch and his friend Curly?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Who’s Curly?”

  “You remember the character from the Three Stooges?”

  “I do.”

  “Him, but not in the least funny.”

  They arrived at the Hotel Elysée, and Oliver had the door open in a flash.

  “Hover, please, Oliver,” Laurence said.

  “Yes, sir.” He handed him a card. “My cell number, sir.”

  “Get something to eat,” Laurence said. “We’ll be a couple of hours.”

  The Monkey Bar was crowded w
ith handsome young people, some of them waiting for their tables. They checked in, were inspected and shown to a good table. The walls were hung with period paintings, and good jazz played in the background. They ordered drinks.

  —

  BUTCH LET HIMSELF and Curly back into Theresa’s apartment. “I’ll get packed,” he said. “You get your stuff together.”

  “Where we going?”

  “The Y, unless you have a more affordable idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you get the impression that my sis didn’t like you?”

  “Sorta.”

  “That’s why. I’d be thrown out tomorrow anyway, so we may as well go now.” He went into the kitchen, opened a tea canister and shook out two hundred dollars, leaving an IOU.

  “So tell me about this mark you got,” Curly said.

  “Nothing to tell yet, except he’s well heeled. I’ll need to do some research.”

  “When?”

  “I’ve got a job interview tomorrow morning. I’ll know more after that. You might look around for a way to make a reasonably honest buck. I can’t support you, Curly.”

  “I still know how to pick a pocket. I’ve been practicing.”

  “I don’t understand how someone who looks like you could get close enough to anybody to pick his pocket.”

  “All I need is a crowd. I’ll go over to the theater district about curtain time and case the bunch leaving the theaters. They’re always in a hurry.”

  “You’re going to get busted, and there goes your parole.”

  “I told you, I didn’t get paroled. I served my time. I’m free as a bird.”

  “Until you get caught picking a pocket. And remember, I don’t have bail money for you.”

  —

  THEY DINED on excellent beef and a very fine wine. Laurence had decided that his newest regular indulgence would be never to drink plonk again; he had had enough of cheap wine at Oxford to last him a lifetime.

  “Is your mother still alive?” she asked.

  “Very much so, and married to the man she married when I was eight.”

  “Who is he and what’s he like?”

  “His name is Derek Fallowfield. He’s a very nice guy, who I think of as more of an uncle than a stepfather. He has his own successful ad agency in London and knows everybody.”