Sex, Lies & Serious Money

by Stuart Woods

  “I had a stepfather, too, but not nearly so nice a guy. I hated him.”

  “No longer with us?”

  “No, thank God. When he died he left my mother with enough to get by on, but not much more.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In Greenwich, Connecticut, but not on the best side of town. At least she’s got the house, but it’s mortgaged. He was a traveling salesman—hale fellow, well met, you know?”

  “I know. Derek is a bit that way himself, but in a charming and sophisticated way. He took me to his tailor when I left Oxford and had some clothes made for me. It was his way of sending me off into the world. He gave me my first car, too—his ten-year-old Mercedes Roadster, which I drove into its grave in a few years.”

  “Were you a hell-raiser at Oxford?”

  “I wasn’t exactly a Hooray Henry, but I partied my share. I was very busy—I played in a jazz trio, and we worked two or three nights a week, then I had to get up early and be greeted by the shining faces of Eton boys, not all of them eager to learn.”

  “Were you eager to learn?”

  “Not terribly, except music and art history. I got a first, but just barely.”

  “A first-class degree?”

  “Right.”

  “Something like the dean’s list?”

  “I guess.” They finished dining, and Laurence asked for the bill.

  Theresa looked at her watch.

  “Early day tomorrow?” he asked.

  “No, it’s my day off.”

  “Then you must let me show you my new apartment.”

  “I believe I’ve seen it.”

  “Yes, but not with the new furniture and pictures. It’s much better now.”

  “All right, but no ravishing.”

  “We can always ravish each other at a later date.”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “I’ll take that as an expression of affirmation.”

  —

  BACK AT THE FAIRLEIGH, he took her around and showed her the fruit of his shopping.

  “It looks very different now,” she said.

  “Like somebody lives here?”

  “Like that.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her.

  She kissed him back, then said, “Remember, no ravishing.”

  “But I’m off to war,” he said.

  “War?”

  “War with a flight simulator. I have to go to Kansas for a couple of weeks of flight training.”

  “You’re learning to fly?”

  “I’m already licensed, but I have to get a type rating for my new airplane.”

  “And you consider that war?”

  “Those simulators are dangerous. You can crash and burn.”

  She laughed. “And it takes two whole weeks?”

  “Sixteen days, to be more precise, and then I have to get some hours with a mentor in the new airplane before I can fly it alone.”

  “It’s beginning to sound like a long time before I’ll see you.”

  “Tell you what, take some off time, and I’ll come back and get you, and we’ll fly around the country.”

  “Well, I do have some vacation time built up.”

  “Then it’s a date, in sixteen days, starting day after tomorrow.”

  “You’re on,” she said.

  “You won’t need a nightgown, you’ll be too busy to use it.”

  “Promises, promises,” she said.

  “No, vows.” He took a key from his pocket, one with a Fairleigh fob and the number 15 embossed on it. “In case you need shelter from the storm,” he said.

  “I won’t, but thank you.” She tucked the key into her handbag.

  11

  STONE BARRINGTON picked up the phone and called Laurence Hayward. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Laurence said. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly eleven. Did you sleep in?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “I just got off the phone with Cessna. You are the proud contractor of two jet airplanes, one to be delivered the day you finish your training, the other in eight and a half months.” He read the terms.

  “That’s wonderful,” Laurence said, sounding fully awake now.

  “They’re e-mailing me the contracts for both airplanes. Why don’t you stop by late this afternoon and sign them.”

  “Five o’clock?”

  “Perfect. Did you confirm your training dates?”

  “I did. I fly out tomorrow in a Cessna jet and start at eight AM the following day.”

  “I spoke to Pat Frank. Your new mentor will meet you in Wichita on graduation day, having picked up the airplane at the factory that morning. He’ll also have spent the three previous days doing acceptance flights, which is when he looks for defects and gets them corrected.”

  “Great. I’m going to do some flying with him after that, to put some hours in my logbook.”

  “Good idea. How’s the apartment?”

  “Looks like I’ve always lived here.”

  “Good. See you this afternoon.”

  “Certainly.” They hung up.

  —

  THERESA WOKE UP LATE and went into the kitchen to make her breakfast. She opened the tea canister and found more than tea: an IOU from Butch for $200 and nothing else. She stormed into his room and found the bed unslept in and what clothes he owned, gone. She decided it was worth the $200 to get rid of him. She sat down and called a neighborhood locksmith and arranged to have her front door lock changed. He promised to come the following day.

  Later, as she was washing her breakfast dishes, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Theresa, it’s Carl Winger, in Personnel.”

  “Good morning, Carl.”

  “I thought you’d like to know, I just hired your brother, Harold—or Butch, as he prefers to be known.”

  “My goodness.” She wanted to tell Carl to keep Butch away from cash registers.

  “We’re going to give him a few weeks of switching departments, starting in shoes, and then, if I’m any judge of material, he’ll be ready to work in any department at any store. He’s on his way now to the shoe shop at the Seventy-second Street store.”

  “Well, I’m glad it worked out, Carl.”

  “Thank you for sending us such a good candidate.”

  “You’re welcome.” She hung up feeling guilty. Butch was going to screw this up; she just knew it, and it would be her fault.

  —

  LAURENCE KNOCKED on Stone’s office door at five sharp. “Is this the airplane store?”

  “You’re in the right place. By the way, did you bring your checkbook?”

  “Always in my pocket.”

  Stone sat him down and placed two stacks of documents before him. “You have a pen?”

  Laurence held up his silver Montblanc. “Courtesy of Woodman & Weld.”

  “Then start signing. Joan has marked the places with green tabs.”

  Laurence finished the first stack and handed them to Stone for checking, then started on the second stack. Stone gave the lot to Joan to make copies and pack for FedExing. “Now, two checks,” Stone said, “one for the entire price of the CJ 3 Plus, and another for the deposit on the Latitude. You’ll make progressive payments on that.”

  Laurence wrote and signed the checks. “Whew,” he said, mopping his brow, “I think I now own everything I want to own.”

  “Trust me, you’ll think of something else.”

  “I expect so, but nothing with that many zeros attached.”

  “Where are you planning to fly with your mentor?”

  “Well, first, I’ll pick up my girl at Teterboro, then maybe to San Francisco, L.A., and other points west.”

 
; “I keep a house at the Arrington Hotel in L.A.,” Stone said. “You’re welcome to the use of it while you’re out there. You could spend a few days in L.A. and make training flights every day, flying the local instrument approaches.”

  “Great idea!”

  “Your girl will like the house and the shopping on Rodeo Drive.”

  “I expect she will.”

  “Call me when you get back,” Stone said.

  —

  BUTCH LET HIMSELF into his sister’s apartment. “Sis?” he yelled. “I forgot something.” No answer so he beckoned Curly to follow him in. He went to the liquor cabinet and retrieved an unopened bottle of the Macallan 12 whiskey. “Okay, let’s make tracks.” As he walked past the coffee table he saw a familiar key lying there and picked it up.

  “What’s that for?” Curly asked.

  “It’s the key to our mark’s apartment,” Butch said. “Pity we don’t have time to get it copied.”

  “You can’t get a locksmith to copy a hotel key,” Curly said. “I know because I used to work for one. But I know how to duplicate it. Has your sis got any candles?”

  They went into the kitchen and found one.

  “First,” Curly said, “we melt the candle, then I can make an impression of the key in the warm wax and make the copy myself with a couple of tools available in any hardware store.”

  Butch found a saucepan, and soon they were able to pour the melted wax into an empty kitchen matchbox. They waited a while for the wax to cool a bit, then Curly pressed each side of the key and the tip into the wax and closed the matchbox. “Now,” he said, “let’s find a hardware store.”

  “There’s one called Gracious Homes over on Third Avenue,” Butch said.

  “Pretty fancy name for a hardware store.”

  “Pretty fancy neighborhood,” Butch replied. “Let’s get out of here before Sis gets home.” He carefully replaced the key on the coffee table, cleaned up the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of scotch, and they departed the premises. They hoofed it over to Third Avenue and found Gracious Homes. Curly located two files and a small vise, then he saw the key department. A clerk waited on them, and Curly selected two blank keys from their collection. “I think that’ll do it,” he said.

  “Is this going to work?” Butch asked.

  “You bet your sweet ass,” Curly replied. “All we have to do is find out when our mark won’t be there.”

  12

  BUTCH CALLED THERESA. “Hello, sis.”

  “Hello, Butch. I hear you got the job. For God’s sake, please don’t screw it up. You’ll ruin my reputation with the company.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I guess you’ve noticed that Curly and I cleared out of your place. We found a furnished studio in the far East Eighties, and we’ll bunk here for a while. What have you been up to? Seeing your new client?”

  “My new client has buggered off to Wichita for a couple of weeks.”

  “Oh, well.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Okay, maybe I’ll see you around the store,” she said.

  “Good luck, baby.” They hung up.

  “Curly,” Butch said, “there’s good news—our mark is leaving town for two weeks. We’re in.”

  “Oh, yes!” Curly exclaimed.

  —

  LAURENCE MET the Cessna pilot at Teterboro. The aircraft was a CJ 3 Plus demo, and for having ordered two airplanes, he rated a free ride to Wichita. He was allowed to fly left seat for the nonstop flight, and he flew an instrument approach into Eisenhower Field. He was in his hotel suite half an hour later and looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

  —

  CURLY AFFIXED the small vise to the kitchen tabletop in their new apartment and went to work on one of the key blanks. Since he didn’t have an emery wheel, he did all the work by hand, filing the blank until it dropped easily into the wax form, fitting perfectly. “Okay,” he said an hour later, “we’re ready.”

  —

  IN THE LATE EVENING, Butch and Curly took a cab south, got out a block short of the Fairleigh, and walked from there. “We’ll go in through the garage,” Butch said, “and avoid the gaze of the concierge and hotel staff.” They found the garage entrance on the side street and waited across the way until the drop-off area was clear of workers, then hurried in and took the elevator straight to the fifteenth floor. They emerged in the entrance hall.

  “What if there’s an alarm system?” Butch asked.

  “Hotels don’t have alarm systems on individual units,” Curly said. He produced the key. “Now watch.” He inserted the key, and with a little jockeying, it worked smoothly. Curly pushed open the door. “After you, sir.”

  Butch walked in and felt for a light switch; he found one that turned on all the living room lights.

  “Jesus Christ!” Curly said, looking around. “I thought this was going to be a regular hotel suite! It looks more like the inside of a mansion!”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “What are we going to do, clean out the place?”

  “Absolutely not,” Butch replied. “Don’t you take so much as a pair of cuff links. We’re looking for documents.”

  “What kind of documents?”

  “Bank correspondence, brokerage statements, anything that leads to money.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “In the study.” Butch got the lights on, and they searched the room. “The only thing here of value to us is the booze,” he said. “You want a drink?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Curly said.

  Butch poured them a couple of large single-malt scotches, and they eased into leather chairs and sipped.

  “I could get used to this life,” Curly said.

  “Don’t. Remember, we’re transients here.” Butch washed the glasses and wiped them dry, then returned the scotch to the bar. “Let’s try the master suite.” He led the way into the big bedroom, then into the dressing room. “My sis sold him all this stuff in a single morning,” Butch said, showing him the suits, shirts, and shoes.

  Curly began opening drawers. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the contents of one.

  “English pounds sterling,” Butch replied. “We’ll take some, but not all. We can change it at a bank later.” He fished out three hundred pounds from the stack of notes. “I think what we need is to find his office.”

  They went through the rest of the place and found an office off the kitchen, neat as a pin, everything in its place. Butch started opening drawers, but they were nearly bare; only the usual office tools and stationery. He tried some file drawers and found a file with the name of a trust company on it. The folder held some documents.

  “Holy shit,” Butch said. “If I’m reading this thing right, it acknowledges the deposit of six hundred and twelve million, less than a week ago.”

  “You must be reading it wrong,” Curly said. “There isn’t that much money.”

  “What kind of a forger are you?”

  “Prison-trained,” Curly replied. “What do you want forged?”

  Butch handed him a document. “This signature,” he replied, “Laurence B. Hayward.” He handed Curly a blank sheet of paper and a pen.

  Curly looked at the signature. “Make a copy of the document,” he said, pointing at a machine.

  Butch did so.

  Curly sat down at the desk, put the copy near his sheet and slowly drew the signature, copying every loop and twist.

  “Too neat,” Butch said.

  “Relax, okay? I’m just getting started.” Curly drew the signature again and again, a little faster each time.

  “Looking good,” Butch said.

  Curly continued until he got half a dozen signatures he liked, each a little different from the others. “Got it,” he said. “You see a checkbook anywhere?”

  Butch went through the
drawers and came up with a large one. “Here you go.”

  “How much do you want to steal?”

  “Well, we can’t cash a check for all of it.”

  “Any bank statements?”

  Butch looked. “Not yet. He’s new in town and probably hasn’t been sent one yet. And we can’t just walk into his bank and cash it. We’ll have to open an account somewhere and deposit the check and wait for it to clear.”

  “We need a company name to open the account,” Curly said. “The bank is unlikely to just pay a check to some John Doe.”

  Butch thought about it. “I know, we’ll create a corporation, using an online legal service. It’ll cost a few hundred bucks, but we’ll have incorporation papers to use to open the account.”

  “We’ll need a credit card to do that,” Curly said. “I’ve got a better idea. I know a disbarred lawyer from prison who’s out now. We’ll track him down and get him to do the legal stuff.”

  “Then you’d better forge some checks now.”

  “Nah,” Curly said. He flipped to the back of the checkbook and tore out two pages of three checks each, then found an envelope and tucked them inside, along with the copy of the financial document. “We’ll just hang on to these until we have our ducks in a row.” He picked up a small metal box. “Look, it’s a check-writing machine.” He ran a sheet of paper through it and printed out an amount. “We’ll pick up one at an office supply store.” He wrote down the name and model number.

  They shut off the lights and went into the living room. “Hey,” Butch said, “those paintings on that wall weren’t here the first time I came. The guy’s buying art. We’ll create an art gallery, and he’ll buy pictures from us—expensive ones. We ought to be able to grab a few hundred grand, if we do it right.”

  “I like the way you think, Butch. You keep doing that.”

  They turned off the lights, locked up, and took the elevator to the garage. Soon they were looking for a cab uptown.

  13

  STONE AND DINO were having dinner at P.J. Clarke’s, Viv being out of town on business, as she frequently was.