by Stuart Woods
“So that leaves the girl.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“You think the girl might be screwing Calder?”
“She used to, she told me.”
“Okay, so she’s Calder’s former squeeze, and she works for him; he’s her sole means of support?”
“As far as I know.”
“How long you known her?”
“A few days.”
“So where do you think her loyalties lie?”
“She’s made it clear that they lie with Calder, but she knows I’m not doing anything to threaten him; I’m trying to find his wife, for Christ’s sake.”
“Calder sees that as a threat, doesn’t he?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, he tried to hustle you out of town, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“So he must think your presence in L.A. is not in his best interests.”
“I guess not.”
“So, if he feels that way, why wouldn’t Betty feel that way, too?”
“You could have a point,” Stone said, but he didn’t really want to admit that to himself.
“Let me ask you something else: where were you when Mancuso was in your hotel room?”
“I was at a resort out in the desert.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“Who were you with?”
“Betty Southard,” Stone said.
“Whose idea was it to go out there?”
“Betty’s.”
“Stone, I think you’re letting your cock do your thinking,” he said, “and remember, a cock doesn’t have a brain.”
29
Stone met Betty Southard at an Italian place called Valentino. He had intended to pick her up at her home, but she had insisted on meeting him at the restaurant. She gave him a big kiss, and they were shown to their table. They ordered drinks.
“How’re things going?” she asked.
“Not well,” Stone said. “I’m getting nowhere, and I’m thinking of packing it in and going back to New York.”
“I would be desolated,” she said, sipping her martini.
“I’m grateful for your desolation, but all I’m doing is chasing my tail and not getting any of my own work done.”
“Arrington’s home,” she said.
Stone blinked. “When?”
“Yesterday, apparently. Vance came into the office this morning whistling a merry tune and had me order some flowers for him.”
“Funny, I thought I caught a glimpse of Vance last night,” he said, “and he was alone.”
“Where?”
“I was having dinner with my cop friend, Rick Grant, at a Greek restaurant, and I could have sworn I saw him drive by in the Bentley.”
She shook her head. “Nope. Vance and Arrington bad dinner last night at the Bel-Air Hotel with some Centurion stockholders; I made the reservation.”
The lie wilted Stone inside. “Must have been my imagination.”
“Not really; there are two other green Bentleys just like Vance’s around town. You saw one of them.”
“Oh, well; I’m glad she’s back.”
“Vance thinks you’re in New York,” she said. “He dictated a thank you note to you this afternoon.”
“I wanted him to think that, after being followed from the restaurant last week. I wanted everybody but you to think I was back in New York.”
“I understand,” she said. “Shall we order?”
They both ordered a Caesar salad and the osso bucco, and Stone ordered a bottle of the Masi Amerone ’91. “It’s a big wine,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”
“You seem a little depressed, baby,” she said, rubbing the inside of his thigh with her toe.
“It always depresses me when I’ve wasted a lot of time,” he said.
“I hope it wasn’t all a waste of time.” She pushed her toe into his crotch.
He smiled. “Certainly not. In some ways, this has been an extremely lovely trip.”
“Well, if this is going to be our last night together, I’ll have to make it a special one,” she said.
“They’ve all been special,” he replied. “Especially the weekend at Tiptop.”
“I’d give you their unlisted number,” she said, “but I wouldn’t want you going there with anyone but me.”
Their food arrived, and Betty returned her toe to her shoe.
“I left a couple of messages for you at Le Parc,” she said. “Why didn’t you call me back?”
“I’m sorry; I haven’t been by the desk, I guess. I tend to go straight from the garage to my room. Was it something important?”
“I just wanted to tell you about Arrington.”
“Why didn’t you call my portable number?”
“I always feel as though I’m interrupting something when I do that.”
“Oh.”
“Stone, something’s really wrong, I can tell. Why won’t you talk to me?”
Because I might as well whisper it into Vance’s or Ippolito’s or somebody’s ear, he thought. “There’s nothing, really.”
“It’s Arrington; you’d hoped to see her again, hadn’t you?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
They finished their dinner in silence. He paid the check, and she took his hand on the way out.
“I’m going to make you forget her,” she said.
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll meet you at Le Parc in fifteen minutes.” “No,” he said, “meet me at the Bel-Air Hotel. I’ve moved.”
“See you in the parking lot there,” she said.
He followed her all the way, checking his rearview mirror to see if anyone were following him. As far as he could tell, there was no one behind him.
She walked ahead of him into the suite, shedding clothing as she went. Stone allowed himself to be undressed, then she went into the bathroom and came back with a bottle of body lotion.
“Where does it hurt?” she asked, kneeling over him on the bed.
“All over,” he said.
She warmed the lotion between her palms and began rubbing his chest. “I watched you having your massage at Tiptop,” she said. “There was a peephole for that very purpose. I saw the effect Lisa had on you.”
“And what effect did watching have on you?” he asked.
“It made me want you both,” she replied, pouring more oil into her hand.
“Then why didn’t you have us both?”
“I didn’t think I should tamper with the staff.”
“My impression was that Lisa would have enjoyed being tampered with,” he said.
“Would you have enjoyed it?”
“What’s not to enjoy?”
She laughed. “I like your attitude. Maybe the next time you come out here I can arrange something like that.”
“What an exciting idea.”
She had his genitals in both hands now, and they were both unbearably excited. She lay down beside him and took him into her, throwing a leg over his body. From that time until morning they did not speak again.
“So, you’re leaving today?” Betty asked over breakfast.
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll stick around a little longer.”
“What for? Last night you sounded determined to leave.”
Tired of cat-and-mouse, he decided to go for broke. “Ippolito interests me,” he said.
“The banker? Why?”
“I think he’s behind all this.”
“Behind what?”
“Affington’s disappearance.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all, Stone,” she said, sounding worried.
“I’m beginning to think it does. I think the two men who followed us the other night work for Ippolito.”
She stopped eating. “Stone, I think it’s better that you stay away from Mr. Ippolito.”
“Why? It’s a free country. I’ve been a cop and an investigator long enough to know that you can find out anything about
anybody, and I’m going to find out more about Ippolito.”
“That could be dangerous,” she said quietly.
“I thought you didn’t know anything about the man,” he said, “and here you are telling me he’s dangerous.”
“It’s just an impression.”
“And how did you get that impression?”
“Just from things I’ve heard.” She looked at her watch. “God, I’ve got to get to the office; Vance is coming in early this morning for a meeting about a new film.”
Stone walked her to the door. “I want to thank you,” he said. “You’ve been wonderful.”
She put her arms around his neck. “If you want to thank me, go back to New York today.”
“I don’t think so,” Stone said.
She looked frightened but said nothing. She kissed him and ran out the door.
Stone watched her go, wondering how long it would take to pass on their conversation.
It took until just before lunch. The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“This is Onofrio Ippolito. How are you?”
“I’m very well, Mr. Ippolito. I’m surprised to hear from you; hardly anyone knows I’m staying at the Bel-Air.”
“It’s a small town.”
“I suppose so.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more at dinner at Vance’s house. David Sturmack tells me you’re going to be doing some work for him in New York.”
“We discussed it.”
“I have many interests in New York, too; I wonder if we might talk about your doing some work for me?”
“Of course.”
“Tell you what; I’m giving a dinner party on my yacht this evening. Why don’t you come to dinner, and we’ll find a few minutes to talk privately.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“The yacht is moored off Catalina Island, so if you’ll be at Marina Del Rey at eight o’clock, I’ll see that you’re ferried out there.”
“Fine.”
Ippolito gave him a slip number and a boat’s name, Maria. “I’ll look forward to seeing you,” he said.
“Thank you; I’ll see you this evening.”
Stone hung up the phone and sat back. Time to face the man and ask some direct questions. In the meantime, he thought, he’d have a swim. He got up and went to look for a robe.
30
Stone arrived at Marina Del Rey at a little after eight and parked the car. He had dressed in one of his new Purple Label suits, dark blue with a white pinstripe, and had wom one of the new Sea Island cotton shirts and a new tie. He would probably e overdressed at the dinner party, but better that than underdressed.
He walked down the ramp and along the pontoons, looking for the berth number he had been given. The light was going now, and as he passed the pontoon where Paloma was berthed, he noticed no lights were on. Maybe he’d see Barbara and her boyfriend at dinner. He finally found the correct pontoon and worked his way down the berth numbers until he came to Maria, a sports fisherman of thirty-odd feet, complete with a tall flying bridge. Standing in the stem of the boat was one of the two men who had followed him in the Lincoln.
Stone experienced an urge to turn around and walk the other way, but before he could, the man smiled and spoke.
“Mr. Barrington? We’ve been waiting for you; come aboard, please.”
Stone walked up the small gangplank.
“I’m Manny,” the man said, as another man came up from below. “This is Vinnie. We both work for Mr. Ippolito.”
Vincent Mancuso stuck out a hand, and Stone shook it. After all, they had never been formally introduced. “We’re all ready,” Vinnie said. He turned, switched on the ignition, and started the engines, while Manny dealt with the gangplank and the mooring lines.
“Where’s Mr. Ippolito,” Stone asked, “and the other guests?”
Vinnie put the throttles ahead, and the boat moved out of the berth. “Most of the guests are already aboard the big boat. Mr. Ippolito and the others are choppering out from a meeting downtown.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” Manny asked.
“A beer would be good.”
Manny went below and came up with a Heineken and a glass on a silver tray. “There you are; would you like to stay in the cockpit or ride down below?”
“I’ll stay up here, I think,” Stone replied. “It’s a nice evening.” He felt more comfortable now, and he took a seat near the stem and sipped his beer.
“Yeah, it is a nice night, isn’t it?” Manny said. “When we’re clear of the marina we’ll see a hell of a sunset.”
Stone watched the moored boats go past as the sports fisherman moved down the channel toward the breakwater. Five minutes later they were on a calm Pacific Ocean, and Vinnie put the throttles forward. “How long will it take us to get to Mr. Ippolito’s yacht?” Stone asked.
“Oh, forty or forty-five minutes, I guess,” Manny shouted over the rumble of the engines. “It’s about twenty-five miles, and we’re gonna be doing a good forty knots. This baby is fast.”
The boat was roaring through a flat sea now, into a giant red ball of a sun, and Stone began to enjoy the ride. They passed other boats coming from and going to Marina Del Rey, then after a while, they were alone on the water, tearing along.
Stone began to think about what he was going to say to Ippolito. Not much, he decided; he’d listen instead. He doubted if he was ever going to get any legal work from either Sturmack or Ippolito—that had just been the bait to get him out here. He was dying to know what they wanted to tell him.
They had been moving fast for more than half an hour when Vinnie began slowing down. Stone stood up and looked ahead. The sun was gone, Catalina was at twelve o’clock, and the mooring lights on a hundred yacht masts lay ahead. People had anchored for the night and were having drinks and dinner aboard their boats. It occurred to Stone that he was getting hungry. They continued on for another few minutes, and Vinnie slowed down further.
“Don’t want to rock anybody’s boat with our wake,” he said, then made a ninety-degree turn to the left and pulled the throttles back to idle, out of gear. The boat drifted.
“Where’s Mr. Ippolito’s yacht?” Stone asked. Then, from behind him, he heard the metallic sound of a gun being cocked, and he felt cold steel on the back of his neck. He turned to find Manny holding an automatic pistol to his head.
“You’re not going to make it to the yacht,” Manny said.
Stone opened his mouth to speak as Vinnie applied a strip of duct tape to his mouth.
“Hold out your hands,” Manny said, as Vinnie tore more tape from the roll.
Stone didn’t move.
Manny held the pistol against Stone’s left eye. “We can do this neat, or we can do it messy,” he said. “What’s it gonna be?”
Stone held out his hands, and Vinnie taped his wrists together, then bent over and taped his ankles together as well. Vinnie then went to a locker and extracted a fathom of chain and a plow anchor.
Stone’s bowels turned to water, and he contracted his stomach muscles to keep something embarrassing from happening. This was bad enough without making it worse. He began, somewhat late, looking for a way out. Why had he gotten aboard this boat? The sun was down and a nearly full moon had risen, bathing the cockpit of the boat in a pale light.
Vinnie and Manny were talking about shackles now, but their voices seemed distant. Stone watched as one of them took a tool kit from a locker, found a shackle, attached it to the chain, and tightened it with pliers.
Now they were coaxing him toward the stem. At first Stone resisted moving, but then he saw the toolbox. At Manny’s urging, he took a hop forward, then fell on top of the toolbox, spilling implements over the deck.
Vinnie and Manny were swearing and looking for the pliers, while Stone was feeling for something else. He’d seen a marlin spike in the top tray of the toolbox, he was sure, and he
wanted the shiny tool more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. While they rummaged through the tools for the pliers, he got the marlin spike wedged between his taped hands.
He was yanked roughly to his feet, and somebody handed him an anchor. They actually wanted him to hold the anchor! There didn’t seem much point in not holding it, so he did.
“Any last words?” somebody said.
Stone shot the man a hot look, and both the hoods burst out laughing. Then they were dragging him toward the stem of the boat.
“You get us moving a little,” Manny said, “and I’ll handle this end.” Vinnie went forward, the engines rumbled, and the boat began to move.
Stone started taking deep breaths through his nose, deeper each time, packing air into his lungs. Then he was standing all alone in the stem of the boat, holding the heavy anchor, trying not to fall overboard.
“Compliments of Onofrio Ippolito!” he heard Manny yell over the engines.
Stone took one more deep breath, and then he felt a solid kick in the small of the back. He hung on to the breath as he fell astern, striking the cold, foaming water, and then everything went quiet except the retreating roar of the engines and the scream in his head.
31
He was sinking rapidly, head first. He had no idea how deep the water was, didn’t know when the increasing pressure would force the air from his lungs. He held on to that air with all his strength; he needed the buoyancy as much as the air.
Twisting his wrists back and forth to gain as much slack as possible, which wasn’t much, he held the anchor and the marlin spike with one hand as he found the shackle with the other. The spike had a slot at its top, made for this very job, if not this very moment. Frantically, he got the nub of the shackle pin into the slot in the marlin spike, loosened it, then, using his fingers, quickly unscrewed the pin, yanked it out, and let go of the anchor. He stopped sinking, seeming to have achieved neutral buoyancy. Then he made an awful discovery. When he had let go of the anchor he had let go of the marlin spike, too, and there remained one shackle to defeat, the one holding the chain around his waist.
Once, as a boy, he had been sent to a socialist summer camp by his left-wing parents, and some of the camp counselors had amused themselves by binding the boys hand and foot and tossing them into the lake, just to see how long they would last before they had to be rescued. There were no rescuers at hand now, but at least camp had given Stone some experience of swimming with his hands and feet tied. He tried once to loosen the shackle pin with his fingers, then, with his lungs exploding, began to kick and paddle as best he could toward the surface. Looking up, he could see the bright moon lighting his way, but he had no idea of how deep he had gone. The going seemed painfully slow.