Shakeup

by Stuart Woods

  “He won’t get it,” Stone said. “I’ve already told him we’re suing and reporting him to the bar association.”

  “I’ll bet they already have a thick file on him,” Ben said. “I’ll look into that tomorrow.”

  They were called to dinner, and the conversation changed.

  17

  The phone woke Stone at 6:30 AM. “What?”

  “Stone, it’s Herb, good morning.”

  “It’s three hours earlier out here.”

  “Oh, dammit, I forgot. Anyway, Art Jacoby is out on bail—five hundred grand’s worth, courtesy of Joan.”

  Stone groaned. “Don’t let him flee,” he said.

  “I’ve read him the riot act on that possibility. He knows the score. And he knows he won’t be convicted, given his alibi, so he has no reason to flee.”

  “Did they arrest his girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Then you might move her somewhere, in case they get ideas. I don’t want to have to shell out any more bail money. Are they any closer to a real arrest in the murder?”

  “They wouldn’t say so if they were. It would be too embarrassing, after arresting Jacoby.”

  “Right. Does Dino know he’s out?”

  “I don’t know, but Dino always knows everything.”

  “Call him anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  “And thanks, Herb, for taking this on. I’m tied down out here for a few more days.” He looked at the bed, where what was tying him down was still asleep.

  “Don’t let her tie you up,” Herbie said, then hung up.

  Stone’s phone rang again. “Hello?”

  “It’s Eggers. Our meeting is at ten AM, in the bridal suite.”

  “Is anybody getting married?”

  “Actually, it’s the Sierra Suite. I keep forgetting.”

  “I’ll be there at nine-thirty. There’s something I need to talk to you about before the meeting.”

  “Okay.”

  Stone hung up and got back into bed with Lara. She snuggled. Stone dozed off. Then the phone was waking him up again: eight o’clock. “Yes?”

  “I have Arlene Summers for Lara Parks,” a young man’s voice said.

  “Ah, she’s in the pool, I think; can I have her call you back in ten minutes?”

  He gave Stone the number. “Don’t be late,” he said. “Arlene has a meeting.”

  Stone hung up and gave Lara a shake. No sign of consciousness. He bent close to her ear. “Arlene Summers is on the phone.”

  Lara sat bolt upright, her eyes wide open.

  Stone handed her the phone. “Call her right now. I told her you were in the pool.” He handed her the pad with the number.

  Lara stood up, dialed the number, and paced. “It’s Lara Parks for Arlene Summers,” she said into the phone. “And good morning to you. Yes, I was in the pool. Very refreshing. Ten o’clock is perfect. Yes, I know the building. See you then.” She hung up. “That was Arlene Summers,” she said. “I actually spoke to her.”

  “I know. Maybe you should get a shower while I order breakfast.” He ordered, then took the Baxter contract from her handbag, went down to the study and copied it, then went back upstairs and returned it to her purse. He could hear the hair dryer in the bathroom.

  She came out of the bathroom naked. “I have an appointment with Arlene Summers at ten,” she said.

  “You told me when you were still asleep,” Stone said. “Now, put on a robe for the butler. Breakfast is on the way.”

  * * *

  —

  At nine-fifteen, Stone was in a business suit; so was Lara. “You look perfect,” he said to her. “I’ve got a meeting next door, but there’s a car downstairs waiting for you. Be on time.”

  “I will, I will.” She went back to applying her makeup. “I’m wearing the Ralph Lauren suit you bought me yesterday.”

  “Break a leg,” Stone said and left the house. He walked over to the hotel and rode up in the elevator to the Sierra Suite.

  Eggers was having coffee in a comfortable chair. “Have a seat, Stone. Coffee?”

  “I just had mine,” Stone said. He sat down and handed the Baxter contract to Bill, who read it quickly.

  “This is awful,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, that’s not her signature on it. It’s her autograph.” He explained the difference.

  “What do you want to do about it?”

  “I want our L.A. office to scare the living shit out of him, and I want this to get the attention of the bar association’s ethics committee.”

  “I’ll fax this to our office. We’ll file against him; no warning. And I’ll get our ethics department on it right away.” He picked up the phone and got started. By the time the meeting began, he was done.

  Remembering why he was at this meeting, Stone concentrated on staring at their opponent, Edgar Wheelis, without blinking. Soon Wheelis was mopping his face with a handkerchief.

  Eggers showed everybody out.

  An attorney from the Woodman & Weld L.A. office arrived with a letter to the bar association from Eggers, who signed it and gave Stone a copy of Lara’s lawsuit. “Get her to sign this, and we’ll file it this morning.”

  “She’s seeing a new agent right now, but I’ll have her signature before the day is out.”

  * * *

  —

  Stone was back at his house at eleven-thirty, and his phone was ringing again. “Hello?”

  “Listen, Barrington, this is Guy Baxter. I’m—”

  “Ah, Mr. Baxter, what a coincidence! I was just signing my letter to the bar association about you and reading our lawsuit against you, which will be filed before the day is out.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “You clearly haven’t read either of my two letters faxed to you yesterday,” Stone said. “This might be a good time to peruse them.” He hung up.

  Baxter called again. “Now, listen, I’m sure we can work this out amicably,” he said. “Just make me a decent offer.”

  “You want money for drawing up a fraudulent contract? You want to add extortion to your sins? We have no interest in settling this—how did you put it? ‘Amicably’? It would be so much more fun to sue you and get you tossed off the bar. And when word gets around about the lawsuit, half of Hollywood will be in court to watch the fun, not a few of them witnesses against you, I expect.”

  Baxter was making choking noises.

  “Oh, and by the way, Lara is meeting with Arlene Summers right now. Isn’t that nice?”

  “You’ll never hear from me again,” Baxter sobbed.

  “Send me back the original of her autograph and an abject written apology. I want it inside an hour.” Stone hung up.

  18

  Stone and Lara were sitting down to dinner at Spago, Beverly Hills, Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant. Lara had returned to the hotel with a contract with Arlene Summers’s firm. Stone had read it and had her sign it.

  Wolfgang Puck came over and greeted them, and Stone introduced Lara as Arlene Summers’s new client and Centurion’s new leading lady. Then, over Wolfgang’s shoulder, Stone saw a thickset man in flashy clothes coming toward them. He looked at Lara questioningly.

  “That’s Baxter,” she said.

  Wolfgang had moved on to the next table. Stone stood up. “I’m Guy Baxter,” the man said confidently, flashing a lot of dental work.

  Stone wrapped his dinner napkin around his right hand, a move that Baxter did not miss. “Go away,” Stone said.

  Baxter glanced at Wolfgang Puck, who had seen him coming. “Sorry to disturb you,” he said, turning on his heel. Wolfgang followed him into the bar, had a few words with him, then returned.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said to Stone and Lara. “I’ve banned Guy Baxter from th
e restaurant, so he won’t bother you again here.”

  “Thank you, Wolfgang,” Stone said, and the chef went back to his rounds.

  “I can’t believe that you solved the Baxter problem and found me a new agent, all in the same day,” Lara said, squeezing his hand.

  “My law partner, Bill Eggers, got the legal work done, and Peter recommended you to the agent. I’m glad it went well.”

  From the direction of the front of the restaurant there came the noise of a loud crash. “Why do I think that has something to do with Baxter?” Stone asked.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Lara replied.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Stone said rising. He walked across the garden, through the bar and outside. Baxter was standing in the street, shouting at another driver, whose car had struck his elderly Mercedes. Stone turned and went back inside.

  “It was Baxter’s car,” he said to Lara. They could see the reflection of flashing lights through the front windows. “I expect the police will be handling it shortly,” Stone said. “Mr. Baxter is having a very bad day.”

  “It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Lara remarked.

  * * *

  —

  Back at the Arrington, they were getting ready for bed when Stone’s phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Stone, it’s Art Jacoby. I can’t thank you enough for your help today.”

  “Art,” Stone said, “if you jump bail, I’ll hire a bounty hunter.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m getting a loan on my house, and you’ll have your money back tomorrow.”

  “That would be a relief. What happened, Art?”

  “Little Debby has suddenly decided that I’m the chief suspect.”

  “Does she suspect your girlfriend, too?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I think you should both move temporarily.”

  “I’ll think about that.”

  “Keep me posted on the progress.” Stone hung up and turned his attention to Lara.

  * * *

  —

  Dino woke him up the following morning. Stone picked up the phone. “Why is it that no one in New York can figure out what time it is in L.A.?”

  “I never give it a thought,” Dino said. “What time is it out there?”

  “Four o’clock tomorrow morning,” Stone replied.

  “Oh, shut up. You want the news, or what?”

  “Or what, I guess.”

  “The charges against Art Jacoby have been dropped, so you’ll get your bail money back.”

  “Dino, that was worth being woken up in the middle of the night. Thank you.”

  “They probably haven’t even cashed your check yet.”

  “That’s a nice thought. I’ll tell Joan to go get it. What caused Little Debby to back down?”

  “The word is, somebody in D.C. had a word with her: bad press, and all that. I don’t get the D.C. papers, but I’ll bet the story is all over them.”

  “Good. She deserves it.”

  “In my book, she deserves worse. Having somebody arrested out of spite is a big leap over the line.”

  “It is.” Stone’s phone rang. “I’ve got a call coming in. Anything else?”

  “You’re half a million bucks richer again. Ain’t that enough?”

  “Bye, Dino.” He pressed the incoming call button. “Yes?”

  “Stone, it’s Art Jacoby.”

  “I heard, Art. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks, but the news isn’t all good. As I was being released this morning, a cop I know called and told me that my girlfriend had been found dead in my house.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Art. I’m so sorry.”

  “When I got there, they wouldn’t even let me go inside, but the detective on the case told me that she was shot.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Neither do I,” Art said. “I’m going to find a hotel I can afford and get some sleep. Jail is a very noisy place.”

  “Let me know what develops,” Stone said. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you to watch your ass?”

  “No.” He hung up.

  Stone had barely hung up when Herbie Fisher called. “You’re off the hook,” Herbie said.

  “I heard.”

  “I’ve got your cashier’s check. When I get back to the office I’ll messenger it over to Joan, and she can have it canceled.”

  “Thanks, Herb. I just spoke to Art Jacoby, and he told me his girlfriend was murdered while he was in jail.”

  Herbie was silent. “I was about to say, ‘at least he has an ironclad alibi,’ but I stopped myself.”

  “You automatically think like a lawyer,” Stone said.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything else I can do for Art,” Herbie said, “but tell him to call me, if he thinks of something.”

  “I’ll do that. Bye.” Stone hung up.

  Lara sat up in bed. “There sure is a lot of talking going on,” she said. “What’s happening?”

  “It’s best if you go back to sleep,” Stone said, and she did.

  19

  Stone was asleep for another hour before the phone rang again. He sat up, and Lara was gone from the other side of the bed. “Hello?”

  “The president for you,” a woman said.

  “Put her on.”

  “Good morning!” Holly said brightly.

  “Good morning. You sound chipper, did something good happen?”

  “Yes, somebody checked my schedule and found out that I have to deliver a speech tomorrow at UCLA. I called Joan to see where you were, and she told me you’re already there.”

  “What a coincidence!” Stone looked up to see Lara coming out of the bathroom—naked, as usual. He held a finger to his lips. “How about that?”

  “I’ll be there in a couple of hours,” she said. “How about a swim, et cetera.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’ll be next door, of course, in the presidential cottage, but we’ll find a way to manage that.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  “See you for lunch?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bye-bye.”

  “Bye.” He hung up.

  “You look funny,” Lara said. “Who was that?”

  “That,” Stone said, “is classified. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to move back to Santa Monica.”

  “Oh, shoot. And I was enjoying myself so!”

  “I was enjoying yourself, too, but this can’t be helped. This area is going to be off-limits in about an hour.”

  “Hmmm. Sounds like you’ll be waltzing tonight.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “I do that all the time. It works for me, usually.”

  “Not this time. There’ll be a car here for you in half an hour. Why don’t you take the afternoon and do some apartment shopping? After all, you can afford something nicer, now.”

  “What a good idea! Can I drop by later for a drink and a swim?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, that’s right. It’s off-limits.”

  Stone shrugged. “Those are the breaks. Still, we’ve had a couple of pretty good days, haven’t we?”

  Lara started toward him, but he held up a hand. “The maid will be here any moment.”

  “Oh, yes, the sheets will need changing.”

  “The whole house has to be made ready for an arriving group this evening.” A group of one, he thought, but what the hell?

  “Got it,” she said, tossing her suitcase on the bed and opening it. She began emptying drawers and stuffing things into the case, while Stone headed for the shower. When he came out, she was gone, but there was a note on the dressing table mirror, drawn in lipstick. It’s been fun! it read. Stone found a box of t
issues and went to work on it. He checked the dresser drawers and found a lacy bra in the top one. He stuffed it into the pocket of his robe and finished checking the room for remnants of Lara.

  Clean, at last.

  * * *

  —

  Stone’s phone rang. “Yes?”

  “I’ll meet you in your pool in two minutes,” Holly said. “Don’t worry, I’ve ordered complete privacy.” She hung up.

  Stone got into a bathing suit and a robe, grabbed a towel, and went downstairs. He could see a man on the front steps, hands behind him, facing away from the house. Stone paused, then realized he wasn’t going away. He opened the door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” the Secret Service agent said.

  “Good morning.”

  “Your guest is at the pool.”

  “Thank you.” As he approached, he could see that the gate was closed, and one side of it was covered in canvas. He opened it and walked inside.

  “Hello, sailor,” a voice said from the other end of the pool. Her robe and swimsuit were on a chair. He walked around the pool, dropped his own things, and dove in, with an intense feeling of déjà vu. He swam toward her under the water, appreciating the view as he approached.

  Holly grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to the surface. “Hi, there.”

  “Hi, yourself.”

  They enjoyed a long kiss, then more of each other.

  * * *

  —

  They were back in their suits and robes before lunch was served at poolside.

  “This is all working very well, so far,” Holly said.

  “Very smoothly, indeed,” Stone agreed. “I guess you’ve learned the drill.”

  “I’ve established the drill,” she replied. “I figured out what it should be and required them to conform to it. I very nearly had to send the head of the Secret Service into retirement, but Bill Wright, now his deputy, took him aside and explained things to him, and he’s been quiet ever since. By the way, in New York, the ‘drill’ includes no Secret Service at your house, unless I’m actually there, then outside and in the garage only.”