Insatiable Appetites

by Stuart Woods

“We’ll think of something,” he said, kissing her back and scratching a nipple through her silk blouse.

  • • •

  Stone’s doorbell rang, the signal from Fred Flicker that his guest was on the way up. Stone slipped into his jacket and went downstairs in time to greet Carla Fontana in the living room.

  “What beautiful paneling and bookcases,” Carla said, looking around.

  “My father designed and built it all,” Stone replied. “It was a commission from my grandmother’s sister, who owned the house. She left it to me. The pictures in this room are all by my mother, Matilda Stone.”

  Carla looked at the pictures and took her time. “Just beautiful,” she said. “Haven’t I seen some of her work at the Metropolitan?”

  “You have.” He led her into the study and offered her a seat on the sofa. “What can I get you?”

  “A martini, please. How soon you forget!” They had met a few weeks before in Paris when she had interviewed him on the occasion of the opening of the new Arrington hotel there.

  “That was remiss of me,” Stone said, taking a frosty bottle from the freezer and filling a martini glass. He handed it to her and poured himself a Knob Creek.

  “My goodness,” she said, staring at the wall next to the bar, where the Modigliani now hung. “Have you looted a museum?”

  “No, that is the bequest of a friend who recently passed away.”

  “That would be Eduardo Bianchi?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Do you think I don’t read my own newspaper? He had quite an obit—nearly two pages.”

  “He certainly did, for a man who most people didn’t know existed.”

  “I met him once, in my publisher’s office, when I was still based in New York. I remember noticing that the boss put on his jacket to receive him, which he normally did only when the president or the cardinal visited.”

  “Eduardo had that effect on people.”

  She sipped her martini. “That is the coldest thing I ever tasted.”

  “It’s been in the freezer, waiting for you. I make martinis and gimlets by the bottle. It’s easier that way.”

  “How does one make a gimlet?”

  “One pours six ounces of vodka from a seven-hundred-and-fifty-milliliter bottle, replaces it with Rose’s Sweetened Lime Juice, puts it in the freezer overnight, then serves.”

  “Simple enough. I’ll remember that.”

  “Not as simple as pouring a glass of bourbon,” he said.

  “Where are we dining?” she asked.

  “At Patroon, a few blocks from here.”

  “I’ve heard about it, never been.”

  “Good. Any news from your contact?”

  “I’ll tell you about it over dinner,” she said. “For now, let’s just drink.”

  They settled into a banquette at Patroon and ordered their second drink.

  “All right,” Stone said, “tell me about Deep . . . What do you call him?”

  “I don’t know—Deep Tonsils?”

  Stone laughed.

  “Let’s just call him the Source.”

  “That’ll do. Then we’ll never be heard mentioning his name.”

  “Right, we can’t do that in public. The Source and I had another meeting, same place. The antiques shop is owned by a friend of his—probably a very good friend. They do make a handsome couple.”

  “Is it a good shop?”

  “It’s wonderful. I’ve already bought a couple of things, and I have my eye on an honest-to-God Tiffany lamp, which I can’t afford on my salary.”

  “And what did the Source have to say?”

  “He brought me a typed-up copy of his notes from the first meeting, and a list of everyone present.”

  “Well, that will add credence to your story when it runs. When will it run?”

  “There is now a team, two in Washington, two in New York, running a fine-toothed comb through the details, which is not as easy as it sounds. For instance, we’re trying to establish that every person there was not actually somewhere else, and we have to do that without asking the person or his or her staff. It’s not easy.”

  “Have you developed another source who was at the meeting?”

  “That’s even harder. Every one of them is a rock-ribbed right winger, and none of them is inclined to be interviewed by that Great Satan, the Times, unless it’s to defame the president or the president-elect. However, I’ve gotten chummy with that dazzling blond congresswoman from Georgia, Mimi Meriwether. She’s a first cousin to Senator Sam Meriwether, whom you know.”

  “I do, and it’s hard to imagine that a cousin of Sam’s could be encamped on the Right. Where did she go wrong?”

  “Runs in the family. Her father and his brother, Sam’s father, were both Dixiecrats in their day. It’s Sam who’s the black sheep of the family, not Mimi. Still, she’s a very smart lady, even if she does make some truly stupid public remarks. I have hope for her.”

  “It sounds as though winning her over is a big leap, especially given your deadline. You do have a deadline, don’t you?”

  “Not yet, and Mimi is the reason I don’t. She’s coming to dinner at my house tomorrow night, and I’ve invited her early for a drink, so that we can have a quiet chat. I’m not sure she’ll cop to having agreed to oppose Kate Lee on everything, before she knows what everything is.”

  “Did you know that the Republicans have a history of that sort of obstruction, going back nearly a century?”

  “I did not know that. Enlighten me.”

  “It’s covered in Scott Berg’s biography of Woodrow Wilson, which I recommend to you. Wilson went to Paris twice to head up the negotiations for what became the Treaty of Versailles, which would officially end World War One.”

  “That, I knew.”

  “Wilson’s archenemy, Senator Henry Cabot Lodge Senior, held a secret meeting of important Republicans, who agreed to oppose the treaty when Wilson brought it home—no matter what the terms were. Franklin Roosevelt, who was assistant secretary of the Navy at the time, was told about it by someone who was at the meeting, but too late for him to do anything about it.”

  “That’s fascinating.”

  “That’s how the Republicans came to oppose the League of Nations, which Wilson had proposed in his Fourteen Points, the heart of the treaty. The League was intended to nip future wars in the bud, and Wilson said that, if the Senate did not ratify the treaty, the former combatants would be at war with each other again in twenty years.”

  “Which is exactly what happened.”

  “Now, who knows if the League could have prevented World War Two? But they would certainly have tried.”

  “I think we’ll need to get some opinions on that from a few eminent historians. Nice to have a historical basis for our story.”

  “How would you like a nice, one-word title for your story?”

  “Speak it!”

  “CABAL.”

  “Perfect! It’s wonderfully sinister! And appropriate in the circumstances.”

  They ordered dinner.

  “Now,” Carla said, “give me something from the inside of Kate’s transition team.”

  Stone shrugged.

  “I know you’re plugged in there. I know you’re a member of her Kitchen Cabinet, too.”

  “Then you know I can’t discuss anything with you that I’ve discussed with Kate—or anyone on her transition team.”

  “And I was hoping to corrupt you.”

  “Well,” Stone said, “that’s not out of the question, but you and I have to be very careful with what passes between us. We don’t want to do anything that would damage your credibility as a journalist.”

  “You’re right, of course, but it would have been fun.”

  “There’s this, though. Kate will be president f
or a maximum of eight years.”

  “I have to wait that long to corrupt you?”

  “It pains me to say it, but yes.”

  They had a good dinner, then he put her into a cab to her hotel. It was a nice night, and Stone walked home.

  Stone was at his desk the following morning when Peter came in and accepted a chair. Stone had not seen him since the funeral. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Morning, Dad. The Centurion jet is coming from London this afternoon, and we’re going to meet them at Teterboro tomorrow morning for the ride to L.A.”

  “I’ll be sorry to see you all go,” Stone said. “Fred will drive you to Teterboro.”

  “Good.”

  “How about a farewell dinner tonight?”

  “That would be great.” Peter examined a fingernail. “Dad, I need your advice about something.”

  “I’ll give you the family rate,” Stone replied. “Shoot.”

  “Leo Goldman has been very attentive to us since we’ve been at Centurion,” he said. Goldman, and his father before him, were CEOs at the studio.

  “That’s very good.”

  “It has been, in lots of ways, but I’m afraid he has designs on Ben.”

  “Hand-on-knee designs?”

  “No, employment designs. He’s offered Ben the head of production job at Centurion. The current guy is retiring soon.”

  “Wow, that’s quite a promotion for a young, independent producer with three movies under his belt.”

  “Ben has been spending a lot of time with Leo and the production chief, learning the operation.”

  “Is Ben inclined to accept?”

  “He’s having trouble making a decision.”

  “How do you feel about the situation?”

  “I’d hate to lose Ben as a partner,” Peter said.

  “Can’t he produce your films and still hold the production chief job?”

  “He says he can.”

  “Then maybe he can. Maybe he could try the job for a year or two, and if he doesn’t find it satisfying, come back to the partnership.”

  “Maybe, but I’ve got a replacement for Ben all lined up.”

  “Anybody I’ve ever heard of?”

  “Teddy Fay.”

  Stone’s eyes widened. “You’re not supposed to know that name. He’s Billy Burnett now.”

  “He sat Ben and me down a few weeks ago and told us the whole story. Said he was uncomfortable with us not knowing who we were employing. It’s one hell of a story, isn’t it?”

  “He told you about the sealed pardon, then?”

  “He did, and he’s very grateful to you.”

  “And you think Teddy—sorry, Billy—could replace Ben?”

  “Billy has been a very fast learner, and he’s incredibly smart. Ben reckons he’s saved us more production money than we’re paying him.”

  “Sounds like he should have a raise.”

  “That will happen. So the advice I want is, what should I do? I’m emotionally attached to Ben, but I wouldn’t want to stand in his way. Leo has told him that when he retires, Ben might well become the next CEO.”

  Stone nodded. “It sounds to me as though you don’t have a decision to make.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s Ben’s decision.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “His mother and I distributed Eduardo’s estate yesterday, so Ben is now a rich man, and he can do whatever he likes.”

  “He told me.”

  “My advice is to let Ben make his decision, then, whatever it is, you find a way to live with it. Sounds like his moving up wouldn’t disrupt things, what with Billy waiting in the wings. Does Billy know about all this?”

  “No, I haven’t mentioned it to him. But you’re right, it’s Ben’s decision, and I’ll tell him whatever he wants to do is all right with me.”

  “I think that’s the way to go.”

  “One other thing bothers me, though. What if Billy’s true identity becomes public? What would that do to my company?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, there are only six people who know about it: you and Ben, the president, the president-elect, Billy’s wife, and me. It’s not in the interest of any of them for it to become known, so he’s safe, and so are you. Certainly, Billy isn’t going to tell anybody else.”

  “That’s a good point,” Peter said, “and I feel better about all this now. I’ll talk to Ben on the way to L.A., and we’ll see how it goes.”

  “Peter, do you think Ben has told Dino about Billy?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

  Peter stood up and gave Stone a hug. “Thanks, Dad. You have a way of cutting through the forest to expose the trees.”

  Stone watched his son leave, then buzzed Joan and asked her to book a table for seven in the library at the Writing Room.

  Then he contemplated the conversation he had just had with Peter. It made him feel good to have been able to give his son advice.

  Dolce was in the kitchen preparing dinner when Father Frank returned from his obligatory visit to the archdiocese, clad in a black raincoat buttoned to the throat, to cover his collar, and a black hat. He was dripping wet.

  “Big rain out there,” he said. “What’s that I smell?”

  “Garlic, probably,” she said, kissing him.

  He hung his coat and hat on a peg by the service entrance and came back with his collar in his hand. “I’m going to change out of this wet uniform. Can I bring you a drink back?”

  “I’ll have some of that Irish, please.”

  He returned shortly with two drinks, and they clinked glasses.

  “Listen, I’m going to get cabin fever if we stay cooped up here all the time.”

  “What’s the matter? Not getting enough sex?”

  He kissed her on the back of the neck. “Not nearly enough.”

  “We’ll work on that in farthest Brooklyn,” she said.

  “What’s in farthest Brooklyn?”

  “The family,” she said. “We’re moving tomorrow morning.”

  “What sort of place?”

  “We’ll let that be a surprise,” she said. She had another surprise for him, too; she couldn’t wait to spring it.

  The following morning when they were ready to go, Dolce said, “You leave the building now, make two right turns, and wait for me on the next corner. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Shall I take my bag?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m off.”

  “I’ll be with you in five minutes.”

  She got into the rented limo while the doorman put her luggage into the trunk. She had already dispatched half a dozen boxes of her own things by a messenger van. Frank was waiting where he had been told to; he put his case into the trunk and got into the rear seat.

  Dolce closed the glass partition between them and the driver. “You’re going to love it out there,” she said.

  Pietro was waiting in front of the house when they pulled up, and he took their luggage upstairs.

  “Wow!” the priest said, looking around.

  “Come, I’ll give you the tour,” Dolce said. She started with her father’s study.

  “This is my dream library,” Frank said, scanning the titles on the shelves. “Your father and I even have a lot of the same books.”

  “Let me show you the art,” she said, leading the way down the hall and through the living and dining rooms, with their explosion of pictures and sculpture, then she showed him the chapel. “You can pray here, and I can confess,” she said, making him laugh. “Now to my favorite part of the property.”

  She led him out the rear doors to the garden, and they walked into the patch of woods past the mausoleum. “My father is in there,” she said. Then they came out of the wood
s to where the old stone barn stood, on a creek leading down to the bay, the gleaming mahogany runabout in which Eduardo had enjoyed sightseeing trips in the creek and bay with Pietro at the helm bobbed at the little dock. The tide was coming in.

  “The barn is not finished yet, but you can get the idea.” She pushed open the big doors at one end.

  “What a wonderful space,” Frank said, stepping in and looking around.

  “I put in the skylights,” she said. “Now the light is perfect. And I have room to do large pieces here.” They skirted an area where a bucket of paint rested on a ladder and the floor was covered with a plastic drop cloth. “The painting is nearly done. They’ll be back to finish on Monday.” She showed him the fully equipped kitchenette. “So I won’t have to go back to the main house for lunch.”

  “Good thinking.”

  She led him to a leather Chesterfield sofa that she had moved out of the master bedroom and sat him down. “We have more to think about,” she said, and her heart was pounding.

  “What’s on your mind?” Frank asked. He took on a professional mien.

  “Now don’t get all priestly with me. This is a conversation between a man and a woman.”

  Frank laughed. “I guess I’m not accustomed to that conversation,” he said.

  “Have you enjoyed your time here, Frank?”

  “Have I ever! You lead the most wonderful life, and I’ve been lucky to share a little of it.”

  “How would you like to share it all?” she asked, stroking his cheek.

  “It’s a lovely idea, but I don’t see how it’s possible,” he replied. “I can’t commute from the Vatican.”

  “It’s not only possible, it’s easy,” she said. “All you have to do is say yes. I’ll do the rest.”

  “You mean I should go back, resign, and move in with you?”

  “You don’t even have to go back,” she said. “You can mail them your resignation.” She kissed him.

  “That is an overwhelming thought,” Frank said.

  “We’ll have the Park Avenue apartment, and this estate—all ours. And whatever else we might want in the world.”

  “What would I do with my time?”

  “You’re a psychiatrist—open a practice. I’ll set you up with an office in a good building. I expect there’s a good trade to be had in lapsed Catholics and their resulting guilt.”