by Stuart Woods
Over the next hour and a half she brought him off, then again, then got started on a third performance before he begged her to stop.
“I’ll give you the other half of that when Danny Blaine is a free man,” she said.
“It will be done tomorrow,” he breathed. “I’ll want you again tomorrow night.” He fished a card from his trousers pocket. “The cell number is there.”
She found a card of her own. “Eight o’clock at my place,” she said. “We’ll order in and make a night of it.”
25
Gloria was getting out of the shower at ten o’clock the following morning when her cell phone went off.
“It’s Gloria,” she said into it.
“Sweetheart,” Danny said, “I don’t know how you managed it, but I’m getting out of here at one today. Can you pick me up?”
“You betcha,” she said, and hung up.
—
Gloria fixed herself up and repatriated her car from the garage around the corner. The drive took an hour and a half, with traffic, and she was five minutes early; five minutes later, Danny was let out of a small door in a big door by a uniformed guard, who handed him an envelope and shook his hand.
She got out of the car to greet him with a big hug. “You’ve lost weight,” she said.
“I’ve had more exercise than usual,” he replied.
“I hope you weren’t getting to like it, that would be a great loss to the women of New York.”
“No, I wasn’t, but I was getting used to it. I’m never getting into a shower again unless I’m alone and the bathroom door is locked.”
“I’ve been paying the rent on your place,” she said. “We’ll go straight there.”
“No, not there,” he said.
“Where, then?”
“McDonald’s.”
“There’s one before we get to the interstate,” she said.
“I can taste it already. If I ever get sent to prison again, I want you to shoot me as soon as my sentence is pronounced.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“How did you spring me?”
“I happened to meet Governor Blake at a party last night,” she said. “We got along.”
“Oh, the magic you do with your body,” he said, laughing.
“The fun wasn’t all his. He’s a very attractive man, and I’m seeing him again tonight.”
“You mean we can’t have dinner?”
“You have a long list of girls to work your way through,” she said, digging an envelope out of her bag and handing it to him. “I stopped at an ATM on the way.”
“You think of everything.”
“Tomorrow, you can start thinking of everything for yourself—it’ll be fun. I made a couple of calls, and you’ve got an interview at ten AM tomorrow at W, with the Style editor. She’s going to love you.” She gave him a slip of paper with the name and address. “You’ll be at work again by noon.”
“That’s great,” Danny said. “Now what can I do for you?”
“Well, there was somebody I wanted you to murder, but I think I’ve pretty well taken care of that myself. Read the new issue, it’s on the stands in a couple of days.”
“I pity the poor guy. What did he do to you?”
“He was rude,” she said.
—
Gloria looked out the window and saw Benton Blake arrive downstairs, his black car followed by a State Police SUV. The two vehicles rolled away, leaving him on the sidewalk. Her bell rang a moment later.
“Top floor,” she said into the intercom.
“On my way.”
She let him in, and he had a good look around. “I like your style,” he said, “and I like the views.”
“Drink?”
“Do you have any single-malt scotch?”
She gave him a choice of three labels; he accepted one over ice, and she poured herself one. “Hungry?”
“Starved.”
“You like Chinese?”
“I like good Chinese.”
“I’ll give you great Chinese.”
“Is that a technique?”
“Yes, but that’s later.” She phoned in an order, then sat down beside him on the sofa. “Thank you for what you did for Danny,” she said. “He’s home safe.”
“I do only one get-out-of-jail-free card, so don’t ask me again.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“Something else—I didn’t know your last name or where you worked until I looked at your card. Don’t ever mention my name or refer to my office in your magazine.”
“What if it’s favorable?”
“In my experience, what’s favorable to one is a nightmare to another. Take Stone Barrington, for instance.”
“You know Stone Barrington?”
“He was a year ahead of me in law school, and he’s a reliable and generous contributor. I haven’t spoken to him, but I don’t think he would have liked what you said about him in your piece about Holly Barker.”
“I thought it complimentary.”
“Stone would think it extremely embarrassing. He’s not a part of the media culture—at least, not until your piece—and he’s unaccustomed to being handled that way.”
“Apologize to him for me when you see him again.”
“I don’t think I’ll bring it up.”
The doorbell rang, and she buzzed up the deliveryman. She spread half a dozen cartons on the dining table and got silver and napkins placed. “Dinner’s on,” she said.
He sat down and began serving himself, while she opened a bottle of Chardonnay. “You were right,” he said, tasting a couple of dishes, “this is great Chinese.”
“They’re practically next door.”
“Lucky you. I don’t do so well in Albany.”
“Do you spend much time in the city?”
“I have a place here.” He looked at her over a forkful of lo mein. “And I’m thinking about not running again.” He thought for a moment. “I haven’t mentioned that to anyone else, so if I see it in print, I’ll know how it got there.”
“You’ve already made your point,” she said. “I have a very good lock on my lips when I’m not using them for something else.”
He smiled and chewed at the same time.
“I was looking out the window when you got here. You arrived stylishly.”
“I could hardly take the subway,” he said, “and cabdrivers have magazines like yours on speed dial. Anyway, the State Police are very protective of me, not to mention discreet. It’s a nice way to travel, and I’ll miss it. And the helicopter.”
“You have your own helicopter?”
“Every governor in the country has a chopper,” he said. “Why do you think they run for the office?”
“More wine?” she asked.
“More you,” he said, reaching for her.
He got what he wanted, and more.
26
Stone called the best publicist in town, Faith Mackey, and was put through immediately.
“Good morning, Faith.”
“Good morning, Stone. I was about to call you.”
“About what?”
“You, first.”
“I have a potential client for you.”
“Oh, goody!”
“And everything I say about him from here on stops with you.”
“That’s always understood, dear.”
“His name is Peter Rule.”
“Why does that ring a bell?”
“Faith, I’m disappointed in you—he’s the son of the President of the United States.” He could hear her palm smacking her forehead.
“Stupid me. He just got married, right? What does he need?”
“Here’s the story in a nutshell. He’s her son by her fi
rst marriage, to a high CIA official. He’s thirty years old. He attended Princeton and Harvard, was a Rhodes Scholar, and spent some years in London working in finance. He came back four years ago and went to work in Eliot Saltonstall’s Senate office. He’s going to run for the other New York seat in two years. After that, the sky’s the limit.”
“Who was the publicist for the Metropolitan Club?”
“The White House.”
“That explains why they didn’t call me.”
“Peter is calling you now. From here on in he’s going to need very sensitive handling. I’m told he knows every elected official in New York State, but the public is pretty much unaware of him. The wedding dinner was the kickoff for his relationship with the voters.”
“Got it.”
“He’s a young man with a very clean nose, not even a DUI—I know, I checked. He’s inherited old money from his father, Simon Rule, who died a couple of years ago. He’s got houses in Georgetown and the Hamptons and an apartment in New York.”
“I need addresses and phone numbers.”
“Get them from him. I e-mailed him your contact information ten minutes ago.”
“Got it. I’ll make him famous in stages—famous for what, he and I have to talk about.”
“He’s got a gorgeous new wife. That’s a start.”
“I thank you, Stone.”
“All right, why were you going to call me?”
“Not good news. I just got proofs of a piece in Just Folks, by that awful slut Gloria Parsons.”
“What is it this time?”
“She’s practically accusing you of murdering your wife.”
“What?”
“I’m not kidding, Stone, this is serious. She knows it’s not true, she knows she can’t prove it, but the rub-off from this could follow you for the rest of your life if it’s not handled right. I’d like to help.”
“What should I do?”
“You’re a lawyer—file a libel suit and ask a judge for an injunction to stop publication. That will scare the shit out of them, because by tomorrow it will have gone to press and it would cost them a ton of money to stop press, excise the story, and reprint. You’d better have a summons in their hands before noon. They’ve already sent proofs to tastemakers, people like me, and that will be damaging enough.”
“Can you e-mail me the proofs?”
“Sure I can. I should start writing a press release about your lawsuit, and it should hit the street seconds after you’ve served them. You’re the lawyer, but I suggest you name Gloria Parsons and her editor, Hazel Schwartz, in your suit. That will make them think about being personally liable, even after their lawyers tell them you can’t make it stick. You or your lawyer should also write an account of the circumstances surrounding the crime that can go out with my release and give the press something to quote. Include the names of any law enforcement people involved so that they can be called for statements. Shall we get started?”
“You’re damned right,” Stone said. “I’ll shoot you the account of the crime as reported by the New York Times. That pretty much covered everything.”
“I can dig that out myself from their website,” Faith said. “Get your lawsuit in gear.” She hung up.
Stone called Herbie Fisher, his protégé partner at Woodman & Weld, and explained the situation.
“I can dig up some libel boilerplate, fill in the names, and have them served in an hour,” Herbie said. “How much do you want to sue for?”
“I don’t know, a hundred million?”
“The magazine is owned by something called Fastbuck Publications, which is, in turn, owned by some conglomerate. I can’t remember which one, but I’ll find out and I’ll have them served simultaneously.”
“Go!”
Joan buzzed. “Dino on one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Hey.”
“Hey, dinner tonight? Patroon at seven-thirty?”
“Sure, but I’ve gotta go right now. Just Folks magazine is running a piece saying that I killed Arrington.”
“That’s horseshit,” Dino said.
“I know that, you know that, but now I have to let the world know it.”
“See you at seven-thirty, if you haven’t left the country.” Dino hung up.
Stone got on his computer, found the Times stories, printed them out, and read them. He was grateful to the newspaper of record for having been so thorough.
He heard a text come in: it was from Herbie: Fastbuck Publications is owned by St. Clair Enterprises. That ring a bell?
It certainly did; Stone, Mike Freeman, and Charley Fox, or Triangle Partnership, as they were known, had set up their company for the express purpose of buying all the assets of St. Clair Enterprises. He called Charley Fox.
“Hey, Stone, what’s up?”
“We own all the assets of St. Clair Enterprises, don’t we?”
“We do, lock, stock, and belt buckle.”
“Does that include a company called Fastbuck Publications?”
“Hang on, I’ll see.” There was heard the tapping of keys on a computer keyboard. “It does, and what do you know, I’ve got a get-acquainted lunch with their CEO this very day, name of Alfred Finch.”
“Holy shit, Charley,” he said. “There’s something I’d like you to hand to Mr. Finch when you meet him.”
“What’s that?”
“A libel suit.” Stone went on to explain, and they made a plan.
27
Alfred Finch sat in his hotel room and read the Stone Barrington piece. He loved it. They would get huge mileage out of this—thousands of e-mails to the editors, pro and con, and Barrington would probably sue; the story would live for months, maybe years. He e-mailed both Hazel Schwartz and Gloria Parsons and approved the raise for Parsons, adding another hundred dollars a week.
Fastbuck Publications was located in a small Florida town where the rents, taxes, and printing costs were reasonable. Just Folks had been growing apace since its introduction four years before, and circulation was running close to three million. Christian St. Clair had bought the magazine at the beginning of its second year, and when he had died, Finch feared he’d get a new owner who wouldn’t allow him to sail so close to the wind with his editorial policy, which was pretty much Anything Goes, unless it involved losing a libel suit, which had never happened. He wouldn’t lose a Barrington suit, either; he was confident of it.
Finch had flown to New York for the single purpose of meeting Charles Fox, CEO of the investment group that had bought all of St. Clair’s assets, and he had put together a winning summary of the publication’s progress during the past three years. He planned to come out of this lunch meeting with a free editorial hand.
While in the city, in addition to meeting Fox, he planned to visit the editorial offices of Just Folks, in SoHo, see Hamilton, and, maybe, get laid. He’d had his eye on Gloria Parsons since they’d hired her, and they were having dinner that evening. His expectations were high.
His lunch with his new boss was at St. Clair’s old headquarters in the East Sixties, which he’d seen only from a passing cab; he was looking forward to seeing the interior. He grabbed a cab uptown and arrived at the stroke of one o’clock.
Once there, he climbed a curving marble staircase to Fox’s office and was met by a secretary. “Please have a seat, Mr. Finch,” she said, pointing him at a leather sofa. “Mr. Fox is on a phone call with one of his investment partners and shouldn’t be much longer.”
Finch settled into the sofa and picked up a copy of Town & Country from the coffee table and leafed through it. He was happy that he didn’t have to deal with the class of stiffs that the publication covered, or at least, from their point of view. He’d rather be nipping at the upper crust’s asses from below the waterline, like the shark he imagined himself to be.
The secretary�
�s phone buzzed. She spoke into it, then rose. “Right this way, Mr. Finch,” she said, walking to the ornate double doors nearby. She opened one and said, “Mr. Fox, Mr. Alfred Finch is here.”
“Send him in,” a voice echoed from the big room.
As the door opened, Finch could see a table set for two on one side of the room, which was, in fact, a library containing thousands of volumes. A surprisingly young man sat at a large table before a carved marble fireplace. “Come in, Alfred,” he said.
“It’s Al,” Finch said, taking the extended hand.
“And I’m Charley,” Fox said. “Have you been here before?”
“First time I’ve been inside,” Finch said. “Was this Christian St. Clair’s personal library?”
“Yes, with every book he loved beautifully bound,” Charley said, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “Nearly five thousand volumes on two decks.” A spiral staircase led to a mezzanine with still more bookcases.
“Shall we sit down? Lunch is on its way up from the kitchen downstairs.”
“Certainly,” Finch replied, happy at the warmth of his reception. Charley Fox must have been doing his homework, reading the weekly reports he’d sent up from Florida. Finch was being made to feel right at home in this imposing mansion.
The two men sat down, and a waitress appeared through a hidden door with a bottle of champagne—Dom Pérignon, Finch noted, not the cheap stuff. She poured some for Fox to taste; he did so, then she poured two glasses. It went down wonderfully well.
“Have you been reading my weeklies?” he asked.
“Your reports or your magazine?”
“Hopefully both.”
“I’ve certainly been reading your reports. My taste in magazines doesn’t include Just Folks.”
“Well, I don’t love everything we publish, myself, but it’s all grist for our particular mill, and our audience is constantly growing.”
“Of course,” Fox said. “I understand you have to publish to the popular tastes.”
“I’m glad you do, it saves me from making that particular sales pitch. Christian St. Clair had a little trouble dealing with it in the beginning, but as our circulation grew, he came to understand the business we’re in.”