Fresh Disasters (8 page)

T
he night passed in a fog of champagne and mad love, with mouths employed voraciously and plenty of good, straight sex: sitting, standing, kneeling and reclining. Stone woke, exhausted, with a hand on his penis, and to his alarm, it was responding yet again.

“This time I’ll die,” he said.

“There are worse ways to go,” she replied, then used her tongue to help her hand. She threw a leg over him and settled down, guiding him in.

Stone emitted a pitifully gratified noise.

“Why didn’t they print the pictures?” she asked offhandedly.

“Huh?”

“I saw the mention of Bernie and Marilyn on Page Six, but they didn’t use the photographs. Why?”

Stone stopped helping, but Celia continued to slowly move up and down on him. “What?”

“Oh, come on, Stone. Don’t be coy. When I told you about the penthouse exhibitionism I expected you to use the information, but didn’t you give the
Post
the pictures your man took?”

“You flabbergast me,” Stone said.

“It doesn’t seem to be affecting your erection,” she said, giggling.

“How on earth do you know…what you think you know?”

“Didn’t you used to be a detective?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then figure it out.”

Stone thought for a minute. “Okay, you got me. I can’t figure it out.”

“I’m living, temporarily, in the building directly across the street from Marilyn, and the doorman, Tim, is my buddy. He saw the piece in the
Post
, too, and he told me about the man with all the cameras on the roof.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Stone said, “because I had begun to think that you were some sort of psychic.”

“Oh, I’m pretty psychic, too; how do you think I knew you would use the information I gave you?”

Stone began to help with the sex again. “I think I’m just going to stop thinking, at least when you’re around.”

“Well, you’ve been thinking with your cock all night, and that’s all right with me. You don’t need a brain to make me happy in bed.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Stone said.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“There was a question?”

“Why didn’t they use the photographs?”

“I was thinking about that—this was before we got into bed together—and I think they’re playing it very smart.”

“Hang on a minute.” She began moving faster and making little noises, then she came all in a rush, followed closely by Stone.

She rolled off him and lay on her back, panting. “Okay, you can have your brain back now. How is the
Post
playing it smart?”

Stone took a few deep breaths and handed her the box of tissues from the bedside table. “This is how I figure it: Bernie doesn’t know they have the pictures; he thinks they’re operating on nothing more than a rumor. So they run what he thinks is a rumor the first day, then Bernie sues them immediately, denies everything, claims slander. They wait for the suit to be filed, then the next day—that’s today—they run the pictures, thus blowing Bernie’s lawsuit out of the water and making him look even more like the ass he is. You could call that humiliating him, legally, and Bernie prides himself on knowing how to manipulate the law, so he’s hoist with his own petard.”

“What’s a petard?”

“Some sort of medieval weapon, I think, but the phrase means, if I’m right, that the
Post
will pretty much fuck Bernie with his own dick.”

“How very appropriate,” Celia said, laughing.

“Just what is your interest in all this?” Stone asked. “Do you have an axe to grind?”

“You might say that,” she replied. “Right after Bernie had started seeing Marilyn, when we were both working at the day spa, he made a big pass at me. She never even knew that, but somehow she got the idea that
I
was interested in
him
, and she took delight in telling me all the details of their affair, as if she were making me jealous. I got really tired of it, but she wouldn’t stop, even when I asked her to. I quit the job, just to get away from her.”

“God, I hope I never make you angry with me,” Stone said.

“That would be unwise, indeed. Where’s the breakfast in bed you promised me?”

“Celia, it’s…” he checked the bedside clock “…six oh five in the morning, and my housekeeper doesn’t arrive until eight. And I can’t even make a fist, let alone cook, in my present condition.”

“What you need is a hot bath,” she said, getting out of bed. A moment later, water could be heard running in the bathroom.

T
wenty minutes later, Celia sat in the big tub, holding a limp Stone in her arms. “There, there,” she said, stroking his hair. “This is wonderful,” he sighed.

“Of course it is. And when we’re done here, I’m going to give you the best massage you ever had in your life.”

“I think I’m going to have to take the day off,” Stone said.

She laughed. “I wish I could join you, but I have appointments today.”

“So you live in that building on Park? You’ve been very mysterious about it.”

“Not mysterious, just careful.”

“Why careful?”

“I’m afraid I have a crazy ex-boyfriend on my hands.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Not much to tell. I lived with him in a big loft downtown for a couple of years. It was fine for a while, but then he got into drugs and started becoming violent.”

“He was violent with
you
? He
is
crazy.”

“You’d think my size would have intimidated him just a little, wouldn’t you? He was only about six feet, and I think that always annoyed him. I took it at first, and then I started hitting him back.”

“Didn’t that stop him?”

“No, he started using weapons—his belt, once a whip, if you can believe it.”

“And how did you respond to that?”

“I picked up one of his small sculptures—he’s a sculptor—and coldcocked him with it. Then, while he was still unconscious, I packed up and got the hell out of there. A friend lent me the apartment on Park, but Devlin, the sculptor, is looking for me, and he’s furious, so mutual friends tell me.”

“What do you think will happen if he finds you?”

“I think he’ll kill me.” She paused. “If he can.”

“Then I think you ought to start taking this seriously,” Stone said.

“Oh, I am taking it seriously.”

“Have you applied for a protective court order?”

“If I did that, the court would bar him from coming within a hundred yards of me, or something, right?”

“More or less.”

“The problem is, he’d have to be told where I’m living, so he could stay a hundred yards away.”

“You have a point. So what do you intend to do?”

“I’m thinking of killing him,” she said.

S
tone lay on the bed while Celia kneaded his body.

“So, what do you think of my idea of killing Devlin?” she asked.

“Morally repugnant.”

“Forget morality for a minute. How should I go about it?”

“You shouldn’t go about it, even forgetting morality.”

“If I have no morals, then why shouldn’t I?”

“How are your nerves?”

“Pretty cool.”

“Could you stand an investigation by a team of police detectives into every aspect of your private life, maybe lasting for years? Could you stand being portrayed in the newspapers as the likely suspect, even if it couldn’t be proven? Could you stand the loss of your business when your clients learned that you were a suspected murderer?”

“Who knows, it might even improve my business.”

“I don’t think you’d like your new customers.”

“Don’t you think I could plan the perfect crime?”

“Did you ever watch the old TV series
Columbo,
with Peter Falk?”

“Sure. I bet I saw all of them.”

“Well, every week, Columbo solved a murder that was supposed to be the perfect crime. The series was a weekly lesson in how many ways there are to screw up when you’re trying to commit the perfect crime. And that was before DNA and fiber analysis, and all that stuff.”

“What would be my chances of getting away with it?”

“Have you ever met any homicide detectives?”

“One or two, I guess, at parties.”

“They looked pretty ordinary, didn’t they?”

“
Very
ordinary.”

“Your usual homicide detective is a guy in a suit who looks like a businessman or a high school teacher or an insurance salesman. Of course, there are those who look like bums, but my point is, they share one thing in common.”

“What?”

“They’re smart. They get assigned to homicides because they’re the best detectives. They also have a lot of experience at solving murders. Sometimes they get it wrong, and sometimes they don’t solve it at all, but year in and year out the NYPD solves close to two-thirds of all homicides. Now, you may think that gives you a one-in-three shot at getting away with it, but it also gives you a two-out-of-three shot at getting caught.”

She slapped him on the ass. “Turn over.”

He turned over. “Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows—family member, lover, next-door neighbor. Most of the unsolved murders are committed by someone the victim doesn’t know—mugger, rapist, like that. If Devlin is murdered by someone who knows him, like, say, you, then your chances of getting caught go way up, just because you’re known to know him. In fact, because you lived together and were lovers and had a sometimes violent relationship, you would instantly be the chief suspect in the eyes of the police.”

“Okay, suppose I got caught and sent to trial. Wouldn’t I have a good chance of getting off when the jury learned that he had been violent toward me for a long time?”

“You really want to take a chance on the opinions of twelve ordinary citizens?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, let’s say you go down to Devlin’s studio, pick up another one of his small sculptures and coldcock him. One blow might not do the trick; you might have to hit him until his brains are on the floor, and in that case, you’d better show signs of his trying to kill you—bruises on your neck, maybe even his fingerprints on your throat, something like that. And even if he is smaller than you, you’d be taking a chance on whether you could win the fight.”

“Suppose I wait until he attacks me, then shoot him.”

“Again, you might lose; he might take the gun away from you and shoot you. Also, the cops are going to want to know where you got the gun, if you had a license for it and why you took it to his studio. You could go to prison for just possessing the gun.”

She massaged his scalp and his face. “You make it sound awfully difficult.”

“It’s not just difficult, it’s very nearly impossible to kill somebody you know and just walk away.” She began rubbing the back of his neck. “And if I thought you really had it in you to murder somebody, I don’t think I’d want your hands where they are right now; they’re too close to my throat.”

“Suppose I hire someone to kill him and I’m in, say, San Francisco on the day.”

“Your chances of getting away with the actual killing go way up, but now you’ve got another person in the picture who might be a very great liability. Do you know any contract killers?”

“No, but I bet I could find one.”

“Okay. You walk into a bar in a not-so-hot neighborhood, strike up a conversation with some guy who looks like he’d do anything for money, and you make the deal and give him half. He could just start drinking at another bar and keep your money; in fact, if he’s smart, that’s exactly what he’d do. But let’s say he goes through with the deal, commits a clean murder, leaves no evidence, collects the rest of his fee and goes away. All of this is unlikely, of course, because he’d probably make mistakes that would get him caught, and then, to get a light sentence, he gives you to the D.A. on a platter. The D.A. will find witnesses in the bar who saw the two of you together; you’re the kind of girl who’s not easily forgotten. Or suppose, a year or two down the line, your hit man gets arrested for some other crime, something petty, like burglary. He doesn’t want to do time, so he does a deal where he gets immunity for Devlin and you get the death penalty. In short, you can’t rely on a person who will kill for money.”

She laughed and dropped his head. “All right, I won’t kill him. What should I do?”

“Unless you want to leave town or spend the next few years as a kind of fugitive in your own city, you have to confront him. Legally, I mean. Would you like for me to visit him and tell him what you can do to him in court? That might cool his ardor.”

“What a good idea!” she enthused. She kissed him lightly on the penis. “Now, how about that breakfast in bed?”

S
tone made it through breakfast without having to perform again, which was just as well, because he was nearly too sore to walk properly. He saw Celia to the front door, and she took an invitation from her purse and handed it to him.

“Devlin has a show opening tomorrow night at this gallery in SoHo. It might be a good time to speak to him.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Stone said. “How about lunch at La Goulue, Sixty-fifth and Madison at one o’clock the day after?”

“See you there,” she said, planting a serious kiss on his kisser.

Stone disengaged with reluctance and limped to his office.

Joan came in, bearing the
Post
. “I won’t ask why you’re late,” she said. “I saw her leave from my window.”

“Thanks for not asking,” Stone said, accepting the newspaper, which was open to Page Six. Four excellent photographs of Bernie Finger and Marilyn the Masseuse adorned the upper quarter of the page, and tiny strips of black covered only their most private parts. “Wow,” Stone breathed, as he read the story, which made mincemeat of Bernie’s slander suit.

The phone rang, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice,” she said in her best secretarial tones, then she listened and covered the phone with her hand. “It’s Henry Stead, from Page Six.”

Stone had had one previous conversation with Stead a few months before. He pressed the speakerphone button. “Good morning, Mr. Stead.”

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington. I trust you’ve seen Page Six today.”

“Mr. Stead, I know this will come as a crushing disappointment, but I am not a regular peruser of either your newspaper or your page.”

“And yet you managed a timely riposte to Bernie Finger’s account of your luncheon at the Four Seasons.”

“My secretary’s taste in newspapers is not so lofty as mine, and, from time to time, she may share some tidbit with me, particularly if it takes my name in vain. Today, so far, she seems to actually be doing her work, so she has shared nothing. Care to give me the short version?”

“Well, yesterday we ran a mention of Bernie’s current extramarital affair. Bernie, of course, sued us immediately, so today we ran the corroborating photographs, featuring a naked Bernie on a penthouse terrace with an equally naked masseuse named Marilyn. Tomorrow, we expect to report that Mrs. Finger has filed for divorce. In fact, I believe the story is already set in type.”

“And however did you get Bernie to pose for these pictures? I’ve met him only once, at the aforementioned luncheon, but he certainly didn’t seem built for nude photos.”

“Oh, your good friend Mr. Cantor supplied the photographs.”

“I’m afraid the only Mr. Cantor with whom I am acquainted is Eddie, of the banjo eyes, and I believe he is far too dead to supply you with nudies of Bernie Finger.”

Stead managed an appreciative chuckle. “Mr. Barrington, this page appreciates your contributions to our output, and as long as we can maintain this friendly relationship, you will have our gratitude, expressed in our treatment of you in these pages.”

“Mr. Stead, while I am always appreciative of kind treatment, I cannot offer a quid pro quo, not being the gossipy sort, but I wish you well in your endeavors, particularly with regard to Bernie Finger. I bid you good morning.” He disconnected.

“Nicely done,” Joan said. “Tell me, did you ever feel even a twinge of conscience about this? I wasn’t really sure you’d go through with it.”

“A twinge, yes, for about half a minute. Then I remembered Bernie’s attempt to sabotage my reputation with his altered-state account of our lunch, and I started to feel really good about screwing him, which is how I still feel.”

“And how about torpedoing his marriage? Do you expect to reap any karma for that?”

“Well, Bernie’s ego, not his marriage, was my objective, but although I have done Bernie an ill turn, I’m sure that is more than made up for in good karma by the service I have done Mrs. Finger, who will presently be rid of Bernie and very rich. I predict she will remarry within the year.”

The phone rang again, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice.” She listened and handed Stone the phone. “Bob Cantor.” She returned to her office.

“Good morning, Bob,” Stone said.

“Morning, Stone.”

“I’ve just had Page Six on the phone, and Henry Stead made a half-hearted attempt to make me admit that I know you.”

“Which you repulsed?”

“In emphatic fashion. What’s up?”

“I still haven’t heard from Herbie, and now I’m really worried. He’s never gone this long without asking for money.”

“Have you made inquiries?”

“Yeah. I know I’m supposed to be a detective, but I’m damned if I can catch his scent.”

“Have you been to his home?”

“Not yet, but I guess I’d better go over there. I have a key.”

“Give me the address, and I’ll meet you,” Stone said. He scribbled it down. “Give me half an hour. I’ll meet you out front.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to run out to Brooklyn; Herbie Fisher is missing and Bob is concerned.”

“I thought it was awfully quiet around here,” Joan said.

S
tone hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. It was weird, he reflected, how Herbie’s sudden absence could leave a hole in his day. He couldn’t say he missed the idiot, but still…

Bob Cantor was standing on the sidewalk in front of a handsome brownstone in a gentrified neighborhood. “This way,” he said, opening the iron gate and taking the stairs that led to the basement. “He lives in the super’s apartment.”

Cantor let them in with his key and scooped up a pile of mail on the floor outside the apartment. He opened the front door.

“Let’s do this like a crime scene,” Stone said.

“I’m way ahead of you,” Cantor said, handing Stone a pair of latex gloves. He led the way from the foyer into the living room. The room had been tossed—no, more than tossed, trashed. A bookcase holding an elaborate stereo system lay facedown on the floor, its contents smashed. Every piece of upholstered furniture had been slashed to the springs, and the drawers of a small desk were scattered here and there. An inspection of the single bedroom revealed the same treatment, and even the bathroom had been thoroughly turned over.

“What do you think they were looking for?” Stone asked.

“Money, what else?”

“And why would anybody think Herbie has money?”

“Well, he’s always telling anybody who’ll listen that he does. I guess somebody believed it.”

“I suppose so.”

“You think this is Carmine Dattila’s work?”

“Who else?”

“Well, I’m sure he’s not the only person Herbie owes money,” Stone said.

“Maybe not, but Dattila is probably the only lender with a personal army to do work like this.”

The two men stood in the apartment with but one thought between them.

“You think Herbie is still alive?” Cantor asked.

“I think that depends on whether Herbie can convince them that he has some hope of paying,” Stone said. “It’s time to call the Brooklyn cop shop.”