Naked Greed (2 page)

“Okay, it’s pretty damn good.”

Stone took a swig himself. “Better than that.”

“So how come you’re alone tonight? Where’s Pat Frank?”

“Who knows?” Stone said. “She has let it be known that she’d rather be alone than with me.”

“What did you do?”

“It’s what
you
did,” Stone said. “You arrested her boyfriend on a double murder charge and her old friend as an accessory after the fact.”

“And she blames you?”

“I tried blaming you—it didn’t work.”

“So she pulled the plug?”

“Not exactly, she just got really busy.”

“She just started a new business, maybe she is really just very busy.”

“When I hear that excuse twice, I usually pull the plug myself. But the second time I was understanding, then I heard it a third time, and I got the message.”

“I’m sure it’s you, not her.”

“Isn’t that line supposed to be the other way around?”

“It’s always you.”

“What, am I too nice to them?”

“Maybe. They don’t always appreciate that the way you expect them to.”

“You mean I should be less nice?”

“Look at it this way,” Dino said. “Her boyfriend had two arrests for domestic violence, both times against her, once with a gun, and still, she’s upset that he’s in jail. Does that make any sense?”

“None at all.”

“You’ve never been violent, have you? You take her out to good restaurants, you stay in good hotels, you have a jet airplane that you let her fly, because she can fly it better than you.”

“
Had
a jet airplane,” Stone pointed out. “Her boyfriend and her friend put a bomb in that airplane, which you detonated by pulling a string tied to the master switch.”

“Given the circumstances, I thought it was a better idea to pull the string than just sitting in the cockpit and flipping it to the on position, incinerating myself and, incidentally, you.”

“I’ll grant you that.”

“That’s swell of you. When does the new airplane arrive?”

“It’s sitting in Wichita, ready to go, but the FAA hasn’t certified it yet.”

“Why not?”

“Some sort of technicality, they tell me.”

They watched the maître d’ make their Caesar salad, then ate it and waited for their steaks to arrive.

“Don’t worry about Pat,” Dino said. “As you always say, ‘Women are like cabs—there’ll be another one along again in a minute.’”

“I have never spoken those words in my life,” Stone said, outraged. “I have too much respect for women.”

“Well, maybe you didn’t actually
say
that, I just read your mind.”

“I’ve never thought it, either.”

“Now we’re back to why they keep dumping you.”

“Can you suggest a solution to that problem?”

“Stop being so nice.”

“I don’t know how
not
to be nice. What should I do, beat them?”

“Pat seemed to respond well to that.”

“No she didn’t, she took out a protection order against him.”

“She knew that wouldn’t stop him, and it didn’t.”

Their chateaubriand arrived; the maître d’ presented it, sliced it, and served it.

They had just taken their first bite, when Dino’s phone rang. “Uh-oh,” he said, then put it to his ear. “What? Say again.” He listened. “All right,” he said wearily, “I’m on my way.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “I gotta go.”

“What is it?”

“Does it matter? It’s always something. We’ll continue your education on the treatment of women at our next meeting.”

“Oh, I’ll really look forward to that.”

“And you’ll have to eat my chateaubriand.”

“If I do that, I’ll explode. I’ll take it home and have it for lunch tomorrow.”

“That makes me feel so much better,” Dino said. He got to his feet, and a young woman appeared with his coat. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

“What was it they used to say on
Hill Street Blues
? ‘Be careful out there.’”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dino said, then left.

—

T
hree-quarters of an hour later, Stone left the restaurant with a doggie bag and a recorked half-bottle of wine. He stepped onto the sidewalk and looked up the street to the other side, where Fred, his driver and factotum, sat in the Bentley. The headlights came on, and the car started. It had just begun to pull away from the curb when another car roared past it, nearly hitting a fender, and screeched to a halt just past Stone.

Two large men in suits spilled out of it and were all over a man who had just passed Stone on the sidewalk. They threw him against the wall and began searching him, while he protested.

“What is it?” he asked, and he had a slight accent of some sort. “What did I do?”

“Shut up,” one of the men said, backhanding him.

Stone saw the flash of a gold badge on his belt as he drew back to hit the man again. There was a blackjack in his hand.

“Hold it!” Stone shouted.

The man froze for a moment, then turned toward Stone. “Did you say something to me?”

“I said hold it,” Stone said more quietly.

“Stay out of this, you dumb son of a bitch,” the man said.

“That’s an illegal weapon in your hand, Detective,” Stone said. “If you hit him with it, I’ll see that you spend the night in jail.”

Out of the corner of his eye Stone saw Fred get out of the car and unbutton his jacket. He raised a hand, motioning him to stop.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the cop said. “I’m a police officer, I can do whatever I want to this guy.”

“Do you have a warrant?” Stone asked.

“I don’t need a warrant to use
this
on the guy”—he held up the blackjack—“and I’ll use it on you, too, if you don’t shut the fuck up and get out of my face.”

“Take a look at this,” Stone said, taking a gold badge from his pocket and holding it up. “Let me read it for you. It says ‘Detective First Grade.’ I’ll bet yours says ‘third grade.’”

The cop backed away a step. “You don’t look like a cop to me,” he said.

“You mean because I’m not fat and ugly and wielding an illegal weapon?” Stone reached out and took the blackjack from him.

“Hey,” the cop said.

“Ryan,” his partner said, tugging at his sleeve, “back off.”

“What is this man charged with?” Stone asked.

“I haven’t done anything!” the man said.

“Come on, what has he done?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Stone turned to the man. “Sir, I’m an attorney. Do you wish to have an attorney to represent you in this matter?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

“Come on, Detective, what is my client charged with?”

“You said you was a cop.”

“No, I just showed you my badge. I’m a retired cop.”

“All right, give me my, ah, persuader, and we’ll go.”

“No,” Stone said. “What precinct are you out of?”

“The Three-Five South.”

“Let’s see, your precinct commander is Captain O’Donnell, right? Why don’t we get him out of bed and have a chat with him right now. Or, if you prefer, we can meet tomorrow morning in the commissioner’s office and see what he has to say about this.” He held up the blackjack.

“Look, mister, we don’t want any trouble,” the cop said.

“Then why are you still here?” Stone asked.

The two men got into their car and drove away. Stone turned to the man, who appeared to be in his sixties and Hispanic. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m okay. Are the police always like this in New York?”

“Not usually, and I don’t think you’ll have any problem with him again tonight. Are you from out of town?”

“From San Antonio, Texas. I’m in town on business.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Waldorf Towers.”

“Then let me give you a lift, it’s not far.”

Fred opened a door for him, and they got in.

“Fred, the Waldorf Towers.” Stone turned to his guest. “My name is Stone Barrington.” He offered his hand.

The man shook it. “I am Jose Perado,” he said. “Please call me Pepe—everyone does.”

“What business are you in?”

“I’m in the beer business. I’m a brewer. Perhaps you’ve heard of Cerveza Perado?”

“Yes, I have. I had it once in Texas. It’s very good.”

“My grandfather started the business nearly a hundred years ago. I’m the third generation. Do you have a card, Mr. Barrington?”

“Of course.” Stone handed him a card.

“What kind of law do you practice?” Perado asked, looking at the card. “Oh, I’ve heard good things about Woodman & Weld. I hope to visit them while I’m here.”

“I practice mostly business law, and I’d be happy to introduce you to whoever you’d like to meet at Woodman & Weld.”

Fred drove the car to the Towers entrance at the Waldorf.

“Here we are,” Stone said.

“May I meet with you tomorrow, Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes, of course, and please call me Stone.”

“Would ten tomorrow morning be all right?”

“Of course. The address is on the card. My office is on the street level of my home. It’s a short walk from the Waldorf.”

“Until ten o’clock,” Perado said. He shook Stone’s hand, got out of the car, and went inside.

Stone went home, resisted eating Dino’s chateaubriand, and called his firm’s managing partner, Bill Eggers.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Bill, it’s Stone. I hoped you’d be awake.”

“I am now. This better be good news—I don’t sleep well on bad news.”

“Have you ever heard of a beer called Cerveza Perado?”

“I have two six-packs of it in my bar downstairs. It’s hard to come by outside of Texas—you have to know somebody.”

“I chanced to meet Jose Perado, their third-generation CEO, this evening.”

“And how did you manage that?”

“I was coming out of Patroon as he was being ‘set upon by footpads,’ as Shakespeare once put it.”

“Right there in the street?”

“Yep, and the footpads were cops. I took a blackjack away from one of them and threatened to call his captain, whereupon they dematerialized. I gave Pepe, as he likes to be called, a lift to the Waldorf Towers. He’s in from San Antonio and looking for legal advice. I’m giving him some tomorrow morning. Would you like to join us?”

“In my office?”

“No, in mine, at home.”

“And that is supposed to impress him?”

“No, you’re supposed to do that. Ten o’clock?”

“See you then.” Both men hung up.

Stone went to bed with dreams of beer bottles dancing in his head.

Stone got to his desk by nine the following morning and called Dino.

“Hey.”

“Hey. After your departure last night I left Patroon and had a run-in with a couple of cops outside on the sidewalk.”

“What do you mean, a ‘run-in’?”

“They screeched to a halt in front of the restaurant and attacked a passerby.”

“Passerby? You?”

“No, someone I’d never seen before. They threw the guy against a wall and hit him, then one of them produced a blackjack and drew back on the guy.”

“Did they hit him with the blackjack?”

“No, I took it away from the cop and started asking questions.”

“I’d have paid money to see that.”

“I’m giving you a firsthand account, free.”

“Go on.”

“I asked them what precinct they were in and they said the Three-Five South, and I cowed them by mentioning their captain’s name.”

“O’Donnell?”

“Right. They backed off, and I put the guy in my car and took him to his hotel, the Waldorf Towers.”

“Good for you. Get any names?”

“One of the cops called the other ‘Ryan.’ That’s all I got.”

“Ryan from the Three-Five South—that’s a start. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks.”

—

S
tone returned phone calls, dictated letters, and filled out time sheets until Bob Eggers arrived, early.

“So who’s this guy we’re meeting?”

“I told you last night—just replay the conversation in your mind, then we’ll start anew.”

“Okay, I’ve replayed it. What else can you tell me?”

“That’s it, that’s all I know. The guy is, potentially, a productive client.”

Joan came in with coffee and Eggers had some. Then Jose Perado arrived and introductions were made.

Stone watched as Eggers went through his potential-client dance: he started with small talk, moved on to biography and business history and, obviously to Stone, found Perado acceptable as a client.

“We’d be happy to represent you, Mr. Perado,” Eggers said.

“Please call me Pepe—everybody everywhere does.”

“Pepe it is.”

“I’d like very much to be represented by Woodman & Weld,” Pepe said.

“Then let me welcome you to our firm,” Eggers said, standing up and shaking his hand.

“Thank you, Bill.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m due for a meeting back at our real offices.” He shot Stone a glance. “So, I’m going to leave you in the hands of our favorite partner, Stone, who will assess your immediate needs. I look forward to seeing you again soon.” Eggers left.

“That was easy,” Pepe said.

“Bill knows a good client when he sees one,” Stone replied. “Now, let’s talk about your immediate needs. What are they?”