26
Stone woke up early, a little after six. Carla was inert beside him, the sheet failing to cover one breast. He slipped out of bed, went into the bathroom, showered, then dressed. He debated whether to wake her, then decided not to; he would phone her later.
The morning was crisp, and he walked downtown to his house and let himself in by the office door. He left the signed prenup on Joan’s desk with a note telling her to messenger it to Eggers ASAP, then went into the kitchen, where Helene was bustling about.
“You are up very early,” she said in her Greek-accented English, “and you are dressed, which means you slept somewhere else.”
“Stop being a detective and scramble me some eggs, please, Helene.” The Times was on the kitchen counter, and he read it while Helene cooked. The headline story on the first business page was of an acquisition by Harlan Deal of an aircraft-leasing company. He wished he’d known the day before; he wasn’t above a little insider trading. Too late, now.
The acquisition and the prenup were Deal’s good news for the day, he thought. The bad would follow when Carla broke her news.
He was at his desk when Joan arrived.
“Slept somewhere else, huh?”
“Joan ...”
“You’re wearing yesterday’s suit.”
“I like the suit; why can’t I wear it two days in a row?”
“Okay, stick with that story.”
“There’s something on your desk for immediate action.”
Joan left, and he heard her calling the messenger service.
Stone finished reading the Times and had started the crossword when Joan buzzed.
“Bill Eggers on line one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning, Bill.”
“How the hell did you do it?” Eggers asked. “How did you get her to sign?”
“I simply asked her nicely,” Stone replied. “Apparently, no one had bothered to do that.”
“I’ve already talked to Harlan, and he’s thrilled. He announced a new acquisition this morning, too.”
“I saw it in the Times. I guess you knew about this yesterday, Bill.”
“Sure. We did the legal work.”
“You might have dropped a hint.”
“Yeah, sure, and have the SEC all over us both like a case of the flu. Don’t worry; Harlan is sending you a check. I told him to pay you directly.”
“And I get to keep it all? Gee, whiz!”
“Don’t worry, the aircraft-leasing deal left us flush.”
“I never worry about you, Bill. Thanks.” He hung up, and Joan buzzed again.
“Yes?”
“A messenger just delivered a check from Harlan Deal for twenty-five thousand dollars! What the hell did you do for Harlan Deal? I didn’t even know you knew him!”
“Met him yesterday, did some work for him last evening.”
“Now I can pay the rest of the bills!”
“See how good I am to you?”
Bob Cantor met his old service buddy at “21.” He hadn’t been there in years, but Crow had, judging from the way they were greeted and seated. They were at a corner table on the ground floor, away from the hubbub of the horseshoe-shaped seating areas.
“So, Bob,” Crow said, “how you been?” Charlie was dressed in a five-thousand-dollar suit, a five-hundred-dollar shirt and a two-hundred-dollar necktie with a matching one-hundred-dollar pocket square. He still managed to look like a real estate tycoon who sold used cars on the side.
“I been good, Charlie, and from what I read about you in the papers, so have you.”
“Oh yeah. Boy, it’s been sweet.” He ordered martinis for both of them.
Cantor took a small sip of his drink. “I was kind of surprised to hear from you, Charlie, after that blood oath we all took.”
“Come on, Bob, it’s been thirty years; we can talk now without any problems.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“How have you spent the last thirty?”
“Well, I joined the NYPD when I got back from ’Nam and did twenty-five years there, fifteen of them as a detective, then I retired.”
“How do you spend your time now?”
“Oh, I dabble in photography,” Cantor said, not mentioning that he sometimes kicked in a bedroom door before dabbling. “And you’re in the real estate game?”
“I am.”
“Married?”
“Third time lucky, I hope. How about you?”
“Nah, I stayed a bachelor. I got a couple girls I see from time to time.”
They ordered lunch and chatted amiably, as if they were dear old friends. Cantor finally popped the question. “Seen any of the other guys?”
“You know,” Crow replied, “I was thinking we should have a reunion of the old band of thieves.”
“You in touch with them?”
“I could probably track them down,” Crow said.
“Any idea what they’re doing?”
“Well, Ab Kramer is a big deal in the stock market, filthy rich, too. He’s in The Wall Street Journal pretty often, does the odd appearance on CNBC, too. I’ve heard a rumor he might be the next secretary of the Treasury, if the Democrats hang on to the White House.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the business news stuff about him; I didn’t know he had political connections, though.”
“Big fund-raiser for the Democrats, the bastard,” Crow said.
“I take it you’re a Republican, Charlie.”
“You bet your sweet ass; that’s where the money is, boy. You give, you get; that’s my policy.”
“What about Harry Collins, you seen him?”
“Funny, I saw him at the track not long ago, and at the hundred-dollar window, too.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Nah.”
“Just like you didn’t speak to me at P. J. Clarke’s the other day.”
“Well, I just happened to be there for a drink; given our previous arrangement, I didn’t know if you’d want to talk.”
“Well, like you say, it’s been a long time. You ever see Ab?”
“Funny you should mention that; he kibitzed on a deal another guy at his firm did for us. He’s an investment banker, you know.”
“How about the Colonel, you ever hear anything about him?”
“Ab says he’s in the antiques business up in Connecticut. Ab has a place up there and said he ran into him.”
“Antiques? The Colonel? That doesn’t sound like him.”
“Well, you and him did okay in the gold coin business, remember? That’s antiques, sort of.”
“You still pissed off about not being in on that, Charlie?”
“Of course not,” Crow said, clapping Cantor on the forearm. “I’ve done real good; why should I care? Say, how did you spend your cut?”
“I bought a car and some clothes, bought a little apartment and put the rest in the stock market and left it there.”
“Good for you, Bobby! I guess you’re a rich man now, huh?”
“I’ve done okay. At least I don’t have to live on my pension.”
They had coffee, and the waiter brought the check. Crow paid it with a black American Express card.
“Well, Bob,” Crow said, “do I have your permission to arrange a class reunion?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“I don’t know, maybe some good steaks and a few bottles of fine wine. You up for that?”
“Sure. I guess so.”
“They’ve got some private rooms here; maybe we’ll do that.”
“Fine by me.”
They got up and walked to the front door; there was a silver Rolls-Royce, the new one built by BMW, waiting at the curb, a uniformed chauffeur braced with the door open.
“Drop you someplace, Bob?”
“Nah, it’s a nice day; I think I’ll walk for a while.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Crow said, shaking his hand.
“Might be nice to see the old crowd at that,” Cantor said, waving good-bye and turning up Fifty-second Street, toward Fifth Avenue, while Crow’s Rolls glided toward Sixth.
Cantor had no doubt that Charlie wasn’t going to arrange a class reunion. “I wonder what that guy is up to,” he said aloud to himself. He looked back toward Sixth Avenue and saw the Rolls turn the corner, so he crossed the street and went into a parking garage. He checked the recorder in his van and found that it had worked perfectly.