Kisser

STONE GOT TO ELAINE’S by ten o’clock and found Dino having dinner with cop about their age, Brian Doyle, who had served with them in the 19th Precinct detective squad years before. Stone shook his hand and sat down. A waiter appeared with a Knob Creek and a menu.

“I’m not dining,” Stone said and then turned to Doyle. “You’re looking pretty good for an old fart,” he said.

“And you’re looking as slick as an otter,” Brian replied. “I hear you’re making more money than Donald Trump.”

“Not anymore; he found some more hot air to inflate the balloon,” Brian said, laughing.

After Dino and Brian finished their dinner, they ordered brandies. Then the three old buddies sat back and began telling each other stories they’d all heard before, until, finally, Stone got to the point. “I’ve got a heads-up for you,” he said, handing Derek Sharpe’s card to Brian.

“I’ve read about this guy somewhere,” Brian said. “I know a lot of what’s called art ought to be illegal, but I don’t think the city council has gotten around to passing the law yet.”

“This guy churns out the kind of art that ought to be illegal and sells it briskly to the artistically clueless.”

“From what I hear, that’s not how he makes his living,” Stone replied. “If he had to rely on his art for money, he’d be living in a garret in the East Village instead of owning a five-story building downtown and living in three floors of it. He rents the top two.”

“Pretty simple: He’s moving quantities of drugs from his space.”

“I don’t know that he’s wholesaling, though I’ve heard he’s sold up to a kilo of coke, but it’s more likely he’s moving larger than usual quantities to individuals for personal use.”

“Sounds boring,” Brian said. “Can’t you give me something sexier?”

“Brian,” Stone said, “when this hits the Post and the News it’s going to be sexy enough to knock your eye out. This guy is plugged into the art scene from one end of this town to the other. He’s very well-known, and the press is going to love it, if he gets busted.”

“Yeah, but without the talent, the work to prove it, or his following. Schnabel is the real deal; Sharpe is ersatz.”

“He’s glommed on to a young woman who’s about to become wealthy, and if he isn’t stopped, he’s going to get her hooked on something bad, steal her money, and throw her into the street if she doesn’t actually do time for being close to him.”

“She’s about to become twenty-five, and when she does, a fat trust is hers to do with whatever she wants, and what she wants is Derek Sharpe. By the way, his real name is Mervin Pyle, and he’s from San Antonio, Texas. He’s skinned three or four wives already, and it might be interesting to run his names and see if he has a record back home.”

“His old man made big bucks in the scrap metal business. Anything else you want to know you can learn by just meeting him. He’s a real lizard.”

“Look,” Brian said, “instead of wasting resources on this guy, why don’t I just send a couple of people over there who’ll beat him to death and throw the corpse in the East River?”

Brian took a notebook, wrote down Sharpe’s particulars, and pushed the card back to Stone. “Okay, I’ll put somebody on him.”

“Might be a good idea to insinuate some young detective into his crowd and see what happens.”

“How about a girl detective?” Brian said. “I’ve got a hot one on the squad, young and gorgeous.”

“Add rich to that, and she’ll attract Sharpe like flies to honey.”

“He doesn’t appear to be but cornered, who knows? That’s why I think it would be good to wander around in his background and see what turns up.”

Brian looked at him closely. “Come on, Stone, there’s more to this than what you’re telling me. You got something else against the guy?”

“Brian, I never heard of him until this morning and never met him until this evening at a gallery opening. I’ve got absolutely nothing against the guy, except for hating him on sight and hearing bad things about him.”

“Her name is Mitzi Reynolds. She’s midthirties, been on the squad for two years, and she’s from South Carolina—still has the accent.”

“Nah, her father’s a shrimper out of Charleston. She went to a nice school, though. I forget what it’s called.”

“Well, she can use her own name, and I’ll bet Sharpe will think she’s from cigarette money. Charleston is far enough away that he won’t be able to check her out easily. Use some budget to buy her some clothes.”

“Yeah, she’d love that, but don’t worry; she dresses good, has a real sense of style.”

“I might be able to fix her up with a Park Avenue address,” Stone said, “on a temporary basis. I’ll make a call tomorrow morning and see.” The building where he had dropped Rita Gammage was said to be the best address in the city; it would certainly impress Derek Sharpe.

“I’ll have Mitzi call you tomorrow morning. You should get together with her and tell her what you know. If you can get her into this apartment, that’ll keep down the budget, which ain’t going to be big for a small-timer like this Sharpe guy.”

Brian stood up. “Well, I’ve got to go out and work for a living tomorrow,” he said, “unlike you guys. You buying, Dino?”

“Certainly not. I think this is a bad guy; he’d fit right in at Attica.”

“Don’t think artist; think con man, and you’ll be closer to the mark,” Stone said.

“Eggers asked me to do what I can; the girl’s old man is a client of the firm.”