Kisser

STONE PUT THE CAR in the garage and went quickly to his office. Several message slips were on his desk, among them one from Brian Doyle at the downtown precinct. He called the number.

“I had a meeting with Mitzi earlier this afternoon, and she told me how well things are going. She said you have been a big help. ‘Invaluable,’ was how she put it.”

“We’re getting to the point where we can set up a purchase and a bust,” Brian said.

“We don’t think it will have to be too big to get a conviction: A pound of grass and half a kilo of coke should do it—plenty to charge him with distributing.”

“I have some new information that you’re going to have to take into consideration before you decide whether to continue.”

“I have it from a very reliable source that Sharpe has stepped on the toes of some pros who take a very proprietary view of their business operations.”

“I don’t know, but they are pissed off at having what they consider to be an amateur dipping into their exclusive territories, and they are planning to do something about it.”

“Then I’m going to have to invoke attorney-client privilege.”

“Stone, if you want me to believe you, you’re going to have to give me something more than your word.”

“Listen, you started this operation on nothing more than my word.”

“That’s not quite so,” Brian said. “There had been rumblings from other quarters.”

“I’m sorry, Brian, but that’s not good enough,” Stone said.

“That’s how it works, Stone: You have to tell me; I don’t have to tell you.”

“I’m telling you that very soon somebody is going to remove Derek Sharpe from your precinct in a decisive way, and when that occurs anybody who happens to be standing near him is going to be removed, too. That includes Mitzi and, not least of all, Hildy Parsons, on whose behalf I initiated this whole thing.”

“I’ll worry about Mitzi,” Brian said, “but you’re going to have to deal with your little rich bitch who got into the sack with the wrong boyfriend.”

“I have a responsibility to Mitzi, too,” Stone said, “and I’m telling you she is not well enough protected with just Tom watching her back. He’s usually waiting in the car while she’s dealing with Sharpe and, incidentally, with somebody called Sig Larsen, a financial advisor who’s running a Ponzi scheme.”

“Well, Mitzi is going to be wearing a wire from now on, so we’ll know who she’s talking to and every word they say.”

“And you think a wire is going to make her safer? It’s more likely to get her killed.”

“Stone, a wire these days doesn’t mean what it meant back in the olden days, when you were on the force. They’re very clever little devices now.”

“Brian, if you send Mitzi in there you’re going to have to find a way to get her some on-site help. You need somebody at the scene in case things turn bad.”

“Well, as it happens, I’ve got just the guy to go in there with her. He’s known to all the participants, and he’ll fit right in.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Stone said. “I’m retired, remember?”

“Oh, I think I can get you put on temporary, active status until we’re done with this.”

“I don’t want that, Brian, and in any case, you need a lot more than me. You need guys in black suits and body armor parked in a vegetable truck around the corner, ready to storm the place.

“Speaking of body armor, Mitzi is being fitted out in the latest fashion as we speak. I’m told it will make her even more inviting, that it’ll add a couple of inches to her tits.”

“Brian, you’re not getting this: The biggest threat to Mitzi is not from Sharpe or Larsen, it’s from the people who want Sharpe permanently out of business. Mitzi wearing a wire and armor is not going to protect her from a hail of shotgun or automatic weapons fire.”

“We do the best we can, Stone,” Brian said. “Now, I’ve already put in an application to the commissioner for your reactivation to the force, and I’m ordering you not to decline any invitations from Sharpe or Mitzi to join them on some occasion.”

“Detective Second Grade Barrington, you will comply with the lawful orders of your superiors, including me, Lieutenant Brian Doyle, do you understand me?”

“Since when does the commissioner take your phone calls?” Brian asked. “I heard never.”

“Then why do you think he would approve active status for me?”

“After speaking with him myself,” Brian said, “I think he believes it would be better to have you inside the tent, pissing out, than outside, pissing in. I believe Lyndon Johnson first said that, but it hasn’t lost its meaning over the years.”

“By the way, don’t leave your house; I’ve got an officer on the way over there to fit you out with some of today’s electronic marvels and your own cute little vest.”

Stone put down the phone, feeling a little sick at his stomach. First Dolce and now this.

“Carrie said you wanted us to have a conversation with the guy staked outside your house.”

“Apparently not. Never heard of Max, in fact, and he doesn’t even know anybody in Atlanta.”

“We couldn’t get him to say, not even with Peter’s hat pin, but somebody’s paying him well.”

“Shit again,” Stone said. “Thanks, Willie. Oh, does he have any instructions to hurt me?”

“He wasn’t armed, and I don’t think he’s the hand-to-hand-combat type.”

“Thanks, Willie. Good-bye.” Stone hung up. His very pleasant day had just gone to hell.