Stone called the best publicist in town, Faith Mackey, and was put through immediately.
“Good morning, Faith.”
“Good morning, Stone. I was about to call you.”
“About what?”
“You, first.”
“I have a potential client for you.”
“Oh, goody!”
“And everything I say about him from here on stops with you.”
“That’s always understood, dear.”
“His name is Peter Rule.”
“Why does that ring a bell?”
“Faith, I’m disappointed in you—he’s the son of the President of the United States.” He could hear her palm smacking her forehead.
“Stupid me. He just got married, right? What does he need?”
“Here’s the story in a nutshell. He’s her son by her first marriage, to a high CIA official. He’s thirty years old. He attended Princeton and Harvard, was a Rhodes Scholar, and spent some years in London working in finance. He came back four years ago and went to work in Eliot Saltonstall’s Senate office. He’s going to run for the other New York seat in two years. After that, the sky’s the limit.”
“Who was the publicist for the Metropolitan Club?”
“The White House.”
“That explains why they didn’t call me.”
“Peter is calling you now. From here on in he’s going to need very sensitive handling. I’m told he knows every elected official in New York State, but the public is pretty much unaware of him. The wedding dinner was the kickoff for his relationship with the voters.”
“Got it.”
“He’s a young man with a very clean nose, not even a DUI—I know, I checked. He’s inherited old money from his father, Simon Rule, who died a couple of years ago. He’s got houses in Georgetown and the Hamptons and an apartment in New York.”
“I need addresses and phone numbers.”
“Get them from him. I e-mailed him your contact information ten minutes ago.”
“Got it. I’ll make him famous in stages—famous for what, he and I have to talk about.”
“He’s got a gorgeous new wife. That’s a start.”
“I thank you, Stone.”
“All right, why were you going to call me?”
“Not good news. I just got proofs of a piece in Just Folks, by that awful slut Gloria Parsons.”
“What is it this time?”
“She’s practically accusing you of murdering your wife.”
“What?”
“I’m not kidding, Stone, this is serious. She knows it’s not true, she knows she can’t prove it, but the rub-off from this could follow you for the rest of your life if it’s not handled right. I’d like to help.”
“What should I do?”
“You’re a lawyer—file a libel suit and ask a judge for an injunction to stop publication. That will scare the shit out of them, because by tomorrow it will have gone to press and it would cost them a ton of money to stop press, excise the story, and reprint. You’d better have a summons in their hands before noon. They’ve already sent proofs to tastemakers, people like me, and that will be damaging enough.”
“Can you e-mail me the proofs?”
“Sure I can. I should start writing a press release about your lawsuit, and it should hit the street seconds after you’ve served them. You’re the lawyer, but I suggest you name Gloria Parsons and her editor, Hazel Schwartz, in your suit. That will make them think about being personally liable, even after their lawyers tell them you can’t make it stick. You or your lawyer should also write an account of the circumstances surrounding the crime that can go out with my release and give the press something to quote. Include the names of any law enforcement people involved so that they can be called for statements. Shall we get started?”
“You’re damned right,” Stone said. “I’ll shoot you the account of the crime as reported by the New York Times. That pretty much covered everything.”
“I can dig that out myself from their website,” Faith said. “Get your lawsuit in gear.” She hung up.
Stone called Herbie Fisher, his protégé partner at Woodman & Weld, and explained the situation.
“I can dig up some libel boilerplate, fill in the names, and have them served in an hour,” Herbie said. “How much do you want to sue for?”
“I don’t know, a hundred million?”
“The magazine is owned by something called Fastbuck Publications, which is, in turn, owned by some conglomerate. I can’t remember which one, but I’ll find out and I’ll have them served simultaneously.”
“Go!”
Joan buzzed. “Dino on one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Hey.”
“Hey, dinner tonight? Patroon at seven-thirty?”
“Sure, but I’ve gotta go right now. Just Folks magazine is running a piece saying that I killed Arrington.”
“That’s horseshit,” Dino said.
“I know that, you know that, but now I have to let the world know it.”
“See you at seven-thirty, if you haven’t left the country.” Dino hung up.
Stone got on his computer, found the Times stories, printed them out, and read them. He was grateful to the newspaper of record for having been so thorough.
He heard a text come in: it was from Herbie: Fastbuck Publications is owned by St. Clair Enterprises. That ring a bell?
It certainly did; Stone, Mike Freeman, and Charley Fox, or Triangle Partnership, as they were known, had set up their company for the express purpose of buying all the assets of St. Clair Enterprises. He called Charley Fox.
“Hey, Stone, what’s up?”
“We own all the assets of St. Clair Enterprises, don’t we?”
“We do, lock, stock, and belt buckle.”
“Does that include a company called Fastbuck Publications?”
“Hang on, I’ll see.” There was heard the tapping of keys on a computer keyboard. “It does, and what do you know, I’ve got a get-acquainted lunch with their CEO this very day, name of Alfred Finch.”
“Holy shit, Charley,” he said. “There’s something I’d like you to hand to Mr. Finch when you meet him.”
“What’s that?”
“A libel suit.” Stone went on to explain, and they made a plan.