“I’m going to kill your son,” Rutledge said.
“And why would you want to do that?” Stone asked, edging toward Peter.
Hattie reflexively stepped between Peter and the shotgun.
“Get out of the way, young lady,” Rutledge said, “or I’ll kill you, too.”
“No, you won’t,” Joan said from the hallway, and before Rutledge could turn and look at her there was the roar of a gunshot, and he lurched forward and fell on Stone’s desk, splashing blood and gore over the desktop.
Stone reached over the desk and plucked the shotgun from his hands, then unhooked the strap and racked it until it was empty.
Joan walked into the room, still pointing her .45 semiautomatic ahead of her, ready to fire again, but Rutledge slid slowly to the floor, taking Stone’s business papers with him.
“What the hell is going on here?” a man’s voice said.
Stone looked up to see Herbie Fisher standing in the doorway. Allison was standing next to him.
Stone stepped over Rutledge’s body and took the .45 from Joan. “Sweetheart,” he said, “would you call Dino and ask him to send some people and an ambulance over here? And would you tell him to order them not to clog up the whole block with their vehicles? It would upset the neighbors.” He took a couple of deep breaths and worked on getting his heart rate down.
Joan picked up her phone from the floor, where Rutledge had set it, and walked quickly back to her office.
Peter spoke up. “I guess we won’t need the security guys tomorrow,” he said.
64
S
tone sat in his office with Herbie and Joan. The police and the body had departed, and the special cleaning crew had done its work with the bloodstains. Peter and Hattie were upstairs in his room. Stone pressed a large scotch on Joan, then poured one for Herbie and a bourbon for himself.
“You look okay,” Stone said to Joan.
“Strangely enough, I
am
okay,” she said. “I’m glad I didn’t have too long to think about whether I should do it.”
“You saved all our lives,” Stone said, “and in appreciation, I’m going to make a very large contribution to your pension fund. I’m counting on you never to retire, though, because then I’d have to shoot myself.”
Herbie laughed aloud and took another sip of his scotch. “Maybe this isn’t the best time,” Herbie said, “but I came here to apply for a job as an associate.”
Stone smiled. “I think you must have passed the bar.”
“Top of the list,” Herbie said. “I didn’t tell you, but my law degree was with honors.”
“That’s better than mine,” Stone said. “As for the job, we’re jam up full here, what with Allison helping, but I’ll recommend you to Bill Eggers at Woodman & Weld, without reservation. Anyway, you need to work in a bigger firm, not just in my office.”
Herbie beamed. “Thank you, Stone.”
“Joan, take a letter to Eggers as soon as Herbie leaves. I don’t want to embarrass him with praise.”
“You mind if I ask who the guy was that Joan offed?” Herbie asked.
Joan choked on her scotch a little.
Stone explained.
“Well, I’m glad he’s off the streets,” Herbie said.
“So am I,” Stone said.
When Herbie had left, Stone dictated a fulsome letter of recommendation to Bill Eggers, then signed it. “Messenger it over, and write Herbie a check for the unused portion of his retainer. What is it, half a million?”
“Give or take,” Joan said. “I take it you’ve changed your mind about your inheritance.”
“I have,” Stone said, “and being out of debt to Herbie is a good cause.”
Two weeks later, Stone took Peter up Park Avenue to Janklow & Nesbit and introduced him to Mort Janklow and his principal associate, Anne Sibbald. Kind words were spoken about Peter’s film, and he blushed. Then Leo Goldman arrived with Peter’s contract. A little signing ceremony took place, and Leo handed a check for $20,000,000 to Mort.
Mort will deduct his commission, then wire transfer the remainder of your funds to your bank account,” Stone said to his son. “And as soon as you get home, you have to write a check for five million nine hundred and fifty thousand to the Internal Revenue Service.”
“Ouch!” Peter said.
“Get used to it, Peter,” Mort said. “You’re going to be writing a lot of checks to the IRS.”
“And, Peter,” Leo said, “I have a surprise for you: your film has been accepted for the Sundance Film Festival.”
Somebody found a bottle of champagne, and Peter’s success was toasted.
On the way home Peter said, “What do you want me to do with the money?”
“I think you should open a brokerage account with the Chase Private Bank and let them recommend how to invest it, then buy yourself a nice gift.”
“I’ll have to think about that,” Peter said.
“I’m not going to have anything to do with the money you earn,” Stone said. “I want to see what you do with it.”
“Thank you, Dad,” Peter said.
“Thank you for asking,” Stone replied.
That weekend, Ben Bacchetti took the train down from Choate, picked up his father’s car, and drove himself, Peter, and Hattie to New Haven, to look for housing for themselves. Joan had reserved three rooms for them at a local hotel.
The following day Peter called home.
“Hello?” Stone said.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes. In fact, it’s better than okay.”
“How so?”
“We found the perfect apartment for us—three bedrooms, living/ dining room, kitchen, and a nice study.”
“What’s the rent?”
“It would be around five thousand a month, if we were renting,” Peter replied. “It’s a new building, to be completed in a couple of months. We saw the model apartment, then took a look at the top-floor unit to get an idea of the space. I’ve decided to buy the apartment.”
Stone thought about that for a moment. “That might be a good use for some of your money, and you’ll probably make a profit on it when you leave Yale. How much is it?”
“It would normally sell for around a million and a half, but they’re asking a million two, because of the recession. I’ll buy the place, and Peter and Hattie will split the monthly maintenance payments.”
“Offer them a million, then settle for a million one,” Stone said. “Give them a check for ten percent and bring home the contract for me to read before you sign it.”
“Great, Dad, I’ll do that. Something else.”
“What?”
“As soon as I get home I’m going to take driving lessons and get my license, then I’m going to buy a car. I’ll need it around here.”
This, Stone thought, was as inevitable as sex with Hattie. “All right,” he said, “but if you get a speeding ticket the keys are mine.”
“Agreed,” Peter said.
That night after dinner at a New Haven restaurant they returned to their hotel, and Hattie led Peter to her room. There, she did some more leading, having had slightly more experience than Peter, and from that point on, Peter led.
At home the following day, Peter gave Stone the contract for the condominium. “How did you know they would take a million one?” he asked his father.
“I didn’t, but you always have to try. You have to remember that developers these days have excess inventory and not enough buyers. They need the cash, and with you as a buyer, they don’t have to wait for mortgage approval.”
Stone read the contract and found it acceptable. “Sign it, and I’ll find a New Haven attorney to close the sale for you as soon as the apartment is finished and has been inspected. You’ll need to speak to our insurance agency about insuring it, too.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Peter said. “Dad, I’m also going to buy Hattie a piano, a Steinway, as a surprise.”
“That’s a very generous gift, Peter, but you should take her up to Steinway Hall and let her choose it herself. A piano is a very personal thing for a pianist.”
“Hattie’s going to decorate the apartment,” Peter said. “How much should I budget for that?”
“That’s up to you,” Stone said, “or perhaps, up to Hattie. My advice is, buy nice things, but don’t go crazy. In four years, you may not want anything you buy now, except for Hattie’s piano.”
“That’s good advice,” Peter said.
65
S
tone lay back in the cockpit seat of the twenty-nine-foot Concordia and watched the sun fall toward Penobscot Bay.
Hattie was at the helm, Peter was looking after the foredeck, and Ben Bacchetti and a girlfriend occupied the opposite seat. Dino was below, washing and putting away the plastic glasses.
They had been in Maine for nearly a month, and all the kids had become comfortable with sailing the yacht. Hattie called for a jib, then turned into the wind, sliding expertly up to Stone’s dock.
He looked at the house and thought how beautiful it was when viewed from the water. He had bought it from the foundation, and one day it would be Peter’s.
The kids made the yacht fast, folded the mainsail onto the boom, and tied on the cover. They folded and bagged the genoa and dropped it down the hatch into the forepeak.
Half an hour later, they were assembled in the living room, freshly scrubbed, and half an hour after that they were feasting on lobster, prepared by Mary, the housekeeper and cook.
Peter spoke up. “I’m glad we all learned to sail,” he said. “Let’s do this again next summer.”
There was a chorus of agreement, except from Dino. “I’ll be a passenger next year, too, and let you kids keep doing the work.”
“That works for me, too,” Stone said.
The next day they flew home to New York, and a couple of days after that, Stone and Dino rented a van, and the boys loaded it with theirs and Hattie’s belongings. Dino drove the van, and Stone rode with him, while the boys rode in Peter’s new Prius. Hattie rode with her parents. Peter and Hattie had already made three or four trips to New Haven to receive the furnishings they had ordered, including Hattie’s piano, and to oversee the painting and wallpapering.
When Stone and Dino walked into the apartment, they were impressed. “It looks like grown-ups live here,” Dino said.
“I like the pictures,” Stone said. “And the piano.”
They ordered in Chinese food for lunch, then Hattie played a couple of pieces for them on her new Steinway.
Finally, Stone, Dino, and the Patricks had to leave; it was time for the children to start their new lives at university.
Driving back in the van, Stone said, “I remember the day I moved out of my folks’ house and into the dorm at NYU. I remember the freedom I felt, and I guess that’s what the kids are feeling now.”
Dino nodded, but he seemed too choked up to talk for a while. Finally he said, “At least Ben’s out of his mother’s grasp.”
Stone laughed aloud. Then he wished Arrington could have been there on that day. Who knows, he thought, maybe she was.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at
www.stuartwoods.com
, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.
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Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of
Writer’s Market
at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
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www.stuartwoods.com
, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.
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