“Maybe I can do that. Why don’t you put Bob Cantor on this? Get him to tap Crow’s phones.”
“Fortunately, Crow called him and invited him to lunch, and he’s going to wear a wire.”
“That might produce something.”
“I’m counting on it, since I have nothing else.”
“How was your time with Holly?”
“It was very good, thanks. I’m sure she’s already reported back to Lance.”
“Well, she does work for him, after all. Is she enjoying being a spook?”
“Seems to be. I think she likes it better than being a small-town police chief. She doesn’t have to do traffic tickets and penny-ante drug busts. Also, working for Lance, she must be privy to a lot of very interesting information.”
“You think Lance’s job is all that interesting?”
“Jesus, Dino, he’s the fucking head of CIA operations.”
“Then he must know everything in the world.”
“I would think so.”
“Then how did he lose track of his brother for thirty years?”
“That’s an interesting question, and he hasn’t answered it very satisfactorily. My guess is when somebody doesn’t want to be found, he’s hard to find.”
“I don’t buy that.”
“Neither do I, entirely, but I don’t see how it affects what I’m doing for Barton.”
“Everything affects everything,” Dino said.
25
Stone left Dino at Elaine’s and took a cab to the Carlyle Hotel on Madison Avenue at Seventy-sixth Street. As he entered the Madison entrance, the Café Carlyle, former home of the late, great singer/pianist Bobby Short, was on his right, but he turned left, into the Bemelmens Bar.
The place was, maybe, three-quarters full, and the grand piano, in the middle of the room, was unoccupied. A maître d’ appeared. “I’d like that table there,” he said to the man, pointing at a tiny table with an unobstructed view no more than eight feet from the piano.
“You’re alone, sir?” the man asked, as if he were asking for a king-size bed.
Stone passed him a twenty and was seated immediately. He ordered a cognac and a small bottle of San Pellegrino and waited for Carla to finish her break.
Five minutes later, she arrived, along with her bass player, who picked up his instrument and did a little tuning. Carla was a tall, Scandinavian-type blonde, clad in a long, slinky black dress set off by a diamond necklace that was either a fake or supplied by Harlan Deal, because she could never have afforded it on a singer/pianist’s income. She played a few chords, then swung into a medium-tempo version of “Day In, Day Out,” then followed that with songs by Rodgers and Hart, Cole Porter and Jerome Kern.
The music suited Stone to his core; it was what his parents had listened to, and he had grown up dancing to it in their home and at school dances. Then Carla did something that riveted him to his seat. She sang a Gershwin tune called “Do It Again” slow and sexy, and she sang it directly to him. Suddenly, beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead.
When she finished he smiled and applauded enthusiastically. She ignored him for the next three songs, then announced a break and stood up.
Stone stood, too, and she seemed to see him again. He walked the few steps between them and said, “My name is Stone Barrington. Would you join me for a few minutes?”
She said nothing but walked to his table and sat in the chair he held for her.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“This will do,” she said, taking his glass of Pellegrino.
“That was a wonderful set,” he said. “Especially the Gershwin tune.”