Kisser (4 page)

“I just want you to represent me in dealing with Goodwin. I’m told he has a boilerplate client contract that isn’t entirely client-favorable, and I think I need some help with my negotiations with him.”

“Okay. What time?”

She handed him a slip of paper with the address. “Three o’clock. Be five minutes early, will you?” She bent over and kissed him. “You were just great last night; now I’ve gotta run.”

“You’re going to a dance class in an LBD?”

“I’ve got dance clothes in my locker at the studio. Bye-bye.” Then, with a wave, she fled downstairs.

Stone shaved and showered, got dressed, had some breakfast, and went down to his office. Once again, “Page Six” in the
Post
awaited him:

Last night at a black-tie dinner for fifty at the home of Broadway angels David and Shirley Medved, Carrie Cox, the new girl in town, continued her sweep through Broadway circles by signing with superagent Mark Goodwin on a handshake. We hear that, before the day is out, he’ll have her signed to her first major role.

My God, Stone thought. How does she do this? His phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. You seen the
Post
?”

“Yeah, just now.”

“How does she do this?”

“I was just wondering the same thing. I was with her continuously from seven last evening until about an hour ago, and I never saw her make a phone call until this morning. She must be communicating psychically with ‘Page Six
.
’ ”

“Don’t get knocked down in the whirlwind.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Dinner?”

“See you at eight thirty.”

“Are you bringing the girl?”

“I don’t know yet.” Stone hung up.

MARK GOODWIN’S SUITE
of offices was upstairs over a big Broadway theater and reached by a tiny elevator. Carrie was sitting in his reception area, flipping through a fashion magazine.

“Oh, hi,” she said. She turned to the receptionist. “Now you can tell Mr. Goodwin we’re here.”

The woman spoke on the phone. “You can go right in,” she said.

Stone followed Carrie into a large office overlooking Schubert Alley. Mark Goodwin kissed Carrie, shook Stone’s hand, and waved them to a sitting area with a sofa and chairs.

“I had lunch with Del Wood,” he said. “My girl is typing up the contract now.”

“Contract?” Carrie asked.

“Two contracts, actually,” Goodwin replied. “One between you and Del and one between you and me.”

“Tell me about the one between Woodie and me.”

“Oh, we sorted things out over lunch and worked out what may be the best deal for a first-time starring role in the history of the Broadway theater.”

“Tell me about it,” Carrie said.

“It’s a one-year contract with an option for another three months. He wanted a run-of-the-play deal, but I nixed that; you may be getting even better offers after the West Coast crowd sees you onstage. Hollywood is going to be interested, I can promise you.” He ran through the salary and other conditions.

“That does sound good,” Carrie said.

“Listen, I already know Del’s production costs, the number of seats in his theater, and the kind of money he’s paying the rest of the cast, some of whom are my clients; believe me, this is a good deal.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “Now tell me about my deal with you.”

A young woman walked into the office and handed him a file folder. “Here’s my standard client contract,” he said, handing her two sheets of paper, which she turned over to Stone without looking at them.

Stone read quickly through the agreement while Carrie and Goodwin sat silently, waiting. “Two things,” Stone said. “There’s a paragraph in here that says you take a commission on anything she ever does involving somebody you introduced her to. That won’t do.”

“It’s standard,” Goodwin said.

“The other thing is, you can fire her as a client whenever you like, but she has to give you a year’s notice. That won’t do, either. We want termination on thirty days’ written notice by either party, and the other paragraph comes out.”

“Can’t do it,” Goodwin said.

“I’m so sorry we couldn’t reach an agreement, Mark,” Carrie said, “but I think Stone’s points are valid.” She got to her feet.

“Sit down, sit down,” Goodwin said. “For you, I’ll do this.” He made some notes on the contract and buzzed for his girl. “Make these changes pronto,” he said, and then turned back to Carrie. “Here’s your contract with Del Wood.” He handed it to her, and she signed it without reading it.

“You don’t want your attorney to read it first?”

“Not necessary,” Carrie said, handing the contract back to him. “You represent me to others.”

The secretary returned with the other contract, and Stone looked it over and handed it to Carrie. “Looks fine with me,” he said.

Carrie signed it and handed it to Goodwin. He signed both contracts and handed copies to Stone, then he handed Carrie a script and another thick booklet. “Carrie, here are your script and score. You start rehearsals Monday morning at Central Plaza, ten o’clock sharp. You should learn the first act by then, and you should run through the score with a pianist, so that you’re familiar with it.”

“Who’s directing?” she asked.

“Jack Wright,” he replied.

“Oh, good.” She stood up. “Thank you so much, Mark. I look forward to working with you. By the way, I don’t need my hand held; I’ll call you if I have any problems with Woodie.”

Goodwin stood up. “Remember not to call him that,” he said. “He doesn’t like it.”

“I’ll be nice to him, if he’s nice to me,” she said.

“If he gets mad and fires you for any reason, don’t worry about it, just call me.” He handed her a card. “Here’s my BlackBerry number. Memorize it, then eat the card.” He offered Stone his hand. “Nice working with you, Stone. I take it you’ll be Carrie’s personal attorney from here on.”

“That’s correct,” Carrie said, not giving Stone a chance to reply. “Bye-bye, Mark.”

They left the office. Stone looked at his watch: They had been there for twenty-seven minutes. “You do business briskly,” he said to Carrie.

“You have no idea,” she replied. “Please bill me for this and any other work at your usual hourly rate. Now come with me.”

They hailed a taxi, and five minutes later they were at Carrie’s new address. “I want you to see this,” she said, getting out of the cab.

“I saw it last night, remember?”

“No, you didn’t,” she said. She let them into the building. The double doors to her apartment were already open, and some men were carrying boxes upstairs.

Stone’s jaw dropped. The living room was completely furnished, down to small objets d’art on side tables, and there was a Steinway grand piano in a corner. It looked as though Carrie had lived there for a year.

“Like it?” she asked.

“It’s gorgeous. How did you do it so fast?”

“A friend of mine is the best theatrical designer in town. I told him to do it fast, with the best stuff he could find on short notice. I had the pictures and some smaller things in storage.”

“It took me two years to get my house to this state,” Stone said.

“As you said, I do things briskly. What time is dinner?”

6

STONE AND DINO WERE
on their second drink, and Carrie still hadn’t arrived. It was nearly nine o’clock.

“She didn’t strike me as the late type,” Dino said.

“She’s had a busy day,” Stone replied, “and she’s just moved into her new apartment; she probably couldn’t find what she wanted to wear in the boxes.” Stone told Dino about the instant furnishing and decoration of the new apartment.

“Here we go,” Dino said, nodding toward the door.

Carrie, dressed in slacks and a sweater, was walking toward the table, limping.

Stone stood and held a chair for her, and it was not until he sat down and looked at her closely that he realized something was wrong. He waved at a waiter, pointed at his drink, then at Carrie.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Carrie said, trembling.

The drink came, and Stone handed it to her. “Big swig,” he said, and she complied.

“Now tell me what’s wrong.”

She gulped. “I was leaving my building, and as I came down the front steps I saw a man coming down the street from the direction of Fifth Avenue.”

Stone waited while she took a couple of deep breaths.

“He was backlit by a streetlight, so his face was in shadow. To get a taxi I had to walk toward Sixth Avenue for a little bit, because the parked cars were so close together that I couldn’t squeeze between them without getting my clothes dirty. As I walked I could hear his footsteps getting quicker and realized he was running toward me. I saw a cab coming from up the street, and without even looking back, I just threw myself over the hood of a parked car and in front of the cab. As soon as I got inside, I screamed at the driver to get out of there, and I locked the door, because I saw the man reaching for the handle. There was a knife in his other hand.”

“Did he hurt you?” Stone asked. “You were limping when you came in.”

She reached down, took off a shoe, and held it up. The heel was missing. “This was the only wound,” she said. Calmer now and breathing more slowly, she took another big swig of the bourbon.

“Describe him,” Dino said.

“Tall, over six feet, athletic-looking, wearing a raincoat and a felt hat.”

“Any distinguishing features?” Dino asked. He was taking notes now.

“Small scar at the corner of the left eye, another scar on the inside of the right wrist—childhood injury—and a broken nose from football that never healed properly.”

“You saw all that?” Stone asked. “How?”

“I’ve known him since college; he’s my ex-husband.”

“Did you ever see his face?”

“No, but I know how he walks. I know his fascination with knives; he has a collection. It was Max.”

“What’s his last name?” Dino asked.

“Long.”

“Address?”

“It used to be on Habersham Road in Atlanta, big house. He’s living in an apartment now. I don’t know where; it’s just what I’ve heard. Maybe one of his own developments.”

“But in Atlanta.”

“Yes. He wouldn’t go any farther from Habersham Road than he had to.” She was perfectly collected now.

Dino produced his cell phone. “I’ll get the precinct looking for him now.”

“No, don’t,” Carrie said, putting her hand over the cell phone. “I can’t have this in the papers.”

“Carrie,” Stone said, “if you know Max was the guy, then we have to get him off the street. He knows where you live.”

“Monday morning I start rehearsals, the biggest break of my life,” she said. “I’ve been all over the papers for two days; they would just love this.”

Stone looked at Dino and shook his head. “Do you have an alarm system in your apartment?” he asked Carrie.

“No.”

“Is there another entrance besides the front door?”

“Yes. There’s a rear door from the kitchen and stairs down to a garden.”

“Excuse me for a minute,” Stone said. He walked into the empty dining room next door and made a call to Bob Cantor, an ex-cop who did many jobs for him.

“Cantor.”

“Bob, it’s Stone.”

“Hey, Stone. What’s up?”

“I need a bodyguard for a woman first thing tomorrow morning at my house. Her name is Carrie Cox; she’s at Elaine’s with me. Are you free right now?”

“Yeah, but I’ll put somebody else on guard duty.”

“She needs a security system: double front door, kitchen door leading to a garden, the usual windows, front and rear.”

“You got a key?”

“You can pick it up here.”

“I’m on it.”

“Listen, on the bodyguard, not too much of a gorilla—she travels in polite circles—but somebody who can handle a man with a knife and deal with an angry ex-husband.”