44
Stone managed to
sleep late on Sunday morning. He had eggs Benedict in bed and read
both the New York Times and
Los Angeles Times. It was nearly noon
when the bedside phone rang.
“Stone? It’s Rick
Barron.”
“Good morning, Rick.
How is everything?”
“I’m not sure,” Rick
replied.
“What’s making you
unsure?”
“Something’s wrong
with Jim Long.”
“Rick, he’s suffered
a knife wound and lost a kidney; of course something’s wrong with
him.”
“No, I mean about his
shares in Centurion.”
“Rick, you can rest
easy about those shares; they’re bought and paid for, and I have
the stock certificate.”
“Yes, I know that,
but I just had a call from the attorney for Jennifer Harris’s
estate, and he told me he’s had an offer for her
shares.”
“So Prince is still
trying to get them.”
“No, the offer is not
from Prince; he wouldn’t tell me who it was, but he did tell me it
was for four thousand dollars a share.”
“Four
thousand!”
“That’s what he said.
He’s waiting for an answer from her trustees, and he wanted to give
us a chance to match the offer.”
“Then that means that
Prince is going to show up on Tuesday and make that offer to all
the stockholders.”
“Stone, I told you,
the offer isn’t from Prince.”
“Who else could it
be?”
“I don’t have the
slightest idea, and I’m very worried about it.”
“It doesn’t matter,
Rick; we have enough shares on our side to get along without
Jennifer Harris’s.”
“There’s something
else, Stone.”
Stone felt a trickle
of apprehension run down his bowels. “What else,
Rick.”
“The attorney
intimated that Jim Long’s shares might be in play as
well.”
“That’s not possible,
and Long knows it,” Stone said. “At least, his attorney, Harvey
Stein, does.”
“I hope you’re right,
but I just have the feeling that everything is about to go
wrong.”
“Then there’s the
shareholder who promised to vote with us.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t
tell me his name. Maybe you’d better call him and have a
chat.”
“I can’t; it’s
Sunday, and I don’t have his home number.”
“Is his office number
at Centurion?”
“Well,
yes.”
“Then I probably have
his home number in my book.”
“But if I ask you for
that, I’d be violating his confidence, and I can’t call him and ask
him for his permission.”
“Stone, there’s
nothing wrong with your asking me for somebody’s home
number.”
“Tell you what, Rick,
can you give me the home numbers of Jim Long, Charlene Joiner, and
Jack Schmeltzer? This has nothing to do with what we were talking
about.”
“Sure, Stone.” Rick
read out the three numbers, and Stone dutifully wrote them
down.
“Do you want me to
call anybody for you?” Rick asked.
“No, please, don’t. I
want to talk to the shareholder and to Harvey Stein. Then I’ll get
back to you.”
“I’m at the studio,”
Rick said, “on stage four.”
“What are you doing
at the studio on a Sunday morning?”
“I’m arranging a
little reception for our shareholders,” Rick said. “You’ll see on
Tuesday. I’ve got to run.” He hung up.
Stone called Jack
Schmeltzer’s home and got an answering machine. “Hello, Jack. It’s
Stone Barrington. I’d be grateful if you’d give me a call at the
first opportunity.” He left his cell number. Then he called Harvey
Stein’s cell, got voice mail, and left the same message. He hung
up. He didn’t know what else to do.
Stone and Dino had a
late lunch on the patio, and late in the afternoon the house phone
rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Arrington.
We’ll be landing at Santa Monica in an hour,” she said. “We’re
parking at Atlantic Aviation.”
“I’ll see you there,”
Stone said. “Oh, by the way, Mike Freeman is going to join us for
dinner.”
“He called me. I’ve
already added him to our table.”
“Great, see you in an
hour.” Stone hung up. He told Dino about the call from Rick Barron
earlier in the day.
“That sounds
ominous,” Dino said.
“Yes, it does. I’ve
called both Schmeltzer and Harvey Stein, and neither of them has
gotten back to me.”
“It’s Sunday
afternoon,” Dino said. “They’re probably on the golf
course.”
“Why didn’t I think
of that?” Stone said. “You’re probably right; they’ll call back
this evening.”
Stone got Vance
Calder’s Bentley Arnage out of the garage, and they drove to Santa
Monica Airport and got buzzed through the security gate and onto
the ramp.
“Here comes a G-III,”
Dino said, pointing.
Stone looked up to
see the beautiful plane turning from the taxiway into the Atlantic
Aviation ramp. “That is she,” he said. He waited until the airplane
was chocked, then drove out and parked near the door. The airstair
dropped into place, and Arrington walked down the steps, looking
fresh as a teenager.
Stone hugged and
kissed her, and she gave Dino a kiss, too. “How was your flight?”
Stone asked.
“Heavenly,” she
replied. “It’s like having your own railroad car, except it moves
at five hundred knots. I actually had a shower, so I wouldn’t have
to change at home.”
Stone opened the boot
of the car so that the crew could load her luggage, then he turned
to see another G-III taxiing onto the ramp. “There’s the Strategic
Services airplane,” he said. “I’d thought Mike would go into
Burbank.”
“We coordinated,”
Arrington said. “I was actually able to telephone him from my
airplane to his. Isn’t that extraordinary?”
“It is,” Stone
agreed. He watched a black SUV pull up to Mike’s airplane and saw
Mike get out.
“Why don’t we go
straight to the restaurant?” Arrington said.
“It’s Michael’s, in
Santa Monica. Mike’s car can take his luggage to the
Bel-Air.”
“Good idea,” Stone
said, and in little more than a moment they were all in the Arnage,
and shortly after that they were settled in a garden table at
Michael’s.
Arrington was facing
the door. “Well, that’s awkward, isn’t it?” she said, nodding
toward the restaurant door.
Stone turned and saw
Terry Prince, Carolyn Blaine, and two other people enter the
garden.
“Yes, it is,” Stone
said. “Ignore them.”