Dark Harbor (Stone Barrington 12)

“They’re the ones with the nonslip soles, I guess.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Also, go into the safe in my dressing room—you have the combination—and send me that little .45 that Terry Tussey made for me, the one with the pearl handle. Send the holster next to it—make sure it fits, that it’s the right one—and the heavy gun belt that’s hanging on my belt rack. Also, send three magazines and the double-magazine holder that’s with the holster, and send me a box of .45 caliber ammo, the Federal Hydrashock. Got all that?”

“Is it the shoulder holster you want or the belt holster?”

“The belt holster… Oh, what the hell, send both.”

Joan read back the list to him. “Anything else?”

“Oh, send me a couple of thousand in cash, too, just put it in an envelope and stick it in a shoe.”

“The usual denominations?”

“Plenty of smaller bills.”

“Will do. I’ll send along some mail, too.”

“Goodbye.” Stone hung up. Now, if he could just survive until tomorrow.

Chapter 17

RAWLS WAS ALREADY SEATED at a comer table when Stone arrived at the little yacht club. They shook hands, and Stone sat down.

Rawls pushed a slip of paper across the table. “Send checks in those amounts to those addresses for the yacht and golf club memberships,” he said. “You’re in.”

“Already?” Stone asked, astonished. It usually took a while to get into any club.

“You had good backers, and like I told you, your cousin, Dick, was highly regarded around here,” Rawls replied. “You met the three requisite members at lunch here yesterday. The committee met last night, and it got done.”

“Thank you, Ed. I’m sure I’ll enjoy using both. Who am I meeting today?”

“See the two guys standing on the dock?”

Stone turned and saw two elderly men standing outside, one sweeping the horizon, the other looking toward shore. “What are they doing?”

“Just checking. They would never go into any building without checking, especially in light of recent events.”

The screen door to the club was bumped open by an electric invalid scooter, and its rider moved it quickly toward their table.

“Stone, this is Don Brown,” Rawls said. The other two men came in and sat down. “And this is Harley Davis and Mack Morris.”

Stone shook hands all around. “Gentlemen, glad to meet you.”

“We’re a kind of club of old boys,” Rawls said. “We call ourselves the Old Farts.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Stone said.

The three men looked wary and exchanged glances. “How’s that?” Mack Morris asked.

“I told you, he knows Lance Cabot,” Rawls said. “In fact, Stone is one of Lance’s contract people. And he’s Dick Stone’s first cousin.”

Everybody nodded, seemingly satisfied with Stone’s credentials. They all ordered sandwiches and iced tea and chatted desultorily about golf and boats for a while, then Rawls called the meeting to order, after a fashion.

“My sources are telling me somebody ordered a hit on Dick,” he said, without preamble. Everybody became very still.

“We know why?” Davis asked.

“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” Rawls replied.