Dirt (Stone Barrington 2)

“Me, I wouldn’t go after these guys without a piece. You shouldn’t either.”

“See you, Dino.” Stone punched out, put away the phone, got off the West Side Highway at 48th Street, drove over to 9th Avenue, and headed downtown, trying to stay in the bus tracks.

“Gee, I’m not sure,” the man behind the desk said, looking at the ad Stone had ripped out of Vanity Fair.

Stone flashed the badge. “You don’t want to be thought of as harboring a fugitive, do you?”

The man shook his head and checked his guest list. “He’s in ten-oh-one.”

“Under what name?”

“Jeremy Spencer.”

“Is there somebody bunking with him?”

“No, he checked in alone last week, and I haven’t seen him with anybody else, except a girl or two. They always leave in the morning.”

“Passkey,” Stone said.

“Not a chance,” the desk clerk replied. “Not without a search warrant. I’m not getting into that kind of shit with my boss.”

Stone glared at him. “Okay, I’m going up there, and if you call up and tell him I’m coming, you’re going to find yourself in more shit than you would have ever believed possible.”

The man held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

Stone took the elevator to the tenth floor, trembling with anticipation. He was looking forward to meeting Mr. Thomas Bruce. The door was at the end of the hall, at the back of the building. The Chelsea was an old hotel with a reputation for harboring rebels, literary and rock. It had been fixed up yet again, and the carpet was new. The hallway wasn’t very wide, though; that was good. Noting that there was no peephole, Stone rapped at the door.

“Yeah, who is

it?” a muffled voice replied.

“Bellman. Got a Federal Express for you.”

“You sure you got the right room? Who’s it for?”

“Jeremy Spencer; from somebody named Burch, in Rahway, New Jersey.” Stone braced himself against the opposite wall as he heard the door chain rattle. As soon as he saw the knob turn, he pushed off the wall and threw all his weight behind a kick at the door.

His timing was perfect. The door caught the man in the face and sent him flying backward across the room, and Stone was right on top of him. He held a forearm against the man’s neck. “Mr. Dryer, I presume,” he said, applying more pressure. “Or maybe I should say Mr. Bruce.”

Something hard hit Stone on the back of the head, but he didn’t pass out. Somebody grabbed him from behind and yanked him to his feet, pinning his arms behind him. Stone struggled to stay conscious as he watched Tommy Bruce get to his feet.

“You son of a bitch,” Bruce said, throwing a right to Stone’s gut.

“And I always thought I was such a nice guy,” Stone managed to say between gasps for breath.

Bruce hit him high on his cheekbone, snapping his head around.

Still, Stone remained conscious.

Bruce cupped a hand under his chin and raised his head. “How’d you find me?” he demanded.

“Phone book,” Stone said.

Bruce looked past him and said, “Hey, Charlie, meet Stone Barrington, the comic.” He hit Stone on the other side of the head. “Did I ever tell you I fucked his girlfriend?”

“Oh, yeah, the lovely Arrington,” Charles Bruce said from somewhere behind Stone’s swimming head.

“And I fucked your sister,” Stone said.