Swimming to Catalina (Stone Barrington 4)

“Don’t thank me yet,” Stone said, then hung up. He returned to the table. “You’re buying dinner, Dino,” he said. “I’m off to La-La Land.”

“About what?” Dino asked.

“I’ll tell you later.” Stone said.

“Say hello to Arrington for me,” Elaine said, looking at him over her glasses.

“You bet, Elaine.” He pecked her on the cheek, walked out of the restaurant, and started looking for a cab.

2

Stone’s taxi driver, a former resident of the Indian subcontinent who had recently arrived in the United States, well ahead of his English, got lost in New Jersey, and by the time Stone had redirected him to Teterboro Airport, using sign language, it had begun to rain hard. Finally at Atlantic Aviation, Stone paid the man, grabbed his luggage, and ran into the deserted terminal, waking up a young woman behind the service counter. “I’m looking for the Centurion Studios airplane,” he said to her.

“It’s the only one on the ramp,” she replied, yawning and pointing at the rear doors.

Stone stopped at the doors, looked out onto the tarmac, and smiled. “A G-IV,” he said aloud to himself. It was the biggest and best of the corporate jets, and he had never been aboard one. Its engines were already running. He ran through the rain to the airplane and clambered up the steps, hauling his luggage into the cabin.

A young woman in a pale Armani suit materialized before him. “Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“Let me take your bags, and please have a seat; we’re ready for takeoff.” She disappeared aft with his two bags; he kept his briefcase and took the first available seat. In the rear of the airplane a distinguished-looking man was sitting on a sofa, talking on a small cellular phone. Stone buckled in as the airplane started to roll. He wanted to go forward and watch the takeoff, but the cockpit door was closed. Instead, he sat and watched the rain stream along his window.

The airplane never stopped rolling, but turned onto the runway and accelerated. Shortly they were airborne and climbing

steeply. The attendant came forward again and hovered over his seat. She was pretty in a characterless sort of way, and she displayed some very expensive dental work. “Would you like something to drink?” she cooed.

Stone’s heart was still pumping hard from his dash to the airport. “Yes, a brandy, please.”

“We have some vintage cognac, a Hine ’55, and some very old Armagnac.”

“I’ll try the Armagnac,” he said. A moment later he was warming a tissue-thin crystal snifter between both hands.

“Mr. Regenstein would be pleased if you would join him aft when the seatbelt sign goes off” the woman said.

“Thank you,” Stone replied. Regenstein: the name had a familiar ring, but he couldn’t place it. He sipped his Armagnac, and presently the airplane leveled off and the seatbelt sign went out. He unbuckled and walked down the aisle toward where the other man sat.

As he approached, the man stood and offered his hand. “I’m Lou Regenstein,” he said.

Stone shook his hand. “I’m Stone Barrington.” The man was much older than he had looked from a distance; Stone reckoned he was in his mid- to late sixties.

“Oh, yes, Vance’s friend. Please sit down, and thank you for joining me. It’s nice to have some company on one of these flights.”

Stone took a comfortable armchair facing the sofa. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting; my cab driver got lost.”

“Of course,” Regenstein replied. “They always do. The trick is to order a car from Atlantic Aviation; that way you’ll have a Jersey driver.”

“I’ll remember that,” Stone said.

Regenstein wrinkled his nose. “You’re drinking the Armagnac?” He extended his hand. “May I?”

Stone handed him the snifter, and Regenstein stuck his nose into it and inhaled deeply.

“Ahhhhhh,” he sighed, handing back the glass. “I haven’t had a drink in more than thirty years, but I still love the bouquet of something like that. It’s just wonderful.”

“It certainly is,” Stone agreed.

“I believe I’ve come across your name recently,” Regenstein said. “Something in the Caribbean?”