After dinner, Grant and Stone said good night to Hank Cable, then walked into the parking lot.
“I’ve got two things for you,” Grant said, taking a package from his car and handing it to Stone. “This is a little Walther 7.65 millimeter that conceals easily, along with a shoulder holster.”
“Thanks, Rick,” Stone said. “It’s perfect.”
Grant handed him an envelope. “This is a carry permit,” he said. “I walked it through myself. It’s the kind of thing retired cops get, and it doesn’t specify a particular weapon. I don’t want you to get caught carrying, even accidentally, without a license.”
“I really appreciate that, Rick.”
“I also don’t want you to shoot anybody with that pistol, although it’s as clean as a weapon can be. It would be a great embarrassment to me
if you popped anybody.”
“Rick, I understand your position, really I do. I can’t promise you I won’t use the piece, but I do promise you that if I do, it will be a good shooting.”
Grant sighed. “I guess that’s the most I can hope for,” he said.
Stone drove slowly back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. He had registered there under his own name, and he hadn’t changed cars. He was hoping against hope that somebody would mess with him again, particularly since he was now armed.
35
Stone had a mid-morning breakfast on his terrace overlooking the hotel’s gardens, thinking about what Hank Cable had said at dinner the night before. He needed a witness to get enough on Ippolito to persuade his superiors to go after somebody so prominent. Stone could think of only two candidates. He telephoned the first.
“Hello?” Her voice was careful, neutral.
“Barbara, it’s St…Jack Smithwick.”
“What number are you calling, please?”
“Is he there?”
“I’m sorry, you’ve dialed the wrong number,” she said. Then, just before she hung up, she whispered “Call in an hour.”
At loose ends, Stone went down to the swim, read the papers at poolside, then asked for a phone and called again.
“Hello?”
“I believe the appropriate question is, ‘Is the coast clear?’”
She laughed. “Yes, it’s clear.”
“You free for lunch?”
“Sure, and I’ve got a car this time.”
“Meet me at the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and bring a bikini—a very small one.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.” She hung up.
Stone swam a few laps, then hailed a poolboy and arranged for a cabana.
She saw him from a distance, then walked toward him, along the poolside, unbuttoning her cotton dress as she came.
For a moment he thought she was stripping in public, but when she stepped out of the dress she was wearing a very, very small bikini. She turned heads, and they didn’t stop looking when she sat down at the table next to him and gave him a big wet kiss.
“I was hoping you’d call,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I’m glad I did. I ordered us both a bacon cheeseburger; I hope it’s as good as the last one.”