Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you when you’re there.” She hung up.

Stone walked to Fifth Avenue and headed toward the library.

She walked over to Madison Avenue, crossed the street, turned left, and entered an electronics shop specializing in spy-type equipment, where she made a quick purchase. She caught a cab and headed downtown, then made another call.

“Hello?” he said.

“Listen very carefully,” she said. “I want you to walk west on the south side of Forty-second Street, turn left at the next corner and walk south to Thirty-seventh Street and make another left. There’s a bar on the south side of the street called O’Coineen’s. Go in there and take a seat in the last of the row of booths on your left. There’ll be a reserved sign on the table; ignore it. If anyone questions you, say you’re meeting Maeve. Got all that?”

“Yes.”

“Be there in ten minutes.” She hung up. “Turn right here,” she said, “and stop in the middle of the block.” She got out of the cab, went into O’Coineen’s and then into the ladies’ room. She peed, then went into her shopping bag for a wig. She chose an auburn one, very straight, with bangs. She glanced at her watch.

Stone found the bar. The place was busy with after-work customers, but the last booth was empty.

A waiter approached. “Sorry, that booth is reserved,” he said.

“I’m meeting Maeve,” Stone replied.

“It’s all right, Sean,” said a woman’s voice with a very attractive Irish accent.

Stone turned to find a redhead with very straight hair and bangs, beautifully made up. It was not the woman he had seen at the Nineteenth Precinct.

“Stand up, Mr. Barrington,” she said.

Stone got out of the booth. “Good evening,” he said.

“Hold your arms away from your sides,” she said.

Stone complied.

She frisked him in a professional manner, not omitting his crotch, then produced a small black object and ran it over him, head to toe. “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the side of the booth with its back to the street.

“Thank you for coming,” Stone said, sitting down.

She slid into the opposite side of the booth, facing the street, and set a Bergdorf’s shopping bag on the seat beside her, then she placed a medium-sized handbag on the table, with the open end toward her. She looked around the bar carefully, then at the front windows. Finally, she turned to him. “What’ll y’have?”

“A beer will be fine,” Stone said.

“Two Harps,” she said to the waiter.

“Right,” he said, and went to get them.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” she said, keeping the Irish accent.

Stone wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“Come on, Mr. Barrington, I’m here. What d’ya want?”

Stone started to speak, but the waiter came with the drinks, and he waited for him to leave.

She picked up her beer, poured some into a glass, and clinked it against his. “So? Yer not very talkative, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone sipped his beer. “I think you should leave New York immediately.”

“Oh? And why’s that, if you’d be so kind as to tell me?”