Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“Bob’s your man, as well as your uncle,” Dino observed.

Stone dialed the number and got a recording. He left a message, then dialed Cantor’s cell phone.

It was answered instantly. “Speak to me!” Cantor’s voice shouted over a babble of voices and steel-band music.

“It’s Stone. Where the hell are you?”

“Saint Thomas, baby!” Cantor yelled.

“Like in the Virgin Islands, Saint Thomas?”

“I’m not talking about the church.”

“Bob, I need some help. Are you sober?”

“Certainly not! I’ve had enough piña coladas to fill that hot tub at your house.”

“It’s not a hot tub; it’s just a big bathtub with the Jacuzzi thing.”

“Whatever. Why don’t you come down here, Stone? You wouldn’t believe the women.”

“I’d believe them.”

“What d’ya need, that you would interrupt a man’s drinking?”

Stone looked around and cupped a hand over the cell phone. “I need a second-story man who’s good with a camera.”

“You running a badger game?”

“Close, but not quite. And the shots have to be taken on a roof, so I need somebody who’s in good enough shape not to fall off the building and embarrass everybody.”

“Got a pencil?”

Stone dug out a pen. “Shoot.”

“Herbie Fisher.”

“Who’s he?”

“My sister’s boy. He’s young and bold and agile, and he’s a pretty good photographer.”

“The light may not be very good.”

“It never is in those situations, is it?”

“Right.”

Cantor gave Stone the number, and he wrote it on a cocktail napkin. “Tell him I sent you and not to screw it up.”

“Does he make a habit of screwing up?” Stone asked. But Cantor had punched off and returned to his piña coladas.

“I heard that,” Dino said, “but I didn’t hear it.”

“Good,” Stone said, punching in the number Cantor had given him. The phone rang five times before it was picked up.

“What!” a young man’s voice said, panting.

“Herbie Fisher?”