further mention of the two dead “Greeks” but saw nothing. There was a small piece about the explosion at the antiques market, but it had, apparently, been attributed to a gas leak.
He soaked in a hot tub for nearly an hour, grateful for the solitude, then ordered some sandwiches from room service and turned on the TV. He watched CNN for a while and, after he began seeing the same stories for the third time, began channel surfing. There was an Italian soap opera, a bad 1930s movie, a children’s show, and a soccer match. Stone had always thought that soccer would be a better spectator sport if the field were half as long and the goals twice as wide. Finally, he settled on a cricket match and for an hour tried to make some sense of it. He finally concluded that cricket was an elaborate joke that the Brits played on American tourists; that they probably played the same taped match over and over. He dozed.
He was awakened by a heavy knock on the door. Still in a stupor, he gathered the terrycloth robe around him and went to the door. Nobody there. The hammering came again, and it seemed to be coming from his right, where there was a door, always locked, apparently leading to a second bedroom adjoining his suite. He listened at that door and jumped back when the hammering started again. Very weird. Gingerly, he unlocked his side of the door and opened it. Behind it was another door, and someone hammered on it again. “It’s locked on your side!” he yelled.
The latch turned, and the door opened. Dino Bacchetti stood in the adjoining room.
“Jesus,” Dino said, “are you deaf? I’ve been knocking for ten minutes.”
Stone was completely nonplussed. “What the hell are you doing here, Dino?”
“I’m hungry; get me a room-service menu.”
“Press the button over there that says ‘waiter,’ ” Stone instructed. Dino pressed it.
“Dino, what are you doing in London?”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
“No. Well, yes, I guess so, but there was no name on it.”
The waiter knocked on the door, and Stone opened it.
“Yes, sir; may I get you something?”
“What time is it in this country?” Dino asked.
“Nine-thirty P.M., sir,” the waiter said, glancing at his watch.
“You want some dinner?” Dino asked Stone.
“Whatever you’re having,” Stone replied.
“Bring us a couple Caesar salads and a couple steaks, medium-rare, and a decent bottle of red wine,” Dino said to the waiter.
“Of course, sir. Would you like some potatoes?”
“Sure, sure, whatever you’ve got,” Dino said. “And bring him a double Wild Turkey on the rocks, and me a Johnnie Walker Black, fixed the same, right away, please.” He closed the door behind the departing waiter.
“Dino, just once more, what are you doing here?”
Dino shucked off his coat, loosened his tie, and sank into an armchair. “What the fuck are they doing?” he asked, pointing at the TV.
“They’re playing cricket,” Stone replied. “It’s been going on for at least six hours.”
“What are the rules?”
“Nobody knows. What are you doing here?”
“Well, you’re in trouble; somebody had to come over here and pull your ass out of the shit.”
“I’m not in trouble.”
“Oh? I hear you’re looking good for a double murder.”
“Oh, that; Throckmorton called you.”
“Yep.” He was still gazing, rapt, at the TV. “What kind of pitching is that?” he asked.
“They call it bowling.”
“That’s not what they call bowling in
“What did Throckmorton tell you?”
“Just that they found a couple of stiffs in a car trunk, and one of them was wearing your raincoat.”
“That was an accident,” Stone said.
“An accident? With two pops each in the head?”
“I mean the raincoat.”
“An accidental raincoat? Hey, look at that; they don’t run to first, they run to the pitcher’s mound and back again. This is completely nuts!”
“I grabbed somebody’s raincoat, and he apparently grabbed mine. Or rather, whoever shot him grabbed it and put it on him.”
“Didn’t want him to get rained on, I guess,” Dino said. “Do you really expect anybody to believe a story like that?”
“Throckmorton doesn’t believe it?”
“Of course not; who would?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly tell him everything.”
“I figured. You want to tell me?”
The waiter arrived with the drinks, and they sat down.
Dino raised his glass. “To your eventual freedom,” he said, and took a long pull on his Scotch.
“I’m not under arrest,” Stone said.
“No? Stick around. Now, you want to tell me what the fuck happened?”
“All right, but Throckmorton never hears this, okay?”
“Are you kidding? I came over here to get you out of this, not to send you to Wormy Scrubbers.”
“Wormwood Scrubs.”
“Whatever.”
“All right, here’s how it went,” Stone said.
“You better start at the beginning, so we don’t have to go backwards.”
“All right; this guy showed up in my office, sent by Woodman and Weld.” Stone began to take Dino, blow by blow, through what had happened since he’d arrived in London. He got as far as the explosion at the antiques market when dinner arrived. The waiter served it and left.
When he had gone, Stone continued with the events at the
“So,” Dino said, “how’s Sarah? How’s Arrington?”
“How did you know Arrington was here?”
“She called me a few days ago, said she was headed to London and how were you?”
“Why didn’t she call me?”
“I guess she did, and you weren’t there, so she called me. She’s buying an apartment in New York.”
“I heard.”
“So tell me about Sarah and Arrington, and how you’re keeping them both happy.”
Stone did the best he could.
“So Arrington is on her way to New York?”
“Right.”
“And Sarah is filthy rich, having knocked off her boyfriend?”
“She didn’t knock him off, it was an accident; I was there.”
