Free Dirty Work by Stuart Woods

dozen sheets of paper, stapled together. “Here’s your legend. Memorize it.”
    Carpenter flipped through the sheets. “Very thorough.” She turned to Stone. “What do you think?” she asked, tossing her hair.
    “Very nice, Susan. You want to have dinner sometime?”
     
    Stone and Dino sat in the back of Dino’s car, rolling down Park Avenue.
    “Dino, a favor?”
    “What do you need?”
    “Since Larry Fortescue’s death has been established as murder, would you feel comfortable calling the DA’s office and letting them know that? I’d like to get the charges dismissed, and then I can plead Herbie down to a misdemeanor and get him probation.”
    “Sure, I’ll call down there first thing. You know who the ADA is?”
    “Call the deputy DA and do it through him. It’ll be faster.”
    “Okay.”
    They pulled into Stone’s block.
    “Slow down,” Dino said, checking both sides of the street. “Stop here.” The car rolled to a stop in front of Stone’s house. Dino got out and looked around. “Okay,” he said, waving Stone out of the car.
    “Come on, Dino,” Stone said, “you’re creeping me out.”
    But Dino stood by the car, his gun in his hand, until Stone was inside.

16
    Florence Tyler left the brownstone on West Tenth Street and strolled slowly through Greenwich Village, looking into bars and restaurants and, occasionally, checking a menu posted in a window. It was nearly six o’clock, and she was dressed in a business suit and carried a Fendi purse. Then she saw what she was looking for.
    The bar was called Lilith, and a peek through the window showed it to be quite stylish. The after-work crowd was building, and all the customers were women.
    She walked in and took a stool at the end of the bar. The bartender, dressed and coiffed to look as much as possible like a man, came over. “Good evening,” she said in a smooth baritone. “Can I get you something?”
    Another woman, butch, but still pretty, slid onto the next stool. “Let me get it,” she said.
    “Thanks, I’ll stay on my own,” Florence said, not unkindly, meeting the woman’s gaze.
    The woman hesitated, then vacated the stool. “As you wish, sweetheart,” she said, as she sauntered off.
    “Dewar’s, rocks,” she said to the bartender, and the drink arrived. She was halfway through it when she saw what she was looking for. A woman in her late twenties had entered the bar and stopped just inside the door, looking hesitantly around her. She was dressed very much as Florence was, in a pin-striped suit, and she was carrying one of those purses that was half briefcase. She was about Florence’s height and weight and had the same streaked blond hair. She crossed the room, took a stool three down from Florence, and ordered a cosmopolitan.
    “Those are too sweet for me,” Florence said, smiling.
    “Well, they are sweet, but they’re addictive,” the young woman said, smiling back.
    “Put that on my tab,” Florence said to the bartender.
    “Thank you,” the girl said.
    “Why don’t you slide over here and join me?”
    The girl fumbled with her briefcase and her drink, but she made it to the stool.
    “I’m Brett,” Florence said, offering her hand.
    “I’m Ginger,” the girl replied.
    Brett didn’t let go of her hand immediately. “Are you a New Yorker?” she asked, finally releasing it.
    “I’m from Indianapolis originally, but I’ve been here for six years. I’m a paralegal in a downtown law firm. Do you live in New York, too?”
    “No, I’m in from San Francisco for a few days. I’m an art dealer, and I’m in town to bid on some things for a client. There’s an auction at Sotheby’s the day after tomorrow.”
    “Oh, I love art,” Ginger said, sipping her drink. “What sort of things are you bidding on?”
    “Late-nineteenth-century representational paintings mostly; one piece of sculpture, too. They’re not the most expensive things in the world; you can find quite nice pictures in the thirty-