Free Kisser by Stuart Woods Page A

was there, she could be charged as an accessory. I mean, she must know what he’s doing.”
    “I don’t see how she couldn’t, but who knows?”
    “Then there’s her trust. I suppose Hildy has no regard for money.”
    “About the same regard as most young people who’ve never had to give money a thought, because it was readily supplied by parents who used it to keep them from underfoot.”
    “And Hildy knows about his background, the name change and the four marriages?”
    “Oh, yes. Did Philip tell you that Sharpe was trailer trash?”
    “Yes.”
    “He doesn’t even know what that means. He says it only because he knows it’s contemptuous. Actually, Sharpe’s father made a fortune in the scrap metal business, and they lived in a nouveau riche house in one of San Antonio’s better neighborhoods. Sharpe’s mother, who knew nothing about art, imbued him with artistic pretensions, even though he exhibited no discernible talent. I hear he can’t even draw.”
    Stone thought about it all for a minute while he finished his steak. “God, what a mess,” he said finally.
    “I take it Woodman Weld sent you around to fix it,” Rita said.
    “Something like that.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s much point in having an avuncular chat with Hildy—older man/young girl.”
    “Not really. Her only use for older men is to fuck them. Of course, it’s a bonus if they annoy Philip.”
    “What sort of father did you have?” Stone asked.
    Rita chuckled. “My father, bless his heart, is everything Philip should have been but isn’t.”
    “Sweet, adoring, and indulgent?”
    “Pretty much, and my mother supports him in all those things. They’re peaches, both of them.”
    “You’re a lucky woman.”
    “I am, indeed.
    “Dessert?”
    “Not on my diet, thanks.”
    Stone signaled for the check. “Where do you live?” he asked Rita.
    “Park and Seventy-first,” she said.
    Stone signed the credit card slip. “Come on. I’ll drop you.”
    “It’s early,” she said. “Where are you off to?”
    The waiter pulled out the table and freed them. “I’m going to see a man who might be able to do something about Derek Sharpe,” Stone replied.

16
    STONE GOT TO ELAINE’S by ten o’clock and found Dino having dinner with cop about their age, Brian Doyle, who had served with them in the 19th Precinct detective squad years before. Stone shook his hand and sat down. A waiter appeared with a Knob Creek and a menu.
    “I’m not dining,” Stone said and then turned to Doyle. “You’re looking pretty good for an old fart,” he said.
    “And you’re looking as slick as an otter,” Brian replied. “I hear you’re making more money than Donald Trump.”
    “I heard Trump was broke,” Stone said.
    “Not anymore; he found some more hot air to inflate the balloon,” Brian said, laughing.
    After Dino and Brian finished their dinner, they ordered brandies. Then the three old buddies sat back and began telling each other stories they’d all heard before, until, finally, Stone got to the point. “I’ve got a heads-up for you,” he said, handing Derek Sharpe’s card to Brian.
    “I’ve read about this guy somewhere,” Brian said. “I know a lot of what’s called art ought to be illegal, but I don’t think the city council has gotten around to passing the law yet.”
    “This guy churns out the kind of art that ought to be illegal and sells it briskly to the artistically clueless.”
    “I guess you can make a living doing that,” Brian said.
    “From what I hear, that’s not how he makes his living,” Stone replied. “If he had to rely on his art for money, he’d be living in a garret in the East Village instead of owning a five-story building downtown and living in three floors of it. He rents the top two.”
    “So what’s his dodge?” Brian asked.
    “Pretty simple: He’s moving quantities of drugs from his space.”
    “What kind of quantities are we