37
CUPIE DALTON SAT in a reclining chair in his office on Venice Beach and gazed out the window at a group of girls in bikinis playing volleyball. Why hadn’t girls dressed like that for volleyball when he was still young enough to play? It wasn’t fair.
Cupie, who had gained his nickname for his resemblance to a doll of the same name, was ex-LAPD, and in the years since his retirement he had run his little agency with a partner named Vittorio, an Apache Indian based in Santa Fe. Between the two of them, they could cover just about anything. His phone rang, and a recording picked up.
“Good day, Dalton & Vittorio. How may I help you?” Her voice was low and British-accented. He had met her in a bar on the beach.
“I’m calling for Dax Baxter,” a woman said. “May I speak to Cupie Dalton, please?”
“One moment,” the recording said, and the phone next to Cupie’s chair rang, as it was programmed to do. “This is Cupie Dalton,” he said.
“Hi, Cupie, it’s Chita, in Dax Baxter’s office. He has some work for you, and he wants you here pronto. Are you up for that?”
Cupie sighed. He wasn’t, but business had been slow. “Sure. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”
“Faster?”
“It takes that long to drive from Venice. I don’t have a helicopter at my disposal.”
“Okay, hit the road.”
Cupie hung up, got into the jacket of his catalog-bought seersucker suit, and went out back to his garage in the alley.
• • •
FORTY MINUTES LATER Cupie parked in a guest spot at Standard Studios; his other five minutes were used up waiting for the elevator, in which he snugged up his necktie while ascending.
He waved at Chita and she picked up the phone and announced him, then waved him through. Without slowing down, Cupie walked through the door.
“Siddown, Cupie,” Baxter said.
Cupie, like most people who’d worked for Baxter, loathed him, but he put on his best smile. “Hi, Dax. How’s it going?”
“Not great. I want to know everything there is to know about a guy.”
“Who’s the guy?”
“His name is Stone Barrington. Ever heard of him?”
“Sure,” Cupie said with confidence. He’d done lots of work for Ed Eagle, and sometimes Barrington had been involved. “He’s a New York lawyer with Woodman & Weld, a top firm, and he’s the chairman of the Arrington Hotel Group. His late wife, Arrington, was the widow of Vance Calder, the movie star.”
“I’m impressed, Cupie. How’d you know that? I’ve never heard of the guy.”
“I know a little about a lot of people,” Cupie replied, “and everything about a chosen few. What’s your angle on this, Dax?”
“What do you mean by that?” Baxter replied with a snarl.
“I mean, do you want to go into business with Barrington or just ruin his day? There’s a spectrum, you know.”
“Well, I don’t want to go into business with him,” Baxter said. He tossed a thick file folder across the desk. “And don’t try to fob off a whole bunch of Google stuff on me—it’s all in there.”
“Okay, an in-depth investigation into him is going to cost you twenty grand, ten up front. I’ve got expenses.”
“How long?”
“Couple of weeks, if you want accuracy.”
“I want accuracy,” Baxter said, “and I want it in three days.”
“That’ll run you twenty-five grand, twelve-five up front.”
Baxter glared at him for a moment, then picked up a phone. “Tell Gladys to cut a check to Cupie for twelve thousand, five hundred dollars.”
“Oh,” Cupie said, raising a finger. “I’m going to need cash. There are palms to be crossed.” He didn’t want to sit around waiting for the check to clear.
“Never mind the check,” Baxter said. “Tell her to draw it from Accounting with a check on my personal business account. They can clear it with me.” He hung up and addressed Cupie. “I’ll tell you what I really want,” he said.
Cupie spread his hands. “I’m at your service, Dax.”
“I want some information that, if it were widely known, would wreck his business dealings and make his life not worth living.”
“Is that all?” Cupie asked. He took a folded, three-page contract from his pocket, filled in the amount, and handed it across the desk.
Baxter signed it without reading it, a sign that he didn’t care if he got sued, and tossed it back at Cupie.
Cupie tucked it away. “Couple of things,” Cupie said. “One, if I’m lucky enough to come up with the kind of dirt you want, this is the kind of guy who’s not going to take it lying down. Two, his best friend in the world is the police commissioner of New York City, who has all of law enforcement everywhere on speed dial.”
“I don’t give a shit whether he takes it lying down or in the ass,” Baxter said, “and I don’t give a shit who his friends are.”
There was a knock at the door, and Gladys walked in with a thick envelope and placed it on Baxter’s desk. He flipped it across the shiny surface toward Cupie, who, after a glance inside to be sure the sum wasn’t in Bulgarian levs, made it disappear.
“See you in three days,” Baxter said, “and it better be good.”
Cupie picked up the Google folder and made his escape. “You have a good one,” he called over his shoulder, as the door slammed behind him.
• • •
BACK IN HIS CAR Cupie laughed out loud. He couldn’t believe he had scored twelve-five off the biggest cheapskate and deadbeat in town, using nothing more than a whisper of a promise. He knew without even thinking about it that any skeletons in Stone Barrington’s closet were female and beautiful and likely had good things to say about him. He wondered if Stone was in town. He called the Arrington and asked, and the extension rang.
“Mr. Barrington’s residence,” a smooth voice said.
“Tell him it’s Cupie Dalton calling and that I know something he doesn’t.”
A moment later, the phone was picked up. “Cupie? How the hell are you?”
“I’m just great, Stone, and if you buy me lunch, I’ll tell you something that you don’t know yet, but that will vastly amuse you.”
“Sure, Cupie, I’ll leave your name at the gate. They’ll direct you from there. How long?”
“Half an hour.”
“See you then.”
Cupie whistled a little tune all the way to the Arrington.