Skin Game (Teddy Fay #3) - Stuart Woods Page 0,2
next feature. The film hadn’t even been cast yet.
Rita, his assistant, buzzed him over the intercom. “Billy Barnett’s here.”
“Send him in.”
Billy found Peter at his desk huddled over a few pages of script.
“Working on a rewrite?” Teddy said.
Peter looked up and grinned. “Hi, Billy. The changes aren’t for me. We’re auditioning Liz Hampton for a role. She’s a little long in the tooth for it, as written.”
“You’d rewrite the part for her?”
“I would if we got her. It wouldn’t hurt the story any, and she’s one of those actresses who’s box-office gold for good reason. People like to see her name in the credits because they know it means a good performance.”
“Yeah. I notice there’s no part for character actor Mark Weldon in the movie.”
“There really isn’t,” Peter said. “I was hoping you’d be content with producing this one.”
“I had another idea. I don’t think you’re getting all the credit you deserve. I would think ‘produced, written, and directed by’ would go a long way toward establishing you as an auteur.”
Peter grinned. “Yeah, right. And maybe I’ll do hair and makeup, too. Trust me, writing and directing is enough. So can I count on you?”
Teddy grimaced. “The thing is, I kind of have to do a favor.”
“For a friend?”
“Not exactly. But it needs to be done. Can I have some time off?”
“You know you can.”
“I don’t want to presume.”
“Billy. After everything you’ve done for me and this studio, you can do anything you want.”
“Well, I might like to try my hand at music director.”
“Except that.”
“How about caterer?”
Peter grinned. “Go on. Get out of here.”
4.
STONE BARRINGTON WAS having a drink in his office with Dino Bacchetti. As one might expect in a conversation between one of New York City’s top attorneys and the New York City police commissioner, weighty matters were being discussed. At the moment, the bone of contention was where to have dinner.
In the past, it was always Elaine’s. Since it closed, the choice was often Patroon, but tonight Dino was lobbying for Peter Luger, the famed Brooklyn steakhouse.
“I don’t think so,” Stone said.
“What do you have against Peter Luger?” Dino wanted to know.
“I have nothing against Peter Luger. It’s too late to get a reservation.”
“I’m the New York City police commissioner. Do you really think I can’t get a reservation?”
“Wouldn’t that be abuse of power?”
“Absolutely. It’s the only reason I took the job.”
“Aw, come on, Dino. Think of the people who will be canceled to make room.”
“No one will be canceled. Someone will get crowded closer to the kitchen.”
The phone rang. Stone scooped it up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Stone.”
“Billy!” Stone said. Then to Dino, “Hey, Dino, it’s Billy Barnett.”
“Invite him to dinner,” Dino said.
“Dino and I were just planning dinner.”
“I’m in L.A.”
“That makes it harder.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“We were just talking about it. Dino’s pushing Peter Luger.”
“Wish I were there. I love their steak. Why are you arguing?”
“We don’t have a reservation.”
“And Dino thinks they’ll serve him anyway?”
“Ever since they made him commissioner he’s got a swelled head.”
“Hey, I’m right here,” Dino protested.
“So why did you call?” Stone said.
“Actually, I was calling about dinner,” Teddy said. “I can’t make it tonight, but how about tomorrow?”
“That would be great. Where do you want to eat?”
“Paris.”
5.
FAHD KASSIN, WHO had been monitoring Billy Barnett’s calls, honed in on the word Paris. It put him on high alert, and he listened to the rest of the conversation with eager anticipation.
He was disappointed. Billy Barnett failed to elaborate on the comment, saying merely that he would see Stone tomorrow.
Fahd threw down the headphones in disgust. Why couldn’t the man have been more explicit? Instead, he’d hardly been any help at all. He’d referred to the man he called as “Stone,” probably a nickname, and they referred to a third man as the commissioner, though no one said commissioner of what. He also had an unlikely name, though Fahd couldn’t recall it, he’d have to listen to the recording again. Fahd didn’t want to do that, he wanted a lackey to do it for him. Only he’d had that lackey shot.
All right. Billy Barnett was in Los Angeles, but the number he’d called was in a different area code: 212. He could look that up. More grunt work.
Fahd summoned one of the techies from the other room. The man came in rather hesitantly. The last techie summoned from that room had never returned.
“What’s your name?”
“Joram.”
Fahd handed him a piece of paper. “Trace this phone number, Joram. I want to know who owns it, and