Dirt Read online

“Perks?” Hickock asked, looking alarmed.

  “Oh, you know how lavish SI can be when he really wants somebody.”

  “Amanda, it’s wrong of you to press me like this.”

  “Dick, my darling, I’m not pressing; I’m the soul of patience. SI, unfortunately, is not.”

  Hickock rummaged in his desk and came out with the contract proposal that Eggers had sent him. He put on his reading glasses and began leafing through it. “You really think you’re worth this sort of money, Amanda?”

  Eggers jumped in. “Her numbers support everything in that proposal,” the lawyer said.

  “You want five percent more of the syndication?”

  “Syndication income is way up,” Eggers said.

  Hickock seemed to be collecting himself, Amanda thought.

  “Tell you what, Amanda, my legal guy is back from vacation next Monday; we’ll get back to you the end of next week, all right?”

  Amanda stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Dick, my darling, I can’t tell you how sad this makes me,” she said, dabbing at the corner of an eye, where an actual tear had appeared. “I had so wanted it to work out. I want you to know that I have no hard feelings whatsoever.” She turned and started toward the door, with Eggers at her heels, then stopped. “Oh, can you and Glynnis come to dinner on Friday? Just a small dinner, we’ll only be eight, but it’s a good crowd.”

  Hickock was on his feet. “Now, Amanda, come back and sit down.”

  Amanda and Eggers returned to their chairs. “I’m sitting, Dick,” she said.

  Hickock was reading the proposal again. “A Mercedes Six Hundred? What’s the matter with the Five Hundred? Or, come to that, with the Four-twenty? The Six Hundred is a hundred-and-thirty-seven-thousand-dollar car, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Oh, that’s right, you drive one, don’t you, Dick? Isn’t it such a wonderful car? I mean, the Six Hundred has the burled walnut and the separate air conditioner for the back seat. You know how warm-natured I am.”

  “Amanda, be reasonable.”

  “Dick, I despise cheapness in a man, I really do.”

  “Oh, all right, you have a deal,” Hickock said. “We’ll sign something when my legal guy gets back.”

  Eggers instantly produced a small stack of documents. “I’ve prepared a deal memo,” he said. “We’ll work out the final language when your man gets home.”

  Hickock read the document quickly and signed all four copies. Amanda signed them, and Eggers left two with the publisher.

  Amanda stood up. “I’m so thrilled that we’re going to be together for another four years, darling,” she said. She met him halfway around the desk, and they embraced. “And don’t forget dinner, Friday, at seven.” She turned to Eggers. “Can I give you a lift, Bill?” She took his arm and steered him toward the door. At the threshold she turned and looked at Hickock, who was gazing at his sandwich. “Oh, Dick, they have just the car I want at that Mercedes showroom on Park Avenue.” She returned to the desk and laid a card on it. “The man said they could deliver it at five; all it takes is a phone call from you.”

  “We’ll be trading your Cadillac, right?” Hickock asked.

  “Oh, Dick, you are funny; I’ve already sold it.” She swept out of the office.

  In the car, Bill Eggers wiped his brow. “Amanda, I don’t know why you need me at all,” he said.

  Amanda patted his hand. “Somebody has to do the boilerplate, dear.”

  Chapter 3

  Richard Hickock left his office at four o’clock, stopping briefly at his secretary’s desk. “Anybody calls, tell them I’m in the building somewhere for a meeting, you don’t know where, and I won’t be back at my desk by the end of the day.”

  “Yes, sir,” the woman replied.

  Hickock took his private elevator to the basement garage, where his white Mercedes S600 was waiting. “Ralph, I think I’ll take a walk in the park,” he said to his chauffeur.

  “Of course, Mr. Hickock,” the chauffeur replied. “You’ve been walking in the park a lot lately. Good for the heart.”

  “Right,” Hickock said, taking one of his magazines, not his favorite, from the leather pocket on the back of the front seat. He leafed idly through it, making mental notes, one of them to fire the magazine’s art director. He wasn’t seeing enough tits in the book these days, and the man had ignored his request for more.

  Presently, the car stopped at an entrance to Central Park on Fifth Avenue in the sixties. Hickock opened his own door. “Hover around here, and pick me up in an hour and ten minutes.” He knew from experience exactly how long this would take. The car pulled away; Hickock crossed Fifth Avenue and walked briskly to an elegantly restored townhouse apartment building, using his key to open the downstairs door. As it was about to close, a young man stepped into the hallway behind him, holding what appeared to be a sack of groceries.

  “Thanks,” the young man said. “I didn’t have a hand free to look for my key.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Hickock said, stepping into the elevator. The young man followed him into the car.

  “Nice day out there,” the young man said.

  “Great time of the year.” The elevator stopped on the fourth floor, and Hickock got out. “See you,” he said.

  “You bet,” the young man replied.

  The young man got off the elevator on the floor above and walked down a flight, peeking over the banister rail to see Hickock letting himself into an apartment. He noted that there was only one apartment on the floor, so he was unlikely to be disturbed. He walked to the apartment door, set his grocery bag on the floor, removed a loaf of bread, and pulled out an electronic stethoscope. He placed the receivers in his ears, switched it on, and held the listening part against the apartment door.

  Inside, Hickock was greeted by a very beautiful young woman wearing a silk dressing gown.

  “Oh, Dick,” she breathed, taking his face in her hands. “I’ve been so excited ever since you called.”

  Hickock kissed her lightly, then untied the gown’s sash, exposing her naked body underneath. He caressed her large breasts and felt the nipples rise. “Then you must be ready for me,” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” she sighed, taking him by the hand. “Come with me.” She led him into the bedroom, kicked the door shut, and locked it.

  “I don’t know why you always lock the door,” Hickock said, tearing at his clothes.

  “I don’t know either,” she said, letting the dressing gown fall from her shoulders. “It just makes me feel more secure.” She held out her arms to receive him, and they toppled onto the bed.

  Outside in the hall, the young man with the stethoscope heard the bedroom door lock engage. He moved along the hall toward the bedroom wall and placed the stethoscope there. When he was certain that the couple were erotically engaged, he went back to the door, removed what appeared to be a small manicure kit from a pocket, took out two small tools, and began to work on the front door lock. In half a minute he was inside the apartment with his grocery bag. He removed a leather tool box from the bag and went to work.

  In the bedroom, Hickock lay on his back, breathing deeply as he recovered from his orgasm. She went into the bathroom, came back with a hot facecloth, and began to wipe his penis. Hickock made a little noise.

  “Oh,” she said, “I believe there’s something still there.”

  This was the part Hickock liked best; while he had been essentially impotent with his wife for years, this girl could always get him going for a second round. “Use your mouth,” he whimpered.

  “Why, of course,” the girl replied.

  The young man listened at the bedroom door with his stethoscope, smiling. He’d better get out, he thought; Hickock would be finished in another few seconds. He picked up his grocery bag, let himself out of the apartment, and walked down the stairs to the basement, checking carefully on each floor that he was still alone. In the basement he found the building’s central telephone box and went to work. Half an hour later
he let himself out of the building and walked off down the street.

  Hickock looked both ways on Fifth Avenue for his car. Not seeing it, he crossed the street, walked a few feet into the park, and waited. A couple of minutes later he saw the white Mercedes turn a corner onto Fifth Avenue. He stepped out of the park, went to the curb, flagged down the car, and got in. “Let’s go home, Ralph,” he said.

  “Enjoy your walk in the park, sir?”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “It always refreshes me.”

  Chapter 4

  Amanda swept into her office suite, wearing a smile that telegraphed good news to her staff. She waved Martha into her office and pushed aside the stack of items Helen and Barry had assembled for tomorrow’s column.

  “It must have gone well,” Martha said, taking a seat and getting her pad ready.

  “It went extremely well, my dear,” Amanda replied. “So well that there’s a ten percent raise for you when the new contract begins.”

  “Oh, thank you, Amanda,” Martha gushed.

  “And tell the others that there’ll be another five percent in their pay packets on the day.”

  “They’ll be delighted.”

  “Oh, tell Paul to sell the Cadillac, and he can keep ten percent of what he gets for it; I don’t want to see it again.” She handed Martha the car salesman’s card. “Call this gentleman and tell him I’ll want the new Mercedes delivered no later than four-thirty, and tell him to get the car phone number changed over. Call a music store and get a dozen CDs delivered for the new car’s stereo – you know the kind of thing I like – at least two Bobby Shorts and some Michael Feinstein and some chamber music. Give them to Paul so the salesman can show him how the CD player works. Make sure the salesman gets my vanity plates changed over, too.”

  “Right.” Martha was making notes. “I’ll deal with the insurance; what value do you want to put on it?”

  “A hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars.”

  Martha’s eyes widened. “Hickock sprang for the Six Hundred?”

  “Of course he did. You’d better let the garage man know about the change; the doorman, too. Let’s not have any glitches.”

  “It shall be done,” Martha said, rising. “You ready for lunch?”

  “I’ll have a salad, then send Helen and Barry in, and we’ll get started.”

  Martha disappeared, still writing on her pad.

  Amanda still had the sick feeling in her stomach that had begun the night before, but her elation over the new contract and the Mercedes helped to drive it away. She felt very much better now.

  When the salad dish had been taken away, Helen and Barry shuffled into the office and took seats.

  “Anything really good?” Amanda asked, starting to leaf through the stack of items, each on a page to itself. They would need twenty-five to thirty for tomorrow’s column.

  “Three high-profile pregnancies that together might make a good lead,” Barry said. “They’re on top.”

  “Good; I like to start with good news,” Amanda replied. She held up a page and frowned. “Ivana Trump is buying a yacht? Why would anyone care?” She crushed the page in her long fingers and tossed it into a wastebasket. Her people knew she had little time for the Trumps.

  “I got a call,” Helen said. “The Infiltrator is starting in again on Michael Andress; this time they’ve got a waiter from some drive-in restaurant in Long Beach who says they’ve been sleeping together for three years.”

  “The boy’s straight as an arrow,” Barry said. “I have it on good authority, and anyway, I can always tell. How many children does he have to father before they leave him alone?”

  “And his wife is one of the pregnancies on the list,” Helen said.

  “Good chance to stick it to the Infiltrator,” Amanda mused, marking the item. “Say something about the unjust pursuit of the boy; you know how it should go.” She went rapidly through the stack of items, keeping some, tossing others out. “That’s it, I think,” she said, tossing the good ones onto the desk. “I’ll have my lead for you in half an hour.” She glanced at her watch.

  Helen and Barry left, and Amanda turned to her computer to compose the paragraphs that would lead the column. She had planned to enthuse about St. Bart’s and what a wonderful time she had had on her weekend, but the incident of the wee hours was still on her mind, and until she found out what it was all about, she would hedge her bets. She had been writing for ten minutes when she looked up and saw Martha standing at the door. She had turned pale, and she had a sheet of paper in her hand.

  “Martha, what’s wrong, dear?” she asked.

  Martha approached the desk slowly and put the paper on the desk. “This just came in on the fax machine,” she said.

  A death, Amanda thought, but she was wrong. She picked up the sheet of paper and saw a photograph of herself, taken early that morning. The sheet was set up like the front page of a tabloid newspaper, and the lead story was:

  DIRT

  Greetings, earthlings! Look who we caught with her knickers down and her forked tongue erotically engaged in a love nest in a chic East Side hotel. None other than gossip’s high bitch, Amanda Dart, who, after revealing others’ peccadilloes for years, has revealed remarkable appetites of her own. She checked into the elegant hostelry last Friday night after having concocted an elaborate ruse to make the world at large (you and I) believe that she was lolling at the St. Bart’s beachfront compound of the Duke of Kensington. (Write this down should you ever want to disappear for a couple of weeks.) Dear Amanda set up an answering machine to receive calls from those who were clever enough to get her holiday number, then she phoned the machine daily for her messages. When she returned her calls, she no doubt had a wave machine running in the background to lend verisimilitude. What a hoot!

  Her companion in bed was a prominent out-of-towner whose wife will, no doubt, have a few questions to ask him on his return home. Certainly, after servicing the indefatigable Amanda for a whole weekend, he’ll not have much energy left for the wronged lady in question.

  Just how great are dear Amanda’s appetites? Enough to last until late Sunday night, when we snapped the pics above. Will she ever show her neatly carved face in the Big Apple again? We should know tonight when she’s promised to appear at a book party for her pal Norman Barton of the Times at Mortimer’s, the East Side boite, where tout le monde of Gotham journalism will gather to honor dear Norm and get his scribble in their very own copy.

  Will dear Amanda show? I certainly will! I wouldn’t miss this one for a million-buck advance on my no-holds-barred bio of the delectable Dart!

  Amanda put down the fax and looked at Martha. As she did, every phone in the office started ringing. Barry appeared, breathless, at the door. “Amanda, there’s apparently some sort of fax being sent to half the town. Do you know anything about it?”

  “Half the town?” Amanda asked, appalled.

  “Apparently. We’re hearing from every columnist in the city, and some from L.A. asking for a comment.”

  “Tell them to read tomorrow’s column,” she said. “Martha, will you excuse me for a few minutes? I have to rewrite tomorrow’s lead.”

  Martha vanished.

  Amanda turned back to her computer, stunned, and deleted what she had written. She sat, staring at the screen, wondering what to write. She had only twenty minutes until deadline.

  Chapter 5

  Amanda got into the back seat of the spanking new Mercedes S600 and settled herself. She found the switch for the rear seat air-conditioning, and cool air flooded the rear passenger compartment. She touched the glassy surface of the burled walnut trim on her door and squirmed on the leather seat; she asked Paul for music, and the sounds of Bobby Short’s singing materialized around her. She might have been sitting at ringside at the Cafe Carlyle, she thought. “Mortimer’s, please, Paul,” she said. Then she settled back into the soft, two-toned leather and tried to compose herself.

  She could not remember the last time
she had felt such anxiety; in fact, she could not remember the last time she had been so vulnerable. Amanda had conducted her life for a very long time in such a way that no one could have any ammunition to fire at her. She was the soul of discretion, especially where her own personal life was concerned, if not that of others. Outwardly, she was always charming, concerned, sweet, or grateful, whichever the circumstances called for. Inwardly, she was well aware that the scandal sheet’s reference to her as a “high bitch” was entirely justified. Half the satisfaction of being a bitch was to be sure that no one could ever prove it of her.

  Tonight, though, there were allegations in the air. She had, over the past ten years, been slyly critical of any prominent woman with a well-known sex life. Now she herself would be subjected to a great deal of unwanted scrutiny and, probably, a very messy divorce.

  She had decided to press on with her column’s lead about her time in St. Bart’s; all she could do now was brazen it through. After all, though the sheet had been entirely factual, proving the allegations would be quite another thing. With computer-generated photographic editing available to almost anyone who desired it, she could claim doctored pictures, in the hope that whoever was doing this would not want to reveal himself in order to provide further evidence. If it came up in court – well, she’d cross that abyss when she came to it.

  “Lovely car, Miss Dart,” Paul said. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, but Amanda received the compliment gratefully. It added another whit to the confidence that would be needed to face the crowd at Mortimer’s.

  “Thank you, Paul,” she replied. “I hope you will enjoy driving it.”

  The car slid to a halt in front of the restaurant, and after a moment, Paul had opened the door for her. She stepped out, smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath, and plunged into the East Side ’s most fashionable hangout. She had timed her entrance for a moment when half the guests would have already come; that way she could easily spot those already there, then watch the others arrive.