The Stone Carrier

By Robert Ward

The Stone Carrier is a brilliant and suspenseful novel which takes place in New York City during the wild ’70s.

Terry Brennan is a gonzo journalist for all the major magazines. He does a feature piece on super-novelist Thaddeus Bryant and the two become best friends. Thad has all the glittering prizes which Terry wants, including the next big step up the ladder of success, a major novel and a movie deal. He and his old friend Joey Gardello, the up and coming movie director, drink and dine at Elaine’s, the ultimate superstar hangout, but neither of them have yet made it. And as the novel opens it becomes obvious that Joey never will. Because he’s murdered in Central Park. Worse, for Terry, he becomes the prime suspect.

A thrilling and sometimes hilarious chase ensues as Terry tries to find out who the murderer is before the cops or Nicky Baines, the most terrifying drug dealer in Harlem catches up with him. A wild, witty thriller you won’t put down until its great, surprise ending.

Praise for THE STONE CARRIER:

“Bob Ward’s The Stone Carrier is both a smart thriller and an (appropriately) jittery look back at the literary bar scene of New York in the late 70s and early 80s, when the only high more potent than cocaine was the high of acclaim. Suffused with a blend of paranoia and nostalgia, Ward captures that world beautifully.” —Richard Price, bestselling author and screenwriter

“With The Stone Carrier Robert Ward has whipped up a suspenseful tale that manages to be both witty and blood-soaked. We are in NYC during the 1970s, nights spent among hotshot literary figures and amiable starlets, everybody zonked on cocaine and ambition, then the guys with guns start mixing in, looking for a stash thief, and things fly loose. A helluva fine read.” —Daniel Woodrell, author of Winter’s Bone

“Robert Ward’s new book The Stone Carrier confirms his place among the first rank of mystery writers and the novel is wonderfully entertaining. He is the true artist of the genre, essential reading.” —Ken Bruen, author of the Jack Taylor crime novels

“With The Stone Carrier, Robert Ward has written a kind of noir love letter to the drug-fueled and celebrity-drenched New York City of the 1970s. Think Tarantino remaking Scorsese’s Mean Streets and you’ll get the picture.” —Tim O’Mara, editor of Down to the River

“All the glitter and grit of 1970s’ New York with a heaping dose of drugs, murder, and divided loyalties, but with the underlying thrills of a man struggling to clear his name. A fast and taut trip through trouble and toward redemption.” —Jeffery Hess, author of No Salvation

“This book does a stellar job of interspersing layered, character-rich scenes with ones of tension and, ultimately, action. The action itself is realistic, and therefore impactful. The way that Ward handles the ending is brilliantly tied to the subtext of fame, power, and greed (but mostly fame) and not only differs from the expected route in fitting fashion but is also thematically satisfying. Reads like it was written by an insider, and I was transported into his world!” —Frank Zafiro, author of the River City crime novels

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: Jan 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463488461

Robert Ward

Robert Ward is the author of eleven novels, including Four Kinds of Rain, a New York Times Notable Book, Red Baker, winner of the PEN West Award for Best Novel, Shedding Skin, and The Stone Carrier. 

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

1978

After a night of boozing and snorting cocaine in Elaine’s bathroom with his buddy Thaddeus Bryant, Joey Gardello should have gone home, taken a Placidyl and been fast asleep. Instead, he stood at his thinking spot underneath Glen Span Arch in Central Park, waiting for his brother Ray. Ray had left a message with his answering service, saying: Meet me under the Arch at two a.m. Very important. Joey cursed the wind whipping through the trees and took deep breaths to chill out. What the hell could Ray want? Probably nothing at all. His brother worried a lot about Joey’s lifestyle, his dope selling, the kind of people selling drugs put him in touch with. He was always trying to get him to get back to filmmaking. Like that was easy. Joey hadn’t had a directing job for three years. His last little movie, Stab, had gotten good reviews from the horror crowd but had barely made it into the theaters. And it hadn’t sold to television at all. So what was he going to do? Make fucking commercials? Yeah, that was fine…if you could get them. But it was a tough game. You had to know the right people.

What the fuck DID Ray want anyway? Well, whatever it was, one thing Joey knew for sure, Ray was his brother, a big goof who had looked out for him when he was a kid. A serious worrywart, but Joey could count on him. He was the one person in the world that Joey absolutely trusted.

Maybe that was a little sad.

But one person was enough.

He shook his head, lit a Lucky, and walked back and forth. He and Ray had been coming to this spot since they were kids. Used to sit down with his back up against the bridge wall and just dream away the time. He knew it was a little weird. Most people liked to read or just daydream down by the pond, but he always liked it under here. It was cool on hot days and he could pretend he was in some kind of castle. Wow, the fantasies he used to have…sitting here with his comics and his 8-millimeter camera. And when weird people came by he’d film them like he was some great documentary filmmaker.

He made little movies all over the park, but this was his resting spot, sort of like his editing room. Where he could gather his thoughts.

Which he had to do now. There was so much stuff going down. He really shouldn’t spend all his time up at Elaine’s with Thaddeus. Snorting coke in the bathroom with Hunter Thompson. And who else was that in there tonight? Oh yeah, Richard Harris. A Man Called Horse himself. Yeah, it was a blast, but he couldn’t play around anymore.

Things had gotten serious in a hurry and he had to get his shit together. It was hard, though. He had never had enough discipline. He knew it. But, then again, discipline was overrated, right? He had the talent, tons of it. And a plan. Yeah, one hell of a plan.

His stock was headed up, with a bullet.

He took another deep breath. He could feel the coke wearing off, leaving that horrible medicinal taste in his mouth. He’d have to quit hitting that stuff too.

And he would. He was still young. He had time on his side, baby, just like The Rolling Stones.

It was going to be all right.

A few more minutes and he’d talk to Ray, then go back home, sleep it off. Tomorrow, new man.

He remembered Thaddeus, Ray and himself out in the streets as kids. Playing gangsters and G-Men. Pointing imaginary machine guns at one another. Rattatat. Gotcha. No, you didn’t. I ducked the shots. Nah, you are dead. Okay, I am, but now I get up and I’m a New Man.

Yeah, that’s how it was when you were a kid. You never worried about getting old, being broke or dying. It was like you were an actor in a movie.

Of course, real life wasn’t like that.

But there was such a thing as being reborn while you were alive. Yeah, and that was just where he was now. On the verge of being reborn.

The wind whipped through him. Okay, the drugs were wearing off and now he was tired as hell. And where was…wait. Right there, walking up the dark path. A big guy with a shambling walk.

He wanted to be pissed at Ray for dragging him out here, but he couldn’t. Nah. His bro was a great guy…

Hey, you maniac, Joey said in greeting.

Hey, you maniac yourself, Big Ray said.

They hugged one another, and nearly talked in unison: So what the hell do you want? Dragging me out here in the middle of…

They both stopped.

I got a message from you on my service, Joey said. Saying to meet you here at two a.m.

But I got the same message from you on MY service.

You didn’t send me any message? Joey said.

Ray shook his head.

No way. What do you think is going on?

Joey felt cold in his arms, and his mouth was suddenly dry.

I don’t know what it is, but I do know that we need to get the fuck out of here right now.

Ray looked around wildly but could see nothing through the dense trees and brush.

Jesus, we being set up? What did you do, Joey? Did you steal coke from Nicky Baines? Did you?

Joey looked too panicked to answer. Which way should they go—through the tunnel, back the way they came toward the West side, or farther into the park? Thinking furiously, he decided to go deeper into the park. If someone was setting them up, they’d assume they’d run for the nearest exit to the street, where they’d be safer.

Come on, bro, Joey said, pulling Ray behind him and heading into the trees ahead.

But, man, we should go for the street, Ray said. He wasn’t moving at all. Terrified, he simply stood stock still.

Goddamn it, Ray, listen to me. C’mon.

He yanked at his brother’s arm, like a father pulling a stubborn kid.

Finally, Ray shuffled along behind him.

They got to the lip of the tunnel and peered out. No one there or at least no one they could see.

Joey whispered to his brother.

When we come out of the tunnel we’ll be in the open on the path. So don’t stay on it. Cut right into the bushes to the right, and I’ll go left.

No way, Ray said. We gotta stick together.

Uh-uh. Together we’re easier targets.

Shit.

Okay, one, two, three, go!

They stepped out of the tunnel, but before they could move either way, Ray was shot dead in his tracks. Two bullets hit him in the middle of his body, piercing his heart.

Joey couldn’t help himself. He knelt down to see if he could help his brother.

And was himself shot twice, in the chest. For a second it was like they were kids again, wrestling around on the floor.

Joey looked up. Maybe he could see who the shooter was. But all he could see was the half moon, hanging over him like a cheap prop.

When his head fell on his brother’s chest, he saw a piece of trash blowing toward him, one of those paper cups with the blue Parthenon painted on it.

Funny thing, he’d always wanted to make a movie in Greece.

Then he heard a long sigh, his own life leaking out of him. He lay his confused head on Big Ray’s body and died.

CHAPTER TWO

Three Hours Earlier

The trick, Terry Brennan thought, was not to turn around and STARE! This was simply not done. Of course, it was okay to sort of twist your neck around and look every once in a while. The thing you couldn’t do was actually turn all the way around and gawk. Definitely not allowed. Gawking was for the losers, the Bridge and Tunnel Crowd at the bar. They stood there in their lime-colored shirts and their reindeer print sleeveless sweaters which they bought at J.C. Penney’s out at the Paramus Mall in freaking New Jersey and they drank their overpriced drinks and their heads swiveled back and forth as the famous and the infamous came through the front door and were seated at the tables along the side wall and in the back of the front room. Terry knew a couple of them by name, Jerry, from Queens who came with autograph book in hand; Dot, a secretary from mid-town; and most of all Big C, Clarence, something or other, from Caldwell, New Jersey. Clarence seemed the most desperate to Terry. Occasionally, he would get antsy and would rush up to Gianni, the maître d’, and demand to be seated back there next to Woody Allen and Mariel Hemingway. And Gianni, all smiles and charm, would say, Sorry, sir, we have no tables right now, sir. But something may open up after a while. Meanwhile, why don’t you have a drink at the front bar? You can see everything from there and I’ll let you know. And poor Clarence would smile a sad grin and sometimes even slip Gianni a twenty, as if it that was going to do any good. Of course, Gianni would take the bill anyway, slip it into his pocket, then hustle back to the people sitting at the tables.

The poor sap, Terry thought. Yet, he didn’t feel all that secure himself. It was nearly impossible for him to believe that he could really be in the same room with famous actors like Richard Harris, who was sitting across the table from the mind-bogglingly beautiful actress, Julie Christie. Divine Julie whom Terry had fallen in love with in her very first picture, Billy Liar. He remembered her running across the barren working-class street, a vision of perfection as she came closer and closer into view. So close that her stunning, fresh, and ridiculously sensual face took up the entire screen. Right then and there eighteen-year-old Terry, watching in the Playhouse Theater in his own working-class hometown of Baltimore, fell madly, irrevocably, and hopelessly in love with her. And now, here he was sitting ten feet away from her, looking at her, with his mouth hanging open. But only for a second. Shut that mouth up, son, or be known as a rube, a loser.

Terry took a quick hit of his vodka martini and temporarily wiped out all desire for the fabulous actress. Time to simply take in the glorious moment. Let’s see, who else was there tonight?

Not just actors and show biz people. There were also political figures, writers, artists. There, in the very back corner was…Henry Freaking Kissinger dining with his wife Nancy. And right next to them there, at the next table, was writing heavyweight Norman Mailer, with his pal Jose Torres, the ex-light heavyweight champion boxer. And just a couple of tables over was Janice Dickinson, the world’s most famous model, laughing her sly, sensual laugh with some balding, bloated Hamptons billionaire in his blue blazer and green pants with whales on them. A whale wearing his whales. Perfect. Of course, Janice and Whale Man were drinking Elaine’s expensive champagne by the truckloads.

Yes, these, Terry thought, were the people who counted in New York. The ones who were written about in Page Six of the New York Post and in New York Magazine, the ones who were talked about at every media party. Oh, I just saw Truman over at Elaine’s. He didn’t look well at all. He was practically falling off of Princess Lee’s arm! And I hear his new book is going to be just scandalous.

They were the ones everyone wanted to know, to talk to, to hang with. Hell, these were the stars, the elite everyone else wanted to BE.

And now here he was. Terry freaking Brennan. At table two. Only two and a half years ago he was an assistant professor at this frozen upstate college, Hobart and William Smith, in godforsaken Geneva, New York, the place where drunken, burned out Dick Diver goes to die in Tender is The Night. And now, in a remarkable reinvention that even he could barely believe, he was Terry Brennan, ace journalist, for Rolling Stone, GQ, the Village Voice and Sport, sitting at one of the hallowed tables, being gawked at by the Bridge and Tunnellers. Here he was beside his best friend, one of the hottest novelists in the world, Thaddeus Bryant, author of The Debt, a book that was not only a number one New York Times bestseller but a literary success as well. A novel which was, right this moment, being made into a monstro-big-budget drama, starring Dustin Hoffman, Roy Scheider and Genevieve Bujold. The premiere was only three weeks away, and Terry could scarcely believe that he was going to be attending it with Thaddeus.

When he thought of the way he’d lived only a couple of years ago, in that dismal upstate town with not one decent restaurant and no one to talk to except students and one or two sympathetic souls on the faculty, it blew his mind. Talk about the fast track.

Now, he sat there listening as Elaine Kauffman, the world’s most famous saloon keeper, chatted with (really REALLY too hard to believe) Mick Jagger, at the very next table, Mick sitting there with three gorgeous models, all of them slobbering over him, saying, Oh, Mick…Mick, you are so funny!, Oh, Mick, we love your scarf!, "Oh God, Mick, Beggars Banquet is still my favorite album of all time! Terry smiled to himself. He was three feet away from Mick Jagger. It was all he could do to keep from turning around and telling Mick what a huge Stones fan he was! But no. Not cool. Not cool at all. He had to consciously remind himself what Thaddeus had told him just the other night. Of course you’re excited about being here with the big boys, but remember, it just means that now you’re a big boy yourself. Treat them like equals, Terry, not like you’re some beseeching fan. It’s great to be one of the stars. It’s what everyone wants and you’re there. So act like you belong!"

Yeah, right, Terry said. I get it. And I will!

But, of course, he didn’t get it. Not quite. Mick Jagger was known all over planet earth and in the outer constellations, and Terry Brennan was known by maybe seven top editors and a few thousand magazine readers. But he also understood what Thaddeus was telling him. By being here, and getting mentioned in Page Six of The Post, he could tell the world that he was a player in the Big Game. And, once he became known, maybe that little extra juice would earn him a bigger advance on his own first novel, Bad Boy! And if Bad Boy was a hit, maybe he would become truly famous. Not as famous as Mick but maybe as famous as Thaddeus. Christ, maybe they would even make a big Hollywood movie out of his book. Why not?

He looked across the table at Elaine. Generous of body, with a cockeyed but warm smile, in New York she was as big a legend as any of her famous guests. From a humble artist’s bar in the Village she’d built the number one celebrity hangout in New York. The celebs loved and feared her. If she decided, she didn’t like you she could keep you from getting your table no matter how big you were.

Terry sighed and drank his whiskey. Okay, so he wasn’t there yet, but at least he was farther along than Thaddeus’s old pal, Joey Gardello. Joey the wannabe filmmaker, who had graduated from the New York University film school a few years back and still hadn’t made anything but a few industrial flicks and one really bad horror film. His work barely paid half the rent on his pad on 77th Street and West End. The rest of his money came from dealing primo cocaine which all the celebs copped from him both here and down in the Village. In fact, Joey had used Terry’s West Village pad a couple of times to deal to the guys who hung out at the famous Village writers’ bar, The Lion’s Head. Truth was, Terry felt a little weird about that. Though he acted like he was cool with it all, hanging out with a coke dealer bothered him. He kind of wished he hadn’t been so accommodating to Joey. But what the hell? He was here in New York. Everyone who was hip did coke, and no one had died from it yet, as far as he knew.

Still, there were some nights when he snorted the stuff and his heart started knocking in his chest so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. That was seriously no fun. He had decided he’d use it but be moderate about it, not get hung up on it.

Terry smiled warmly at Elaine. Though she was pushing fifty she still hopped from table to table laughing and telling stories, as well as listening in on the priceless tales of her famous guests. Terry watched her put her liver-spotted hand over Thaddeus’ and give him her lopsided smile.

"The Debt was so terrific, she said. I stayed up until dawn reading it and I rarely do that anymore, baby. I can’t wait until the movie. They still planning to screen it at the Ziegfeld?"

Yes, they are. It’s all shot and postproduction is done. In three weeks, we’ll all be at the premiere. Thaddeus said, kissing her on the cheek. You know I couldn’t have written it without you.

Oh God, cut it out, Elaine said. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.

She laughed and looked across the table at Terry.

And what is my young Irish genius up to now?

Terry felt himself blush and hoped no one had noticed.

Still hammering out the pieces, Terry said. And trying to get the book rolling.

Elaine patted him on the back of his hand.

"Well, if your book is half as good as the piece you did on Thaddeus last year in Rolling Stone, it’ll be a best seller."

Hear, hear, said Thaddeus. Terry will make us all look like pikers.

Yeah, it’ll be great, Joey Gardello said, his dark eyes flashing. If young Terry ever gets past page thirty-five!

They all laughed but Terry felt like reaching across the table and strangling Joey. It was just like him to bring up his snail-like pace on the book. Though Terry usually got along with Joey, of late their relationship had soured a little. It was like he was jealous of Thaddeus and Terry being so close. Which was ridiculous. Thaddeus still made time for Joey. It was just that he and Thaddeus were both writers. They had so much in common. Joey was Thaddeus’ oldest friend, though. That would never change. Thaddeus and Joey had both grown up in the Bronx. They’d been childhood friends since elementary school. They had even planned on working together someday. Perhaps they’d adapt one of Thaddeus’ bestsellers. As kids they used to hang out night and day and talk about how famous they’d become but only one of them had made it. It was tough on Joey. Terry tried to understand that when Joey gave him a hard time.

Hey, Terry, Terry, you still with us?

Terry looked across the table and saw Thaddeus laughing at him. Behind him were…Jesus. Behind him were Norman Mailer and Jose Torres on the way out.

Terry, I want you to meet Norman, Thaddeus said, a devilish grin on his face. He knew exactly how much Terry revered Mailer. The great writer had been his hero since he first read The Naked and The Dead when he was a college kid.

Hey, Terry said, thankful that his voice hadn’t cracked. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mailer.

Mailer smiled and shook his hand and introduced him to Jose Torres.

Torres’ huge hand enveloped Terry’s.

Thaddeus tells me you’re going to be a hell of a novelist, Mailer said.

That’s very generous of him, Terry said. To tell you the truth you’re the reason I wanted to be a writer. I love your work, sir.

That right? Mailer said. I’m the one who got you into this lousy racket? Well, all I can say if that’s the truth, then you better be good. ’Cause I don’t want to inspire any hacks.

You’ve gone and done it now, Mailer said to Thaddeus. Got yourself famous. Now all you need to do is keep it up for the next forty years or so. It’s easy. Like Red Smith said, all it takes to be a writer is sit down and open a vein.

Everyone laughed again, especially Elaine, as Mailer and Torres waved good-bye.

Terry felt electricity sweeping through him. Norman Mailer talking to him, encouraging him. And it was all because he’d profiled Thaddeus, they’d hit it off and Thad had invited him to a dinner party at his girlfriend, the model Shelby Jones’, place.

Terry barely had time to revel in meeting Mailer when he felt a tap on his back. When he turned around there were a pair of gorgeous green eyes looking down at him. It was the young actress Valerie Stevenson. Valerie had just been in her first movie, a low budget space opera called Starcrazy. The movie was lousy, but she’d gotten good reviews playing a comic and very sexy creature from another planet.

Hi, Terry, she said. Are you getting hideously drunk?

Yeah, Terry said. I’m competing with Hunter Thompson for the title of most reckless human on the planet. Loved you in the space movie by the way.

Oh, you saw it?

Yeah, Thaddeus and I went to a screening last night. You’re my kind of monster.

She laughed and shook her gorgeous hair.

I’m so glad you liked it. But let’s face it, it sucked and I was awful.

Not at all, Terry said. That’s not true. You can drain all my blood any time.

He reached over, right