Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 21

said, “you’re not raising some sort of juvenile delinquent, are you?”
    “First of all, I’m not raising him; he’s at that school in Connecticut, and his mother and grandfather have a lot more to say about his upbringing than I do. Second, he’s not a juvenile delinquent; he just wants to be twenty-five, at a time when most kids are looking forward to nineteen. For what it’s worth, I think Peter just might be a steadying hand.”
    “What’s Ben doing about college?” Arrington asked.
    “He’s got an early acceptance from Columbia,” Dino replied, “with the help of his grandfather, who is a major contributor. Of course, he’s always made good grades, with little apparent effort, so he’s not exactly being foisted on the school.”
    “That’s wonderful!” Arrington enthused. “An Ivy Leaguer in the family!”
    “How about that?” Dino said.
     
     
    Later, when they had all dined and were leaving, Stone noted that Herbie and Gina were deep in conversation at their table. He had a feeling they weren’t discussing personal security.
    The two bodyguards looked sleepy.
     
     
    They arrived home and good nights were said. Back in the master suite, Arrington got into bed next to Stone. “Have you noticed,” she said, “that Peter’s clothes have gotten a little too snug?”
    “Yes, I have,” Stone said. “I’ll deal with that tomorrow.”
    “Thank you,” she sighed. “He hates it when I buy clothes for him.”
     
     
    The following morning Stone took Peter up to Madison and Seventy-second to the Ralph Lauren men’s store. He found the right department and bought Peter a blue blazer, a couple of tweed jackets, a blue suit, and some odd trousers, making sure there was room for growth in all of them. Peter picked out a handsome topcoat, some shirts and shoes. Everything would be delivered in a couple of days.
    Stone went home feeling very fatherly, a condition he was becoming accustomed to.

15
    M id-Monday morning, two FedEx packages arrived—one containing a dozen certified copies of Peter’s new California birth certificate, with a covering letter from the court stating that his former certificate had been sealed by court order. The second envelope contained Peter’s high school diploma, with the notation “With Honors,” a copy of the transcript of his academic record, and a “To Whom It May Concern” letter from the headmaster describing Peter as a true scholar and a perfect gentleman. All these materials were in the name of Malon Peter Barrington II. Only the Virginia name-change order remained to be received.
    Stone buzzed Peter in his room and asked him to come down to his office for a chat. They sat on the leather sofa, and Stone gave Peter the documents he had received. “This is all official, now,” he said. “Joan has made copies of your transcript, of which this is one, and she has put the other eleven certified copies of your birth certificate in my office safe, where they will be secure. You’ll need them at various times.”
    “Thank you, Dad,” Peter said, tucking the documents back into the envelope.
    “When you see Letitia Covington this afternoon, you might take those documents along, just in case they’re needed, and don’t forget a copy of your screenplay and the DVD of your edited footage.”
    “I won’t.”
    “By the way, I had a call from Leo Goldman, who was very impressed with the work you’ve done on your fi lm—so impressed that he immediately wanted to buy it for Centurion.”
    “You mean it’s going to be released?”
    “Not yet, and probably not for some time.”
    “What’s the delay?”
    “I swore Leo to secrecy about you and the screenplay. If he released it, say, at Sundance, as the work of a sixteen-year-old, a sensation would ensue, and a number of things would happen: first, you would become famous way before your time, which could wreck your desire for some anonymity and a good education. Fame can be a good thing, but not in this case. You would forever be known as a boy wonder, and it would be very difficult for you to outgrow that.”
    “Like Orson Welles?”
    “Something like that. Of course, Welles was twenty-four when he made Citizen Kane , but that was still very young, and in spite of his brilliance he was ill-equipped to deal with the studios and the smart, ruthless men who ran them, and his career suffered for the rest of his life.”
    “I read a good biography of Welles,” Peter said, “and he’s one of