by Stuart Woods
DINO LOOKED morosely around P.J. Clarke’s. “I don’t think I can have dinner here every night,” he said. “There are too many people I don’t know.”
“I know how you feel,” Stone said, enjoying his second meal of the day at Clarke’s. “Maybe after we’ve been coming here as long as we went to Elaine’s, it’ll be better.”
“Do we have to wait that long?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“How about ‘21’?” Dino asked.
“I was in there the other night. Too many of the people were kids in their twenties who shouldn’t be able to afford ‘21.’”
“You put your finger on it,” Dino said. “Them and rich people from out of town. I liked it better in the old days.”
“Everything was better in the old days,” Stone agreed.
“We sound like a couple of codgers,” Dino said.
“Speak for yourself, pal. I’m not in codgerdom yet.”
“Then why are we talking about the old days?”
“They weren’t the old days, until Elaine died. Now, suddenly, they’re the old days.”
“That’s how codgerdom happens,” Dino pointed out. “One day, you’re just a regular guy, having dinner three times a week at his favorite joint, then the next day the joint closes, and wham! You’re a codger. You’ve got all of Arrington’s money now,” Dino said. “Why didn’t you buy Elaine’s?”
“The restaurant business is a kind of hell,” Stone replied. “Either you don’t have a social life, because you’re there all the time, or you aren’t there all the time and the employees steal you blind. And even if I had bought it, I’m not Elaine.”
“Nobody is,” Dino agreed.
The headwaiter brought two attractive women into the back room and seated them next to Stone and Dino. Neither was wearing a wedding ring.
“Did you tip that guy?” Dino whispered.
“No, but I’m going to.”
“Evening, ladies,” Dino said to the two. “Will you join us for a drink?”
The two women exchanged glances. “Thanks,” one of them said, “but we’ll stay on our own. We’ll buy you a drink, though.”
“That’s the best offer I’ve had in this millennium,” Dino said. He introduced himself and Stone. The women were named Rita and Marla.
The drinks came, and Dino raised his glass. “To chance meetings,” he said. “If you’re having dinner, let’s pull our tables together.”
The women agreed, and they managed to make two tables one.
“What do you gentlemen do?” Rita asked.
“I’m a lieutenant of the NYPD,” Dino said. “Stone is only a lawyer.”
“I was a detective with the NYPD,” Stone said, “when I was too young to know better.”
“How does one go from being a detective to being a lawyer?” Marla asked.
“One takes the bar exam,” Stone said. “I had gone to NYU Law, but then became a cop.”
“For how long?”
“Fourteen years.”
“And what law firm do you practice with?” Marla asked.
“Woodman and Weld.”
“Ah,” she said, looking impressed. “My late father was a client there.”
“He sounds like a wonderful human being,” Stone said.
She laughed.
“What do you do, Marla?”
“I’m a choreographer and a director in the theater. Rita is starring in one of my shows, opening next week.”
“Not exactly starring,” Rita said, “but I’m the lead dancer.”
“To me,” Marla said, “dancers are always the stars. I used to be one myself.”
“What made you give it up?” Stone asked.
“You don’t give up dancing,” she replied. “Dancing gives you up. It shouts in your ear, ‘YOU’RE TOO OLD FOR THIS STUFF,’ and it’s always right. Then it kicks you in the knee, for emphasis.”
“I haven’t heard that call yet,” Rita said.
“That’s because you’re ten years younger than me,” Marla laughed. “You’ll hear it soon enough.”
They ordered dinner and talked some more. Rita’s last name was Cara, and Marla’s, Rocker.
“As in ‘off one’s rocker,’” Marla said.
“So,” Rita asked, “what did you two guys do today?”
“I introduced a big client to a young attorney over lunch,” Stone said. “They got on beautifully.”
“I sent a SWAT team out to arrest a murderer,” Dino said.
The women looked impressed.
“It’s not as exciting as Dino makes it sound,” Stone said. “He means he signed a piece of paper.”
“How long have you two known each other?” Marla asked.
“We were partners when we first made detective,” Dino said. “I taught him everything he used to know.”
AFTER DINNER, they walked out onto Third Avenue.
“Which way are you going?” Stone asked.
“Uptown for me,” Rita said.
“I’ll drop you,” Dino said, “or vice versa.”
“Okay.” A cab pulled up, then the two drove away.
“Which way are you going?” Stone asked.
“I live in Turtle Bay,” she said.
“What a coincidence—so do I.”
They discovered that they lived across the garden from each other.
“Will you stop by for a drink?” Stone asked.
“Perhaps another time,” Marla replied. She gave him a card, and he gave her his, then he hailed a cab and dropped her off at home.
“May I go out your back door?” Stone asked.
“Sure, as long as you don’t tarry,” Marla said. “I had a rough day’s rehearsal.” She let him into the house and led him through the living room, which was adorned with theater posters and photographs, and to the kitchen door. “There you are,” she said, opening the door for him.
“I’m right over there,” Stone said, pointing.
“Is there a Mrs. Barrington in residence?”
“I’m a widower,” he replied.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. What time do you normally finish rehearsals?”
“Six, if I’m lucky. Two a.m., if I’m not.”
“On the off chance that you finish fairly early tomorrow night, would you like to come over for dinner?”
“Let me call you late in the afternoon,” she said, “when I have a sense of how great the disaster is.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek and stepped out into her rear garden, then into the common garden.
It was a perfect night, and Stone had the feeling the following evening might be even better.
14
HERBIE WAS in his new office by eight the following morning, putting away his papers and files and rearranging the furniture. The desk was good, but he decided he needed a really nice oriental rug to make the room better. There was a knock at his door, and Herbie turned to find a young man in a fairly nice suit standing there.
“Good morning, Mr. Fisher,” he said. “I’m Robert Bentley.”
“Come on in,” Herbie said. “It’s Bobby, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Herb. Let’s don’t stand on ceremony. There’s coffee in the pot over there.”
“Can I pour you some?” Bobby asked.
“Black, please.”
They sat down. “I know you’re disappointed not to be assigned to a partner,” Herbie said, “but you’re going to have more fun with me and learn more, too.”
“They damn near assigned me to Karla Martin,” Bobby said. “I look upon you as my rescuer, and I don’t care if you’re a partner or not.”
“The advantage of working with me is that I was where you are a couple of years ago, and I had my baptism by fire with Karla.”
“How did you get away from her and to a promotion so fast?” Bobby asked.
“I’ll tell you when I get t
o know you better,” Herbie said. “Don’t get the wrong idea: you’re going to have to work as hard for me as you would have for Karla, but nobody’s going to be yelling at you or taking credit for your work.”
“I can take yelling,” Bobby said.
There was another knock at the door, and a very small and pretty young woman stood there.
“Ah, Cookie,” Herbie said. “This is Bobby Bentley, our new associate. Bobby, this is Cookie Crosby, my new secretary. Pour yourself some coffee and sit down, Cookie.”
Cookie did so.
“Okay, this is the whole team,” Herbie said. “What we’re going to be about here is making rain. If we can do that, we’ll prosper together, although, of course, I’ll prosper more than you will—that’s just the law everywhere you go. So, if either of you has a second cousin or a great-uncle in a business in this town, talk to him or her about Woodman and Weld. The firm’s reputation will get your toe in the door, and I’ll do the rest. Right now, we have only one client, gained yesterday from Marshall Brennan.”
“The hedge fund Marshall Brennan?” Bobby asked.
“One and the same, and he has many interests. He’s given us a start-up software company, a bunch of smart kids who know nothing about intellectual property rights and probably not anything else, so we’re all going to become experts in what they need. Bobby, you and I will go down there later this morning and meet these, ah, gentlemen—we will never call them kids, and we’ll treat them as if they’re Steve Jobs, on the phone and face-to-face. Got that?”
Bobby and Cookie nodded.
“Good.” Herbie extracted a tape measure from a drawer and handed Bobby one end. “Take this down there. Let’s see how big a carpet we can cram in here.”
“Nine by twelve,” Cookie said, looking around. “You’ll want to leave some floor around it—it’s nice parquet.”
“Nine by twelve it is,” Herbie said. He sat down and put his feet on his desk, then a moment later stood up and rubbed his back. “This always happens when I put my feet on my desk,” he said.
“Then don’t use a desk,” Cookie said. “Just a comfortable chair, a table, and a couple more chairs.”
“That’s a thought,” Herbie said. “How do you know so much about this?”
“I used to work for a big-time decorator,” Cookie replied.
“Why did you leave?”
“The money’s better here,” she said, “and while I liked choosing things for other people’s houses, I didn’t much like dealing with the rich women who lived in them.”
“Tell you what,” Herbie said, extracting a credit card from his wallet and handing it to her. “Make a copy of this and take it down to ABC Carpet and buy a rug for me. You can spend up to twenty-five grand.”
“Which means I’ll be looking at things with forty-five-grand price tags,” Cookie responded. “I know how to bargain. I think a silk carpet with a lot of yellow and green in it. Silk wears better than wool.”
“Sounds perfect,” Herbie said “Force them to deliver it today. Bobby and I will drop you off on our way downtown.”
“You need a floor lamp for that corner, too,” Cookie said, pointing, “and maybe a desk lamp and an objet or two and some pictures to make you look smart and tasteful, Mr. Fisher.”
“You’ve got the idea,” Herbie said. “And call me Herb. Keep the whole business under fifty grand.”
“I can do that,” she said. “Now I have to get organized.”
“Me too,” Bobby said.
“The two cubicles across the hall are yours,” Herbie said. “Keep them looking neat.” He handed Cookie a typed list. “These are people whose calls I will take immediately,” he said. “Others, I will call back, and I always return my calls, so keep after me about that.”
Cookie left the office reading the list, her lips moving. She was memorizing them.
“Oh, and Cookie, order me some firm stationery with my name on it, no title, and some business cards. Order cards for Bobby, too.”
Herbie returned to situating his belongings in the office.
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK, Herbie and Bobby dropped Cookie off at ABC, then continued downtown.
“What are we going to say to these … gentlemen?” Bobby asked.
“Let’s play it by ear. Mainly, we want to give an impression of listening, then doing everything we can to help them, and not limited to the law. The CEO’s name is Mark Hayes. I don’t know who his partners are.”
High Cotton Ideas was situated on the top floor of a shabby-looking industrial building way downtown, in a corner of SoHo that did not appear to have become fashionable yet. They rode up in a freight elevator and walked into a huge, open room with desks and tables scattered about. Each desk had at least three monitors on it, and cables were strung haphazardly everywhere.
Herbie stood still for a moment and waited for someone to notice them: nobody did. “Mark Hayes?” he shouted. He saw a hand go up across the room. The head of the young man never turned from the computer screen. Herbie and Bobby strolled over to the desk and took in its owner. He was, apparently, tall and obviously skinny. He was dressed in very old jeans and a short-sleeved chambray shirt that had not been ironed and may not have been laundered for a while.
“Mark?”
Finally, he looked up at them. “Yes?”
“I’m Herb Fisher, this is Bobby Bentley. Marshall Brennan sent us to see you.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re our new lawyers.”
“Can you give us a few minutes?”
“Sure,” Mark said, rising from his chair and taking his eyes reluctantly from the screen. He led them across the room to a beat-up picnic table, swept half a dozen empty foam cups off it, and offered them a bench. “This is our corporate dining room,” he said. “What can I tell you? I can’t tell you about our software, but anything else.”
“Tell us what your ambitions are,” Herbie said, “and we’ll see if we can help you get there.”
“My ambition is to get our software out of beta and on the market,” Mark said. “And frankly, I don’t have any idea how to do that. At some point after that I want to do an IPO and get impossibly rich, then write lots of new software.”
“Okay,” Herbie said, looking around the room. “How long have you been in this building?”
“Three weeks,” Mark replied.
“And how long have you been associated with Marshall Brennan?”
“Since day before yesterday,” Mark said.
“Okay, Mark, let’s run through some basics, then you can get back to work.”
“Love to,” Mark said.
15
HERBIE LOOKED around the room. “How’d you find this place?”
Mark Hayes shrugged. “My sister is going out with a guy, and his mother owns the place. His father used to manufacture dresses here.”
“What’s your rent?”
“Five grand a month for this floor.”
“How many floors?”
“Six.”
“What’s on the ground floor behind the big doors?”
“Used to be loading docks for trucks.”
“Would the lady sell the building?”
“Yeah, but she wants six million for it.”
“How much have you got in the bank?”
“Eighteen million, give or take, from Marshall’s investment.”
“Buy the building today. Offer her five million. Then budget another two million to get a couple of floors in shape. I can handle that for you, and I can recommend an architect.”
“Is that a good investment?”
“Mark, it’s a steal. If this company works, you’re going to need all six floors before you know it. And you can use that old loading dock area for a parking garage. That will be very attractive to your employees.”
“Yeah, I’ve been parking my car down there.”
“What sort of computer security system you got here?”
“The usual firewall. We unplug everything when nobody’s
here.”
“There’s no physical security either, is there?”
“A lock on the door.”
“You need to get somebody in here fast to secure this place. Think of it as a storage facility for gold bullion. Let me make some calls.”
“Sure, I guess that’s a good idea.”
“The architect needs to design you an office layout, too, and you need to start making this place look more businesslike. You should all dress better, too. I don’t mean you should wear Brooks Brothers suits, just not jeans—and the clothes should be freshly laundered. The media are going to want to talk to you soon, and you should be ready for them. Think Steve Jobs.”
“Funny, that’s what my girlfriend says—all that stuff about the building, too.”
“Give me your landlord’s name, and go back to work, then I’ll get to work buying the building.”
Mark took a card from his wallet. “Mrs. Friedrich,” he said, handing Herbie the card. He went back to his desk.
Herbie picked up the phone on the picnic table and called the number.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Friedrich?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, my name is Herbert Fisher. I’m an attorney representing your tenant, Mark Hayes.”
“Uh-oh.”
“No, nothing like that. Mark has asked me to make you an offer of five million dollars for the building.”
“I told him I wanted six.”
“He’s a young man just getting started, but he can raise five million.”
“Oh, all right. When do you want to close?”
“Is the building entailed? Is there a mortgage?”
“No, I own it free and clear.”
Herbie gave her his office number and cell. “Have your attorney call me to set up the closing. I’ll get Mark to raise the money, and we can close in a few days.”
“All cash?”
“All cash.”
“You tell Mark he’s got a deal.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Mrs. Friedrich.” Herbie hung up and shouted across the room, “Mark, you’ve got the building!”
Mark gave him a thumbs-up without looking away from his monitor.
Herbie called Mike Freeman at Strategic Services.
“Good morning, Herb.”
