Unnatural Acts

by Stuart Woods

  “You only got this piece of business yesterday, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right, but it’s not a business yet, just a collection of ill-groomed computer geeks. I’m turning it into a business.”

  “So I heard. And I hear you’ve got Strategic Services involved, and an architect, too. Are we going to make any money out of this?”

  “I billed fifteen hours yesterday, and my associate as many. By the way—thanks. I like Bobby Bentley.”

  “Good.” Eggers stood up.

  “Oh, and I got a new piece of business this morning.” Herbie told him about his conversation with Mike Freeman.

  Eggers listened, nodding, his face not betraying much. “Herbert,” he said, when Herbie had finished. “How much did this new stuff cost?”

  Herbie picked up the bill and handed it to him.

  Eggers folded the bill and tucked it into his coat pocket. “I’ll take care of this,” he said.

  Herbie smiled. “Thank you, Bill. Oh, and I’d like to give my secretary a fifteen percent raise.”

  Eggers nodded. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, then he turned and walked back down the hall.

  “Cookie!” Herbie yelled. “Get in here!”

  18

  HERBIE FISHER was sitting in his new office, letting the past two days wash over him, luxuriating in his new status, his new clients, and a new kind of self-regard that had always been out of his reach until this moment. His phone buzzed.

  “Mr. Joshua Hook to see you,” Cookie said.

  “Send him right in,” Herbie replied. He got to his feet as his new client entered his office. The man was six-two or -three, two-twenty, thick salt-and-pepper hair, tanned, and very fit-looking. He looked around Herbie’s office. “Holy shit!” he muttered, half to himself.

  “Josh, I’m Herb Fisher. Please have a seat.”

  The man gave Herbie a bone-crushing handshake, settled into a big chair, and set his briefcase and a cardboard tube on the coffee table. “This is the first lawyer’s office I’ve ever felt comfortable in,” Josh said.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “If it’s very strong,” he replied.

  Herbie poured him a mug. “Try this.”

  Josh sipped it. “A man after my own heart,” he said. “This stuff would eat its way through the stomach wall of an ordinary human being.”

  Herbie thought the statement said as much about the man himself as about the coffee. “I’m glad you like it. And congratulations on your new job at Strategic Services.”

  “I work at Strategic Defense,” Josh said. “Strategic Services just owns me.”

  “I understand you had a career at the CIA,” Herbie said.

  “I did.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “None of your fucking business,” Josh replied, coolly.

  Herbie laughed. “No, I guess not. I take it you were on the operational side, though—that’s according to Mike Freeman.”

  “I would have made a poor support man,” Josh said, “and an even worse analyst.”

  Herbie produced a legal pad. “Mike has told me you’ll need to set up a corporate structure. I take it you’ll be CEO?”

  “That’s right. Mike will be chairman of the board. If you do decent work I might ask you to join the board.”

  Herbie jotted all this down. “I take it there’s a piece of property upstate somewhere.”

  Josh popped the end out of the cardboard tube and shook out a thick sheaf of papers. “There is,” he said, “and this is what we’re going to put on it.” He unrolled the papers and tucked one side under Herbie’s T’ang dynasty terra-cotta horse, and Herbie set his marble pencil box on the other end.

  “As you can see,” Josh said, “we’ve got a dozen buildings, six of which have just been completed, four outdoor firing ranges, each with a high earthen berm to stop the lead, and two indoor ranges, as well. We’ve already got a five-thousand-foot runway in place, with two large hangars and a fuel farm. Mike bought a private field intact, along with another six hundred acres.”

  “You’re expecting a lot of executive aircraft, then?”

  “It’s more secure to fly your students in. We don’t want to arouse attention at a commercial airport—Stewart International is the nearest—and a lot of them will be bringing in personal weapons.”

  “I see.”

  “You ever fired a weapon, Herb?”

  “Yes,” Herbie replied, “but in a coffeehouse, not a firing range.”

  “Did that get you arrested?”

  “It did, but I was released after a short time. I had a good lawyer who made a good case to the DA for self-defense.”

  “Did you hit anybody?”

  “Only the man I was aiming at.”

  “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is,” Herbie said.

  “I’d like you to come up to our place and do a course with us.”

  “That would be interesting,” Herbie said.

  “It will be more than that,” Josh said. “It will be educational, in the best sense of the word.”

  “Then I’ll do it,” Herbie replied, smiling. “I could use some more education, especially since it’s something of a practical nature.”

  “It’s a dangerous world,” Josh said. “It’s practical to stay alive and unharmed.”

  “I’m in favor of both of those,” Herbie said. “Did you come directly to Mike from the Agency?”

  “No, in between I started my own consultancy. That’s how Mike found me—we were competitors. It was smart of him to buy me out.”

  “When do you start getting your first students?”

  “Next week, as soon as construction is complete on the barracks and the indoor ranges.”

  “Can I be in your first class?”

  “What sort of shape are you in?” Josh asked.

  “Pretty good. I work out five days a week at the gym in my building.”

  “How far can you run without passing out?”

  “I have no idea,” Herbie said. “I’m a city boy—we don’t do a lot of running, except in Central Park.”

  “We’ll see how you do.”

  Herbie was beginning to regret volunteering for Josh’s first class. “Running until I pass out would be an unnatural act for me.”

  “We’ll see,” Josh said.

  “Josh, forgive my asking, but what is the point of your boot camp approach? Are your students, in their professional lives, going to be required to run two miles without fainting?”

  “Probably not,” Josh admitted.

  “Do you think you might be requiring all this exertion because you can do it yourself?”

  “Maybe.”

  “My advice is to treat them like professionals, not Marine recruits. You’ll use their time better, and they’ll leave better equipped to do their work.”

  “That makes a lot of sense,” Josh said.

  “Good. Now let me make myself clear. I’m not running anywhere for any distance while I’m at your facility. I’m there to learn, not faint.”

  “Okay, Herb, okay,” Josh said. “You won’t have to run.”

  “Thanks.” Herbie felt that he had drawn a line in his relationship with this guy and that, in the future, he’d get more respect.

  “Now,” Herbie said, “let’s go through the list of what I need to set up for you.” He began checking off items, and he got Josh’s full attention.

  19

  BOBBY BENTLEY met his father for dinner at his club, the Brook, on East Fifty-fourth Street in Manhattan, a monthly occurrence. They sat down in the library for drinks. Bobby was his father’s only son, a surprise product of his second marriage to a much younger woman, with the result that Robert Eaton Bentley II (Bobby was III) was old enough to be his son’s grandfather.

  “Well, my boy,” II said. “How are things at the venerable firm of Woodman and Weld?” This was an ironic question, since II regarded the firm as a bunch of wild-eyed,
liberal arrivistes, mainly because its birth did not predate his own. Still they represented him in some things. “You’ve been there, what, all of a week?”

  “Ten days, Dad,” Bobby replied. “And I’ve had a wonderful break.”

  “I would be interested to know what you regard as ‘a break,’” his father said.

  “Instead of being assigned to work for a partner, I’ve been assigned to the firm’s newest senior associate, a young man named Herbert Fisher.”

  “If you had let me know, I could have made a call and put that right,” his father said.

  “Although he’s thirtyish, Herb Fisher graduated from law school two years ago, and he’s the first associate ever to make senior associate in less than three years.”

  “He sounds green as grass,” II said. “Why would any client hire him?”

  “He was promoted three days ago, and he’s already brought in two important clients.”

  “What do you mean by ‘important’?”

  “A hot software start-up, backed by Marshall Brennan, and a new subsidiary of Strategic Services.”

  II blinked. “Marshall Brennan and Mike Freeman, of Strategic Services, are both members of this club.”

  “That’s what I meant by important,” Bobby said. His father did not impress easily, and he was enjoying the moment. “I think this software firm is something you should keep an eye on,” he said. “They’ll eventually have an IPO, and it could be a big one.”

  II withdrew an alligator-clad jotter from his pocket and uncapped his fountain pen. “Herbert Fisher, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the name of the software company?”

  “High Cotton Ideas.”

  II displayed a small smile. “I like the name.”

  “The great thing about working for Herb,” Bobby said, “is that instead of learning to be an associate, I’ll be learning to be an attorney, and Herb has a broad idea of what that means.” He told him about the experience of watching his boss get High Cotton organized.

  II regarded his son with an expression of wonder. “I rather thought that you’d be laboring in the law library and logging sixty billable hours a week for five or six years.”

  “As I said earlier, I got a break.”

  “I would like to meet Herbert Fisher,” II said. “Can you arrange that?”

  Bobby glanced at his watch. “I rather thought you would like to meet him. He’ll be joining us for a drink about …” Bobby looked up to see a retainer showing Herb Fisher into the room. “Now.”

  II swiveled his head to take in the door. “My goodness,” he said, rising to greet his unexpected guest.

  Bobby made the introduction, and they sat down again.

  The retainer hovered.

  “Knob Creek on ice,” Herbie said to the man, “if you please.”

  “That’s what I’m drinking,” II said to Herbie.

  “It’s the patriotic thing to do,” Herbie replied, echoing what Stone had once said to him. “A fine American whiskey.”

  “My son has been telling me of your exploits at Woodman and Weld,” II said.

  “‘Exploits’ is a colorful word to describe such a short career,” Herbie said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a young man’s being in a hurry, Mr. Fisher,” II said, “as long as he doesn’t take too many shortcuts along the way.”

  Herbie smiled. “Choosing one’s shortcuts carefully is always a good idea. I wouldn’t like to get caught off base.”

  “That’s a good way of putting it,” Bentley said. “I know it’s short notice, but do you think you could join Bobby and me for dinner here?”

  “Thank you, sir, I’d like that.”

  Bobby excused himself and went to the men’s room.

  “Your son is a very bright young man,” Herbie said. “He doesn’t have to be told twice what to do. I think he’s going to do very well.”

  “It pleases me to hear you say that, Mr. Fisher. I worried when he decided to go into the law. I suppose I had some hopes of his joining the family firm.”

  “What is the family firm?” Herbie asked.

  “The Bentley Company. We manufacture precision machine parts for the oil, aircraft, and aerospace industries.”

  “Of course,” Herbie said. “I think I read something in Fortune a few months ago about the company.”

  “I’m the third generation,” II said.

  “Perhaps Bobby will be the fourth yet,” Herbie said, “but I think he needs to prove himself in an unconnected field first.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “No, I surmised it.”

  “Well, Mr. Fisher, you’ve given me new hope.”

  Bobby returned.

  “Shall we go in to dinner?” II asked, rising. The two younger men followed him to the dining room, where they were given a corner table.

  Herbie noticed that Mr. Bentley took the gunfighter’s seat, facing the room. They received menus and ordered, and Bentley chose an expensive French claret for them.

  “Tell me, Mr. Fisher,” II said, “what would you do if a client of yours found themselves faced with an unjust and potentially dangerous lawsuit? Do you have any experience with commercial litigation?”

  “We’re a large enough firm to have people experienced in every area of the law,” Herbie said. “I think of myself as a generalist. If my client were faced with such a problem I would assemble an expert team from the firm’s partners and act as liaison between them and my client.”

  “That’s a very sensible way to proceed for someone in your position,” II said.

  Their dinner arrived, and II led the discussion from one subject to another for an hour. When coffee arrived, he said, “You know, I had hoped that when Bobby had acquired some experience at his firm, I might ask him to represent the firm in some area or other. I had thought that some years might pass before I had the opportunity to do that, but since he’s obviously found a good place to be in the firm, maybe I can make it happen more quickly.”

  “I would be happy to help in any way I can,” Herbie said, “and I’m sure Bobby would, too. We can put the best of Woodman and Weld at your disposal.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that,” II said, then ordered them a fine brandy.

  20

  STONE WAS having a sandwich at his desk when the phone rang. Joan had gone to the bank, so he answered.

  “Hi, Stone,” a silken and very familiar voice said. “It’s Tiffany.”

  Tiffany Baldwin was the United States attorney for the Southern District of New York, and something of an old flame of Stone’s. He did not wish to hear from her, but he didn’t want to alienate her, either, given her position. “Hi, Tiff,” he said, as pleasantly as he could manage.

  “Something came across my desk involving a client of yours,” she said.

  “Oh? Which client?”

  “One Herbert Fisher. Seems Mr. Fisher got the funds in a brokerage account as part of a divorce settlement.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” Stone said. “I believe I wrote to you about it some months ago.”

  “Some months ago releasing the funds would have been out of the question, given the criminal history of the former Mrs. Fisher, but things may have changed. Now, discussing the matter is not out of the question.”

  “I would be very pleased to discuss that at your convenience,” Stone said.

  “I would find it convenient to have dinner at Daniel tonight, then have a drink at your place.”

  Stone hoped she didn’t hear him grit his teeth. “Of course, Tiff. May we meet at Daniel at eight?”

  “We may,” she said. “See you there.”

  Stone hung up and called Daniel immediately. The place was, arguably, the most expensive restaurant in New York and was packed every night, but he managed to get to the maître d’ and finagle a table, which would cost him. He hung up, relieved, and wondered what the hell had suddenly moved Tiffany to call him about this now, months after she had ignor
ed his written request.

  STONE ARRIVED on time and ordered a drink in the bar. Tiffany, who was reliably late by nature, joined him twenty minutes later, and he had a second drink with her. The bourbon in his veins led him to appreciate her appearance more than he might have when sober. She was a tall woman, slim, with long blond hair and a particularly fetching shape, including impressive breasts, which were on display this evening, barely contained by a tight black dress with a precipitous décolletage.

  “How is the fighting of crime going?” Stone asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep his gaze at eye level.

  Tiffany leaned in on her elbows, which allowed her breasts to pretty much roam free. “Tough, but we’re winning.” They sat at a small table, which allowed her to run a fingernail up his inner thigh.

  “That’s encouraging to hear,” Stone replied, crossing his legs in self-defense. This was a voracious woman, and he knew he was not going to make it through the evening without feeding her pleasure.

  The maître d’ materialized and led them toward the main dining room, pausing long enough to palm the C-note that Stone dangled in his fingers for the man to snag.

  “I’m impressed that you could get this table on short notice,” Tiffany said, arranging herself so that she could cast an eye over the room for familiar faces.

  “So am I,” Stone said.

  Menus arrived, and they ordered dinner.

  “May we have champagne?” Tiffany sort of requested.

  “Of course,” Stone said, opening the wine list and running an eye over the right-hand column, the one with the prices. He chose one that was only $250.

  The next hour and a half were spent in hyper-expensive gorging, and then they stumbled out into the street and lucked into a quick cab. It took less than ten minutes to drive to Stone’s house, go upstairs, strip, and dive into the sack.

  “I trust there are no cameras present this time,” she said from her perch atop him. She alluded to an occasion when, without Stone’s knowledge, a bad person had wired his bedroom for both video and audio, then sent a copy of a tryst between himself and Tiffany to Page Six at the New York Post. Fortunately, the angle of the camera’s view had made it impossible to entirely identify either of them, though some accurate guessing took place.