by Stuart Woods
Stone took the phone and punched a button. “Good morning, Bill. How are you feeling today?”
“That’s a cruel question,” Eggers replied hoarsely.
“Was your wife’s dog happy with the bone?”
“He ran when he saw it.”
“And how did the partners’ meeting greet your proposal to represent Herbie Fisher in a suit against Carmine Dattila?”
“Actually, they greeted it very well,” Eggers said. “They immediately saw the public-relations benefit of going up against a mobster in a civil action.”
“You astonish me,” Stone said.
“What they didn’t like was the idea of the managing partner personally representing Mr. Fisher.”
“I can imagine,” Stone chuckled. “Which poor schmuck did you stick with the case?”
“I’m actually on the phone with him now.”
“Feel free to put me on hold while you break the news to him.”
“That won’t be necessary, since I’m speaking to him on this line.”
Stone was confused for a moment, but then the full import of what Eggers was saying struck him like a wall of icy water. “Now wait a minute, Bill…”
“I’m afraid I can’t wait, Stone. The case is yours, by unanimous vote of the partners.”
“Bill, I begged you not to take this ridiculous case.”
“Nevertheless,” Eggers said, “there was a feeling among the partners that the firm has not been getting its money’s worth from you lately, Stone.”
“Well, God knows you haven’t been throwing me any cases.”
“Consider this one thrown.”
“Bill, there’s no money in this. Even if we managed to get a settlement, it would be limited to Herbie’s medical expenses.”
“But, if you went to trial, you could go for punitive damages.”
“What, a few thousand dollars?”
“Stone, I think the partners would be happy without a large settlement if the case were to generate the kind of positive news stories that we think could be obtained by taking this case. Just think of yourself on the courthouse steps, after a day in court grilling Mr. Dattila. Think of a jury coming in with punitive damages of tens of thousands of dollars. You’d be all over the evening news, and so would Woodman and Weld. In fact, I’d be happy to come down to the courthouse and sit at your table for a few days, then share your moment on the courthouse steps.”
“Bill, what have you guys been smoking over there? Whatever it is, it’s illegal.”
“Stone, let me put it to you bluntly. If you want to go on drawing the handsome monthly sum we pay you, and if you want to continue to have cases referred to you by our firm, then you’re going to have to get on board with this case. The partners expect this of you.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Stone moaned. “Send me the case file, if there is one.”
“I’ll do better than that; I’ll send you your client.”
“You mean Herbie is at your office now?”
“Well, he was, but he’s already on his way to you. He should be in your office shortly.”
Stone glanced down the hallway and saw the front door open. “Oh, shit.”
“I take it Mr. Fisher has arrived,” Eggers said. “Do right by him, Stone. Make Woodman and Weld look good.” He hung up.
Stone put the phone down.
“Stone,” Joan said, “what’s the matter?”
“Eggers has sent us a case.”
“Oh, good.”
“No.” Stone nodded toward the hallway.
Joan followed his gaze. “Herbie Fisher? Yuck!”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants us to sue Carmine Dattila.”
“Dattila the Hun?”
“One and the same.”
“That’s the case Eggers sent us?”
“That’s the case.”
“This is a bad joke. Make him go away.”
“It is certainly a bad joke, but if we want to keep me of counsel to Woodman and Weld, I’m going to have to do this. Go and get your pad; I’ll dictate a complaint.”
Joan got up and left, squeezing past Herbie Fisher and managing not to touch him.
“Hey, Joanie,” Herbie said.
“Yuck,” Joan replied.
“Hey, Stone.”
“Herbie,” Stone said, “come in, sit down and shut up.”
4
Stone gazed across his desk at Herbert Q. Fisher, Esquire. “You incredible fuckup,” he said, as pleasantly as he could manage. Herbie had a plastic cup taped across his nose, and two big black eyes. “You look like a demented raccoon.”
“Stone,” Herbie said, reprovingly, “I don’t think Bill Eggers and the partners at Woodman and Weld would like you to speak to a client that way.”
Stone resisted the urge to throw himself across the desk and strangle Herbie. “Joan!” he yelled. “Come in here and bring the Polaroid camera!”
“Are we going to write a complaint?” Herbie asked.
“Stop pretending you’re a lawyer,” Stone replied.
Joan came into Stone’s office. “We haven’t had any film for the Polaroid camera for two years,” she said, “but I brought my phone.” She held up a cell phone.
“I don’t want to make a call,” Stone said. “I want to take pictures of Herbie’s injuries.”
“There’s a camera in my phone, Stone; there’s one in yours, too.”
“There is?”
Joan swiveled Herbie around in his chair and turned Stone’s desk lamp on his face. “Don’t smile,” she said, holding up the cell phone.
Herbie smiled. “Cheese,” he said, revealing a missing tooth.
Joan snapped several pictures, front and profile.
“Do you have any bruises on your body?” Stone asked.
“Oh, sure,” Herbie said.
“Take off your shirt and stand against the wall.”
Herbie slipped out of his jacket and shirt and stood up. He had half a dozen big bruises around his ribs and belly.
“Did they kick you in the balls?” Stone asked.
“Uh-uh,” Joan said quickly. “That’s where I draw the line.”
“Never mind,” Stone said. “Herbie, have you seen a doctor?”
“The girls made me go to the emergency room at Lenox Hill Hospital.”
“Do you have a receipt for your bill?”
Herbie groped his jacket, then held up a credit card slip. “Here it is!” he said triumphantly.
Stone looked at it. “You have a working credit card?”
“Well, of course. Oh, I have to see a plastic surgeon to get my nose fixed.”
“Joan, who’s a good nose guy?”
“How should I know?” she asked indignantly.
“Who did your sister?”
“I presume you mean her nose. Steinberg.”
“Make an appointment for Herbie with Steinberg, and make it clear to his secretary that we’ll need a written description of his injuries, along with a statement of the cost to repair the damage. Tell him not to stint. And tell her not to bill us.”
“I have to get my nose fixed pretty soon,” Herbie said. “The ER doctor said it’ll start to heal, and then it’ll have to be rebroken.”
“So, make an appointment and have the surgery,” Stone said.
“That’s going to cost.”
“That’s your problem, Herbie. As far as I’m concerned we’ll have a stronger case if your nose looks bad at trial.”
“But how am I going to attract women?”
“With the money you saved on plastic surgery; they won’t charge you any more than they did before.”
Herbie tucked in his shirttail and began tying his tie.
“Can we write the complaint together?”
“No. I require privacy when I compose complaints.”
“Come on, Stone, let me work with you on this case.”
“Your involvement in this cas
e is going to be limited to your testimony in court, and that had better be good. Now go home and get some rest, and go see Steinberg as soon as possible; I need his report for the complaint.”
“Oh, all right,” Herbie said dejectedly. “And what are you going to do?”
“Research. Now go away. Speaking of research, what’s your bookie’s name?”
“Carlo.”
“Carlo what?”
“Carlo the bookie.”
“And how much do you owe him?”
“Twenty-four thousand, as of yesterday. The vig is ten percent a week.”
“Good God! How did you ever get a bookie to let you owe twenty-four grand? Is this Carlo nuts?”
“They know I’m good for it,” Herbie said, miffed.
“I guess that’s why they didn’t break your legs, too. No, they would have broken your legs if Dino hadn’t shown up. You ought to write him a thank-you note; it’s the polite thing to do. Joan! Get Herbie out of here!”
Joan came in with a slip of paper and handed it to Herbie. “Steinberg / tomorrow at 10:30.”
Herbie stuffed the number into his pocket and shuffled out.
“I like the limp, Herbie,” Stone yelled after him. “Cultivate it for the jury!”
Herbie vanished down the street.
“How do you get yourself into these things?” Joan asked.
“Look, I was having a quiet dinner at Elaine’s with Eggers and Dino. Herbie turned up, and…Oh, the hell with it. I’m innocent! Now go pay some bills or something.”
“With what?”
“I know you keep a secret cache for emergencies.”
“It’s not an emergency yet.”
“Then don’t pay anybody until they send somebody around to break your legs.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” she said, closing the door behind her.
Stone called Dino.
“Lieutenant Bacchetti.”
“It’s me. I need a Mob expert; you got a guy over there?”
“Wait a minute. Is this for Herbie’s thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you involved in that?”
“Eggers was hung over this morning, but not enough to forget to weasel out of doing it himself.”
“So he made you do it?”
“Can you think of any other reason why I’d be involved?”
“Joe Giraldi,” Dino said. “He’s one of my guys, and I lent him to the Mob task force. He could do a family tree. He hates those guys, and it makes him good at his work. Here’s his number.”
Stone wrote it down. “Then I bet he would enjoy testifying against them.”
“He might, at that. I hope you don’t think I’m going to testify.”
“You sure as hell are. You’re my only eyewitness; you saw everything.” He paused. “Didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, ‘maybe’?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“You’ll have Herbie Fisher’s undying gratitude.”
“I’d rather have his dying gratitude.”
“Me, too, but I haven’t figured out how to make that happen, yet.”
“Oh, just pursue this case; it’ll happen. Maybe you’ll happen, too.”
“I’m going to try and avoid that.”
“Good idea. Maybe you better go see Eduardo.”
Eduardo Bianchi was Dino’s former father-in-law. He was Stone’s former father-in-law, too, but that was complicated. “I hate to bug him with something this trivial.”
“He likes you; he’ll give you a good lunch.”
“Maybe.”
“What else you got?”
“Not much.”
“Have a good time.”
5
Stone dictated the complaint and told Joan to get it filed immediately, then he went through his accounts receivable, looking for who owed him. Hardly anybody, as it turned out, and not very much. That took the rest of the morning. He ate a sandwich at his desk and worried about money.
After lunch, he called Dino’s Mob guy.
“Joe Giraldi,” a voice said.
“Hi, Joe, I’m Stone Barrington; I used to be Dino Bacchetti’s partner at the one nine.”
“I know who you are,” Giraldi replied. He didn’t sound thrilled.
“Dino told me you know everything there is to know about the Mob in New York.”
“If I knew everything there was to know about the Mob in New York, they’d all be doing time in Attica.”
“Heh, heh,” Stone said. “Well, the fact remains that you know a hell of a lot more than I know, and that’s what I’m looking for.”
“For what? You writing a novel?”
“No, I’m filing a civil suit against Carmine Dattila and…” Stone stopped talking. All he could hear was laughter from the other end of the line. He waited for it to subside.
“That’s rich!” Giraldi howled, trying to get control of himself. “Hey, Charlie,” he shouted to somebody in the room, “I got some schmuck lawyer on the phone says he’s going to sue Carmine Dattila!” There were howls from what sounded like half a dozen other cops. Giraldi eventually got control of himself. “What are you suing him for, Barrington?”
“A couple of his people assaulted a client of mine while collecting a debt.”
“Well, that’s what they do,” Giraldi chuckled. “Give your client some advice for me: Tell him to pay what he owes and not to bet with Mob bookies again. That’ll solve his problem.”
“I’m afraid it’s a little late for that,” Stone said. “He owes twenty-four grand.”
“Sheesh!” Giraldi exhaled. “What do you want to know?”
“I’ve got a lot of questions about the structure of Dattila’s family, who does what, that sort of thing.”
“Well, my price for that sort of thing is a steak dinner.”
“You’re on. Elaine’s at eight-thirty?”
“Nah, nah, nah. The Palm at seven-thirty. I get hungry early.”
Stone sighed. “All right, but that’s got to cover your testifying, too.”
“I’d love to testify against Carmine for anything,” Giraldi said, “in the unlikely event that it ever looks like you’re getting to court. I predict that your client and your other witnesses will be inspecting the bottom of Sheepshead Bay well before the trial date. Carmine doesn’t bother to buy off witnesses; it’s cheaper to off them.”
“The Palm at seven-thirty,” Stone said and hung up. He buzzed Joan. “Please book me a table for two at the Palm at seven-thirty.”
“You can’t afford it,” she said.
“Don’t worry, it’s research; I’ll bill Woodman and Weld.”
“Whatever you say. Oh, by the way, I can’t find a process server who’s willing to serve Carmine Dattila.”
“What?”
“They all know his reputation.”
“Double the fee.”
“I tried that; the general response was, ‘You don’t have enough money.’ Apparently, the last guy who tried to serve Mr. Dattila didn’t make it home to dinner that night. Or any other night.”
“Why don’t you take off early tonight and drop off this summons?”
“Yeah, sure. I thought we already established that you can’t afford to lose me. You’re going to have to do it yourself, Stone.”
“You think I’m afraid of some two-bit wiseguy?”
“I read in the Post that Mr. Dattila is worth at least a hundred million dollars, and if you have any sense at all, you’re afraid of him.”
“You read the Post?”
“The New York Times is not a full meal for everybody; some of us need dessert.”
“Just book the table.”
Stone arrived on time at the Palm to find Joe Giraldi waiting for him at the bar. He remembered the guy now; his desk had always been way across the squad room. “Good to see you again, Joe,” he said, motioning the bartender for the cop’s bill. He was about to leave a ten on the bar, when the bill arriv
ed: fifteen bucks, not including tip. “Jesus, what are you drinking, Joe?”
“Johnnie Walker Black. Isn’t that in your budget?”
“Sure, sure,” Stone replied, leaving a twenty on the bar. Eggers would shit a brick, but that was okay with him. He steered Giraldi to their table. “Want another one?”
“Just to keep the flow of conversation going,” he replied.
Stone ordered another Johnnie Walker Black and a Knob Creek, and they looked at the menu. Stone gulped. He hadn’t been here in years, and inflation had taken its toll. He wondered if the waiter would speak to him if he ordered the hamburger steak, if they had a hamburger steak.
Giraldi didn’t even look at the menu. “I’ll have the Caesar salad and the Kobe strip,” he said to the waiter. “Medium.”
“I’ll have the same salad and the regular, ordinary American strip,” Stone said. “Medium rare.” He closed the menu before he could see the price of Kobe beef, which, allegedly, came from Japanese cattle that had been massaged daily by geishas, or something.
“Would you like some wine?” the waiter asked. The question was directed at Giraldi.
“Yeah,” Giraldi replied. “You got a Far Niente cabernet, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What year?”
“The 2000.”
“We’ll have that, and decant it, will you?”
Stone knew that bottle was going to go for close to two hundred dollars. “You come here a lot, Joe?”
“Whenever somebody wants to hear about the Mafia.” He sipped his Scotch. “Shoot.”
“Okay,” Stone said, taking a long draw on his Knob Creek, “my client was into a bookie called Carlo; you know him?”
“Yeah, his real name is John Quigley; he ain’t even Italian, but he passes. For some reason, his clients are more willing to pay if they think he’s Italian. He works out of a candy store on Second Avenue, downtown.”
“Who’s his boss?”
“A capo named Gianni Pardo, who’s known as Johnny Pop.”
“I can imagine why.”
“Right.”
“Who’s his boss?”
“He reports to another capo, Santino Gianelli, known as Sammy Tools. He was a master burglar and safecracker before Carmine moved him up the ladder.”
“Speaking of the ladder, who does Sammy Tools report to?”
