by Stuart Woods
Next message: “Stone, it’s Joan. I don’t know if you’re there, but your cell is off. Call me; Herbie Fisher has surfaced.”
Stone erased the messages and called home.
“The Barrington Practice.”
“Good guess,” Stone said.
“Well, it is your only other home, not counting Maine.”
“Only because I’m not rich enough yet. When the Finger divorce is over, maybe I’ll think about something in Santa Fe.”
“Dream on.”
“Did Bernice sign the document?”
“She did, and so did her soon-to-be ex-husband.”
“Thank God,” Stone sighed. “That’s a load off my mind.”
“When do we get a load into your bank account?”
“What’s the matter, isn’t the hundred-grand retainer enough to satisfy you?”
“After taxes, you’ve got eight grand and change left.”
“Where’s the rest?”
“You want me to read you the list of bills I paid, starting with the insurance premiums on both houses, the car and the airplane?”
“No thanks. You said Herbie has surfaced?”
“He’s sitting in your office.”
“Well, get him out of there, before he sets it on fire!”
“Talk to him first.”
“Put him on.”
There was a short silence, then: “Stone? Is it really you?” He sounded like a little boy just home from summer camp.
“Where have you been, Herbie?”
“In an attic downtown somewhere.”
“Tell me.”
“Those two guys grabbed me on the street, near my house.”
“What were you doing near your house? I told you to stay away from there.”
“All I wanted was some clean underwear.”
“Was it worth it?”
“I never got it. In fact, I’ve been wearing the same underwear for four days.”
“I didn’t need to know that, Herbie. What did they do to you?”
“They slapped me around a lot and threatened to do stuff with pliers.”
“Did you get any names?”
“Cheech and Gus. And an old guy named Carmen.”
“Do you, by any chance, mean Carmine?”
“Yeah, that’s it, with a ‘mine.’”
“What was he doing there?”
“He just came into the room for a minute this morning, looked at me and said, ‘Kill him as slow as possible.’”
“He actually said that?”
“Right before I jumped through the window.”
“You jumped out an attic window?”
“I jumped through an attic window, glass and all. You would have, too, if somebody had said to kill you slow.”
Herbie had a point. “Have you talked to your uncle?”
“Not yet.”
“Put Joan back on the phone.”
“Now what?” she asked.
“Let Herbie take a shower in the little bathroom off the kitchen, and tell Helene to throw his clothes into the washing machine and give him something to eat. Then give him two hundred dollars and call Bob Cantor and tell him to come get his nephew. I want Herbie out of there in two hours, and tell him it’s very, very dangerous for him to be in my house.”
“Gotcha,” Joan said.
“Any other calls?”
“No.”
“Call Sam Teich at Bernie Finger’s office and tell him we want an accounting today and a check in three days. Fax me anything he sends you. Call Bernice and tell her we’re ironing out the final details, and give her my cell number and the number here, if she needs to have her hand held.”
“Okay. When are you coming home?”
“Probably tomorrow. I’m stashing Celia up here to keep her former boyfriend away from her. If he should call me, tell him I’ll see him in court.”
“Okay. See ya.” Joan hung up.
Stone finished his coffee, showered and shaved and drove Celia to the Mayflower.
“Wow,” she said, as they drove up the driveway. “This is really beautiful.” She was impressed with the dining room, too.
They ordered lunch. “I’m going to have to go back to the city tomorrow morning,” he said. “We’ll get you some groceries this afternoon; if you need any more, you can charge them to my account at the market, and I’ll rent you some kind of car from the guy at the gas station. You might drive around the county a little, take a look around. I’ll give you a map.”
“What if Devlin finds me here?”
“Have you ever fired a gun?”
“Sure, I grew up with guns. My daddy was a handgun freak, so I’ve fired just about everything.”
“I’ll leave you with one, but you are not, repeat not, to kill anyone, even if you think it’s absolutely necessary. Fire into the floor to scare him. I live a quiet life when I’m here, and I don’t want to get to be known as the owner of the house where the guy got blown away by the giant girl.”
“I understand,” she said. “But what if Devlin does find me?”
“That’s very unlikely, but worse come to worst, I’ve got a house on an island in Maine that my cousin left me, and I can guarantee you he won’t find you there.”
“Maine sounds nice.”
“It’s a little early in the year for Maine; you can still freeze your ass off up there, but the house is comfortable.”
“How would I get there?”
“I have an airplane. I’ll fly you, if necessary, but believe me, Devlin is not going to find you in Washington, Connecticut.”
“What if I run into somebody I know?”
“Tell them you’re up here doing some antiquing, and you’re going back to the city almost immediately. Then go back to my house, lock yourself in and call me.”
“You think of everything,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I’m going to have to think of something to do for you.”
The thought made Stone squirm in his seat.
27
Stone drove back to the city early the following morning, trying to remember every detail of what he and Celia had done to each other for much of the night, right into the dawn. Occasionally, he had to slap himself to stay awake through the drive. Once, he stopped for coffee.
Back at home, he pulled the car into the garage, let himself into the house and went to his office. Joan heard him and came down the hall.
“I hope the lovely Celia is safe and sound.”
“She is, indeed, but I would be neither safe nor sound if I had spent another night there.”
“You do look a little peaked,” she said. “Nothing much to do today. Sam Teich says he’ll have an accounting to you by close of business, which probably means tomorrow morning, and he needs five days to liquidate assets and produce a check, unless you want to just divide some of the assets, like the stocks. He says to give him a call tomorrow and let him know how you want to handle it.”
Stone shook his head, “Frankly, I can’t believe how cooperative Bernie is being.”
“I bet it’s not Bernie, but Sam, who is doing the cooperating. I bet Bernie is screaming bloody murder.”
“You’re probably right. I assume Bob Cantor came and took his nephew away.”
Joan looked at the floor. “Well, there was a teensy problem with that.”
Stone’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by a ‘teensy’?”
“Well, Bob is actually in Atlanta for a couple of days, and he doesn’t want Herbie in his house while he’s gone, for fear that Herbie will hock everything and bet on the ponies.”
“So, where is Herbie?”
“In the third-floor guest room.”
“My third-floor guest room?”
“He’s so sweet; I couldn’t just throw him into the street and let Dattila’s thugs get him again.”
“You’re fired.”
“Okay, but who’s going to do everything for you?”
“All right, you’re hired back, but how cou
ld you leave that little creep alone in my house? He’s probably hocked everything I own.”
“No, he hasn’t; I locked him in when I left last night, so he couldn’t get any of your stuff out of the house. Anyway, he seems to sleep most of the time.”
“Did you drug him?”
“I would have, but he didn’t seem to need it. He’s probably exhausted after his ordeal in the attic.”
“Did he have any cuts on his body?”
“Not on the parts of his body I saw, but I didn’t do a full inspection.”
“He’s lying, the little bastard! He said he jumped clean through a glass window and fell from an attic, and yet he doesn’t have a mark on him!”
A voice came from the doorway. “I’ve got a nick right here, on my elbow, that I used to break the window.” Herbie was standing there in one of Stone’s Sea Island cotton nightshirts.
“Take off the nightshirt,” Stone commanded.
“Huh? Right in front of the lady?”
“She’s not that much of a lady, so take it off.”
Herbie lifted the nightshirt over his head. There was some bruising around his ribs.
“Turn around,” Stone said.
“Please,” Joan echoed.
There were bruises on his back, too.
“All right, so you got pounded a little; how come no cuts from the glass and the fall?”
“Well, the window was actually open, and it was only a short fall to the canvas.”
“Canvas?”
“They had a big piece of canvas draped over some stuff, and it broke my fall. I sprained my ankle, though, when I went over the fence and landed on the sidewalk.”
“How did you get here?”
“I sprinted down the block, ignoring the intense pain from my ankle, went into a subway station, jumped the turnstile and here I am! Can I put the nightshirt on again?”
“No. Go get your clothes on and give the nightshirt to Helene, in the kitchen. You’re leaving here immediately.”
“But where am I going to go?” Herbie wailed.
“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t care where you go?”
Herbie turned to leave the room.
“Wait a minute,” Stone said.
“Huh?”
“Put on the nightshirt to save Joan’s modesty. Joan, get me Bernie Finger.”
Joan picked up the phone on Stone’s desk and dialed. “He’s on the line,” she said.
Stone picked up the phone. “Bernie? Let’s do the depositions today. Three o’clock at your place?”
“I thought your client was unavailable,” Finger said.
“He’s just become available,” Stone replied. “Didn’t your client tell you that Herbie made good his escape from the attic where Carmine had him imprisoned and beaten?”
“Of course he didn’t tell me any such thing.”
“All right, three o’clock at your office. Tell Sam I’ll pick up the accounting while I’m there.”
“I’m under strict instructions from my attorney not to discuss that with you.”
“Just give him the message.” Stone hung up and pointed at Herbie. “Does he have any clothes at all?” he asked Joan.
“Helene should have them washed and ironed by now.”
“Herbie, get dressed; we have a three-o’clock appointment.”
Herbie looked at the clock on Stone’s desk. “Can I watch the soaps until then?”
“Please, but do it in the kitchen. And give Helene that nightshirt and tell her to disinfect it.”
“Sure, Stone,” Herbie said happily, as he padded off to the kitchen.
“Is he driving Helene crazy?” Stone asked Joan.
“No, she thinks he’s sweet, too.”
“You’re both crazy or hormonal or something.”
“Careful, you’re treading a thin line, on one side of which is the kind of sexism that could result in a lawsuit.” She went back to her office.
Stone’s phone rang, and Dino’s cell number came up on the caller ID screen. Stone answered. “Morning, Dino.”
“Good morning. What was that thing the other night about bad cops?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Two bozos with badges were tailing Celia until I rousted them. I didn’t get any names or badge numbers.”
“Next time I.D. them, and I’ll put the fear of God into them.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
“So, is Celia safe from her ex-boyfriend?”
“For the moment. I stashed her in the Connecticut house.”
“That should do it. Those downtown artsy-fartsy types can’t breathe in Connecticut; the air isn’t dirty enough.”
“I hope you’re right; I don’t want to have to move her to Maine.”
“Dinner tonight?”
“See you then.” Stone hung up and began making a list of questions for Carmine Dattila.
28
Stone and Herbie got off the elevator at Bernie Finger’s office. Herbie elbowed him.
“Stop that,” Stone said.
“Look over there,” Herbie said, nodding.
Stone looked. Two large men were occupying a sofa meant for four; they were the two who had dragged Herbie from Elaine’s the night all this had started. He walked past them to the reception desk, gave his name and was directed to the conference room.
“Are they the guys who held you in the attic?” Stone asked.
“Yeah,” Herbie replied, tugging at Stone’s sleeve and nodding again. Carmine Dattila was getting off the elevator. “And that’s the guy who told them to kill me slow.”
“You wait here,” Stone said. “I’ll call you when we’re ready.”
“Are you kidding? With those two guys? They’ll kill me while you’re gone.”
“Just a minute,” Stone said. He went to the reception desk. “I’m here for two depositions, and I need a private room where one of the witnesses can wait.”
“First door on your right,” the woman said. “That’s an empty office.”
Stone walked back toward Herbie, noting that the two large men were deep in conversation with Carmine Dattila and ignoring them.
He escorted Herbie to the empty office. “You wait in this room, and don’t leave for anything,” he said.
“But what if I have to go to the john?”
“You’re just going to have to hold it, unless you want to have another conversation with Tweedledum and Tweedledee out there.”
“Their names are Cheech and Gus,” Herbie replied. “I forget which is which.”
“Do you want to die, Herbie?”
“No.”
“Then don’t leave this office until I come for you.”
“Aw, okay.”
“If you’re gone when I come back, your lawsuit will be dismissed, and Cheech and Gus will find you and kill you slow.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Herbie said testily.
“There’s a TV; you can watch the soap operas.”
“Yeah, great!”
Stone left and went back to the conference room. Bernard Finger, Carmine Dattila and a court stenographer were waiting for him. “Good morning,” he said to the assembled group, then took a seat.
“Are you ready to begin?” Finger asked.
“Yes.” He turned to the stenographer. “Please swear the witness.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Finger said.
“Swear him, and if you haven’t already explained to him that the laws of perjury apply, please do so now.”
“He understands.”
The stenographer produced a bible and swore in Dattila.
Stone elicited his name and address and made sure the stenographer got it down right. “What is your occupation, Mr. Dattila?”
“I manage a coffee shop.”
“Do you also own the coffee shop?”
“No.”
“Do you own the building in which the coffee shop operates?”
“No.”
<
br /> “Do you own a corporation that owns these properties or do you own them through a third party?”
“Objection,” Finger said. “Mr. Dattila declines to answer on the grounds of possible self-incrimination.” He turned to the stenographer. “In the future, I’ll just say ‘Fifth’ when objecting on those grounds.”
“It’s not a crime to own a building or a coffee shop, Mr. Dattila.”
“The objection stands.”
“Mr. Dattila, do you also directly or through other parties operate a gambling enterprise?”
“Fifth!” Finger said. “You surprise me, Stone.”
“Mr. Dattila, does anyone owe you money?”
Dattila looked at Finger.
“You may answer,” Finger said.
“Maybe.”
“Where do you keep the record of who owes you money?” Stone asked.
Dattila silently tapped his head with a forefinger.
“Let the record show that the witness tapped his forehead. Do you have a written record of those who owe you money?”
“No,” Dattila replied.
“How much money does Herbert Fisher owe you?”
“Who?”
“Herbert Fisher, the plaintiff in this lawsuit. How much does he owe you?”
“Fifth!” Finger said.
“That was a little slow, Mr. Finger. This is material information, and you can’t object to it.”
“I’m not sure,” Dattila said.
“Does the figure twenty-four thousand dollars ring a bell?”
“Could be, maybe.”
“What means have you employed to collect Mr. Fisher’s debt?”
“I might have had a friend ask him, you know, nice.”
“Does nice include having him dragged out of a restaurant and beaten on the sidewalk?”
“Objection,” Finger said. “Irrelevant.”
“It’s perfectly relevant, as it’s part of the basis of our suit.”
“Maybe somebody insisted a little,” Dattila said, “without my personal knowledge.”
“Mr. Dattila, after repeated, unsuccessful attempts to collect the debt from Mr. Fisher, what steps did you take?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“Did you order two of your employees, namely Cheech and Gus, who are sitting outside in the reception room, to kidnap and torture Mr. Fisher?”
