by Stuart Woods
“Are you Mr. Fisher?” one of them asked.
“That’s right,” Herbie replied. “We’re going upstairs to speak with the young man. Give me your cell number.” Herbie tapped it into his iPhone. “I’ll call if we need you,” he said. “Did you bring a straitjacket, as requested?”
“In the back,” the driver said.
“I’ll also let you know if we’ll need it.” The window slid back up.
Herbie led the Leahys into the dorm and looked up Dink Brennan in the directory, then they took the elevator to the fourth floor and found the boy’s suite. Herbie knocked on the door and got no answer. He tried the door, but it was locked. “Anybody know how to get this open without breaking it down?”
Willie produced a credit-card-sized sheet of plastic and, in a flash, had the door open. They walked into the sitting room, which looked as though a hurricane had swept through it.
“Ugh,” Jimmy Leahy said, uttering his first sound of the morning.
Herbie opened the bedroom door and walked in. Both beds were disheveled, and one contained a large lump. Herbie drew back the sheet. “Hey, Dink?” he yelled, close to the young man’s ear.
“Huh?” the boy said, lifting his head from the pillow. “Yeah? Who are you guys?” He sat up. “Oh, I get it; you’re from Carlo. Tell him I’ll have his money in a few days.”
“Get on your feet, Dink,” Herbie said, and the boy obediently got out of bed and stood there, awkwardly.
“Have a seat at your desk,” Herbie said. Dink did so. Herbie produced two documents and a pen. “Sign these.”
“What are they?”
Herbie slapped him smartly on the back of the head. “Questions later. Sign them.”
Dink signed his name.
“Willie, Jimmy, witness, please, in the spaces provided.”
The Leahys did so while Dink looked nervously at Herbie.
Herbie tucked the documents into his pocket, walked over to a leather club chair, swept it free of dirty clothes, and sat down.
“If you’re not from Carlo, who are you?” Dink asked.
“We’re not from Carlo,” he said. “We’re the good guys. The bad guys come later, if you and I don’t have a satisfactory conversation.”
“I don’t get it,” Dink said, now fully awake.
“I’m your new attorney,” Herbie said. “Don’t worry, your father is paying.”
“Paying for what?”
“For my getting you out of this terrible fix you’re in.”
Dink shook his head. “I’m not in any kind of fix. All I have to do is pay the bookie.”
“How much do you owe him?” Herbie asked.
“I don’t know, exactly,” Dink said, “but I can handle it.”
“How will you handle it, Dink? Are you dealing drugs?”
“Of course not,” Dink replied.
“Do you have any other source of income? Other than your father, I mean.”
“Ah, no. Why do I need a lawyer?”
“To get you out of the treatment center.”
“What treatment center?”
“It’s called Winwood Farm. I understand it’s a lovely place.”
“Treatment for what?”
“For an addiction to gambling and the drug of your choice, which is cocaine, isn’t it?”
“I snort a little now and then,” Dink said.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s cut to the chase, Dink. Your father loves you, and he’s very concerned about you. That’s why we’re here, instead of the bookie. He’s going to pay off the bookie, and—Oh, by the way, how much do you owe your dealer?”
“Not a dime,” Dink said. “He insists on cash.”
“That makes it simpler,” Herbie replied. “Now, the two documents you just signed are these: a durable power of attorney, giving me control over all your affairs, including your relationship with Yale, and a self-commitment form, making you a residential patient at Winwood Farm, which is only a few miles from here.”
“I’m not going to any loony bin,” the boy said.
“Jimmy,” Herbie said, “pack Dink a small bag—just some underwear, a change of clothes, and his slippers. That’s all he’ll need.”
Jimmy went to a closet, found a small duffel, and rifled a chest of drawers. “Got it all,” he said, zipping the bag shut.
“Now, Dink,” Herbie said, “I want you to write a nice letter to the dean of students of this establishment, apologizing for your record at Yale and telling him that you are leaving school at this time to get some help, but that you expect to return for the fall semester.”
“I’m not writing that,” Dink said, “and I’m not going to the funny farm.”
“There are two strong men downstairs with a straitjacket, waiting for my call,” Herbie said. “You want to do this the easy way or the hard way?”
Dink looked nervously at Willie and Jimmy. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Good. Now get dressed, and we’ll be on our way. Don’t worry about the letter to the dean; I’ll write that later.”
Herbie found a pair of scissors in a desk drawer, extracted four credit cards from Dink’s wallet, and cut them in half. He produced a plastic bag and put Dink’s money, wallet, and keys into it, then he led the boy downstairs and surrendered him to the two gentlemen from the funny farm.
“Dink,” Herbie said, handing him his card, “in a few weeks, you’re going to be feeling a lot better about yourself, and when that finally happens, give me a call and we’ll talk about your future. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do for you, besides getting you released, just let me know.”
Dink got into the van, and Herbie gave the driver the contents of Dink’s pockets. The van pulled away, and Herbie and the Leahys got back into Herbie’s car.
“That was easy,” Willie said.
“It’s about to get harder,” Herbie replied. “Now, let’s get back to New York, to Little Italy.”
6
HERBIE’s MAYBACH slid to a halt in front of the La Bohème coffeehouse, an institution that, improbably, was the headquarters of a large criminal enterprise. From three or four of the dozen tables inside transactions took place more quickly than if a mainframe computer had been running the numbers. Carlo Contini, heir to the empire of Carmine Dattila, aka Dattila the Hun, sat out his days there doing mental calculations that gave lie to his outward appearance, which was that of an Italian-American gentleman who operated a fruit stand. No fancy suits for Carlo, just a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of baggy gray trousers. When he took his wife out to dinner, a suit appeared, laid out on his bed with an appropriate shirt and tie, and Carlo had no objection to wearing it, but here, at La Bohème, he was camouflaged as one of the layabouts who alternated drinking grappa with playing bocce in the back garden.
Herbie’s appearance at La Bohème caused everyone present to freeze in position, except for a few who inserted a hand into a jacket, just in case. Herbie commanded this sort of attention because, a few years before, distraught over Dattila the Hun’s attempts to have him murdered, he had walked into the place and put two Federal hollow-point .45 slugs into Dattila’s head. No one had even moved, because the feds had been there a moment before and relieved people of all artillery. Now Herbie was back, and the patrons found this disturbing.
Herbie walked over to Carlo Contini’s table, where he sat with his younger brother and consigliere, Gino, and pulled up a chair. “Hi, Carlo,” Herbie said.
“You want to place a bet, Herbie, there are guys for that,” Carlo said, then feigned ignoring him.
“Nothing like that, Carlo,” Herbie replied. “I’m here on bigger business.”
Carlo regarded him coolly. “A loan? Talk to Gino.”
“No, Carlo, I’m here to settle a large debt.”
“You don’t owe me, Herbie.”
“No, but a young man named Brennan does.”
“Fink?”
“Dink. There’s a difference.”
“So, what are
you to do with it?”
“I’m the boy’s representative, and I’m here to settle his debt, as I’ve already mentioned.”
“Kid owes me two hundred and thirty K,” Carlo said, not bothering to consult a ledger. “You good for that?”
“I said ‘settle,’ Carlo, not get rolled.”
“With the vig, it’s two hundred and thirty K,” Carlo said.
“I propose that we settle the entire debt, including the vigorish, for two hundred even,” Herbie replied. He set the cheap plastic briefcase on the table. “It’s right here.”
“It’s two hundred and thirty K,” Carlo said, with conviction.
“Carlo, let me put this in the form of a proposition,” Herbie said. “I give you two hundred K right now, in clean Benjamins, and you agree never to take another bet from the Brennan kid and to forget his name.”
“From what I hear, his old man can afford two hundred and thirty K,” Carlo said.
“Carlo, his old man can buy and sell you before breakfast and not even dent his bank balance, but he’s a serious person, and he’s making you a serious offer. There is an alternative, though.”
“Yeah? What’s the alternative?”
“Use your imagination, Carlo. Imagine the NYPD, the FBI, and the IRS crawling over your life like an army of ants, while Dink’s old man files a civil suit against you that will take ten years and ten million in legal fees to settle. All these things can happen within twenty-four hours.”
Carlo took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m not an unreasonable man,” he said, placing a hand on the briefcase.
Herbie pulled the briefcase a little out of his reach, then produced a one-page document and pushed it across the table. “Sign this, and we’re done,” Herbie said.
“I don’t sign stuff,” Carlo said.
Herbie pulled the briefcase a little farther away.
“What’s it say?” Carlo asked, taking a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He began to read to himself while moving his lips.
“It says that you are accepting two hundred thousand dollars in payment of all gambling or any other debt owed you by Dink Brennan, and that you agree never to accept another bet from him or contact him ever again.”
“You expect me to admit to gambling in writing?”
“It’s the way people like Mr. Brennan do business, Carlo. Since the two of you are not acquainted, Mr. Brennan won’t take your word. Come on, what’s the harm? The paper will reside in his safe and will never see the light of day.” Herbie pushed the case back to where Carlo could reach it but did not let go of the handle.
Carlo sighed and signed the document, and Herbie released the briefcase, which vanished under the table.
“Never see the light of day, unless you violate the terms of the agreement,” Herbie said, standing. “Take care of yourself, Carlo.” Herbie turned and walked out, trailed by the Leahys, one of whom left La Bohème walking backward.
Herbie situated himself in the backseat of the Maybach. “Drop me at the Seagram Building, Willie,” he said, “and put the car back in the garage, if you will.”
“Sure, Herbie,” Willie said. “And by the way, nicely done.”
“Thank you, Willie, and the same to you and Jimmy.” Herbie picked up the rear-seat phone and pressed a speed dial button.
“Woodman and Weld,” Joan said, “Stone Barrington’s office.”
“Hey, Joan.”
“Hey, Herbie, how you doing?”
“Couldn’t be better. Is he available?”
“Sure.” There was a click.
“Herbie?”
“Hey, Stone.”
“How’d it go?”
“It went like this: Dink is now housed in the funny farm, having committed himself and signed a durable power of attorney, naming me, and Carlo Contini is a happy man. I have his signature on a well-worded receipt that will keep him forever away from Dink.”
“Well done,” Stone said.
“Will you convey that to Bill Eggers?”
“No, I think you should convey it to him yourself, and bask in the warmth of his gratitude.”
“I like the sound of that,” Herbie said. “See ya.” He hung up as the Maybach glided to the curb at the Seagram Building.
THREE MINUTES LATER, Herbie was entering Bill Eggers’s corner office. “Good afternoon, Bill.”
“Is it?” Eggers replied.
“Dink Brennan now resides at Winwood Farm,” Herbie said, taking documents from his pocket and handing them to Eggers, “and Carlo Contini has accepted our offer. It’s all there.”
Eggers tossed the documents on his desk without looking at them. “I just had a call, Herbie,” he said. “Dink Brennan escaped from the vehicle transporting him to Winwood Farm and is abroad in the land.”
Herbie felt as if he had been struck in the chest. “Well, Bill, I did as I was asked. I’m not in the escaped lunatic business.”
“You are now, Herbert,” Eggers replied.
7
STONE LOOKED UP from his desk to find Herbie Fisher standing in his doorway, breathing hard.
“Good afternoon, Herbie,” Stone said. “Have you taken up jogging?”
“I walked over here.”
“Sit down and catch your breath.”
The look on Herbie’s face made Stone wonder if the young man was going to explode or just cry.
“I got it all done, Stone, I told you that.”
“You did. Did you tell Bill?”
“Yes. He is unhappy.”
“Why?”
“Because Dink escaped from the funny farm van and is loose. I told Eggers I wasn’t in charge of escaped lunatics, and he told me I am now.”
“So you have a new assignment,” Stone said. “Be optimistic—it gives you another opportunity to impress Eggers and Marshall Brennan.”
“I don’t want to impress them anymore,” Herbie said. “They have no gratitude.”
“Herbie, you were asked to deliver Dink to Winwood Farm, and you failed.”
“I didn’t fail—his keepers failed!”
“You entrusted him to them, and they failed you. But you failed Eggers.”
“That’s warped,” Herbie said.
“Tell me something, Herbie, did you enjoy your tasks?”
“Well, yeah, but then everything went to hell.”
“Find a way to enjoy tracking down Dink. You’ll feel better.”
“I have no experience in the field of missing persons,” Herbie wailed. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Herbie, imagine that Dink owes you two hundred grand and that he is trying to avoid you.”
“I wouldn’t let him get away with that,” Herbie said.
“Exactly. What Dink actually owes you is his carcass at Winwood Farm. Find him and make him pay.”
“Where do I start?”
“Ask yourself, ‘If I were Dink Brennan and I wanted to avoid Herbie Fisher, where would I go?’”
Herbie regarded his well-buffed shoes morosely. “I don’t know where he would go.”
“Well, you know that he would probably not go back to the one place you already know about: his dorm room. Right?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Who are his friends? Who is his girlfriend? Where does he drink? Those are all pertinent questions. Start finding out the answers.”
“Can I hire a PI? Those guys know how this is done.”
Stone sighed. “All right, I will authorize you to hire a skip tracer for three days at the expense of Woodman and Weld.”
“Eggers would go nuts if I spent that money.”
“No, Eggers would simply bill Marshall Brennan.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Suck it up, Herbie. Get it in gear, move your ass.”
Herbie got up and slouched toward the door.
“Herbie?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know a skip tracer?”
Herbie thought for a
minute. “No,” he admitted.
“Sit down. I’m going to help you out.”
Stone pressed a button on his phone. “Joan, please get me Mike Freeman at Strategic Services.” He waited a moment.
“Mr. Freeman on one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Mike?”
“Hello, Stone, welcome back from our nation’s capital. I read of your exploits in some of our worst newspapers.”
“Put it out of your mind, Mike. I have.”
“If you say so.”
“Mike, you’ve met a Woodman and Weld associate named Herbie Fisher, have you not?”
“I have. Nice young fellow.”
“And you know Marshall Brennan?”
“I do. I invest with him.”
“Good. Herbie was sent up to Yale to assist Marshall’s son, Dink, into a bucolic establishment in Connecticut where he was to receive attention for his gambling and drug problem.”
“Sounds like Winwood Farm.”
“One and the same. Unfortunately, in spite of Herbie’s stellar work, young Dink managed to extricate himself from the transportation provided and is now wild in the country.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Herbie is a bright fellow, but he has no experience in the tracing of missing persons. I thought, perhaps, that you might provide him with some assistance.”
“Who’s buying? Herbie?”
“Woodman and Weld, until they can bill Marshall Brennan.”
“I can do that,” Mike said. “Is Herbie with you?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Put him on the phone.”
“Of course.” Stone pointed at Herbie, then at the phone on the coffee table before the sofa in his office.
Herbie went to the sofa and picked up the phone. “Mr. Freeman? Yes, sir. No, sir, I cut up his credit cards and gave his cash to the driver of the Winwood Farm van. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt and a brown leather jacket and sneakers. I picked him up at his Yale dorm room. No, sir, I don’t know the name of his roommate or his friends, and I don’t know if he has a girlfriend. Yes, sir, I’ll be there in an hour.” Herbie hung up, and turned toward Stone. “Mr. Freeman is on it, and I’m to go to his office.”