Lucid Intervals

by Stuart Woods

  “Who are these people?”

  “Joe and Moe Wildstein.”

  “That sounds like two-thirds of the Three Stooges,” Stone said.

  “Well, it’s not. They’re known around town as the Wild Boys.”

  “Tell me, Herbie-not to digress-why did you decide to stop betting and borrowing with the Wildsteins?”

  “The Wild Boys.”

  “I stand corrected. Why?”

  “I thought about it, and I think it’s because when you’re betting with money you don’t have, it doesn’t seem real.”

  “Until they try to collect.”

  “Well, yeah. But up until that moment, it’s like Monopoly money, you know? But if you’re laying a bet with money you actually have, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea. I mean, you could lose, you know?”

  “I can guess,” Stone said. “Now let’s get back to your lawsuit against the, ah, Wild Boys. Is it both of them you want to sue?”

  “They’re both trying to kill me,” Herbie replied.

  “How do you know that?”

  “You were in Elaine’s when they fired through the window.”

  “Okay, Herbie, the bullets may have had your name on them-I buy that-but they didn’t have Moe and Joe’s names on them. The police would have noticed.”

  “I just have a very strong feeling about it,” Herbie said.

  “Herbie, being an attorney, as you sort of are, you do understand that your feeling, no matter how strong, is not admissible as evidence in a court of law.”

  “Well, it ought to be,” Herbie said, “when I feel this strong about it.”

  “Let’s go back a minute. Did you say that Moe-he’s the bookie, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Did he say he was going to kill you?”

  “If I bet with anybody else,” Herbie said.

  “Have you bet with anybody else?”

  “I told you, I’m not betting anymore.”

  “Then Moe has no motive for killing you.”

  Herbie thought about this. “That’s important, isn’t it?”

  “I think you’re getting the picture,” Stone said.

  “Then I can’t sue him?”

  “Not until you can prove that he has tried to kill you, and if you’re in a position to do that, it would be much faster to let the police take care of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Herbie,” Stone said with all the patience he could muster, “lawsuits take months or years, but when the police have good evidence, they make an arrest immediately. That’s also cheaper than a lawsuit.”

  “But he could get bailed out, couldn’t he?”

  “Not if we can prove that he might try again to kill you.”

  Herbie nodded gravely. “That makes a lot of sense, Stone.”

  “Thank you, Herbie. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other work to do.”

  Herbie stood. “Yeah, okay, I understand. But…”

  “But what?” Stone asked and was immediately sorry that he had.

  “But what if he hires somebody else to kill me while he’s in jail?”

  “Herbie,” Stone said, “whether it’s a civil or a criminal matter, that’s a chance you’re going to have to take.”

  “Okay,” Herbie said, then left.

  Stone took deep breaths, trying to compose himself.

  12

  Joan came to Stone’s office door. “How’d it go with Herbie?” she asked.

  “Joan,” Stone said, “I’m having a great deal of trouble impressing upon you my desire not to see or speak to Herbert Fisher.”

  “Oh, I completely understand,” she said.

  “Not completely; otherwise you would not have allowed him into my office only a few minutes ago.”

  “No, I understand completely,” Joan reassured him. “It’s just that we have certain ethical obligations to Herbie now.”

  “Ethical obligations?”

  “Yes. We’ve taken his money, so we owe him our time.”

  “And just how much of our time do you reckon we owe him?” Stone asked.

  “Well, your time, really. About a year: all day, every day, five days a week.”

  “So you think I should spend all of the next year with Herbie?”

  “It’s what he’s paid you for,” she said.

  “He didn’t pay me, he paid you,” Stone pointed out, “and you rashly put the money in the bank and paid all my bills. I’m innocent of this, really.”

  “You think it’s rash to put money in the bank, pay taxes and pay bills?”

  “Not usually,” Stone admitted. “Just when the money comes from Herbie.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t see the difference between Herbie’s money and that of other clients. I mean, he didn’t print it himself, did he?”

  “I’ve been assured it’s real,” Stone replied. “If it weren’t, the bank would have sent the Secret Service over here by now.”

  The office doorbell rang, and Joan looked over her shoulder. “I hope to God that’s not Dolce,” she said.

  “Can you see who it is?”

  “Yes. It’s two men in business suits.”

  “Is there a woman with them?”

  “No.”

  “Then please go and see who they are.” Stone rearranged the papers on his desk to appear busy. A moment later, Joan was back with the two men.

  “Mr. Barrington, two gentlemen from the Secret Service to see you,” she said, and hastily closed the door behind them.

  The two men flashed IDs, and Stone shook their hands and offered them seats. “What can I do for the Secret Service this morning, gentlemen?” Stone asked cheerfully, but his stomach didn’t feel just right.

  “Mr. Barrington,” one of them said, “did you make a large cash deposit at your bank recently?”

  “No,” Stone replied.

  “You did not deposit a million dollars in your bank account?”

  “Oh, that deposit. My secretary did that.”

  The man removed a plastic envelope containing a banknote and placed it on Stone’s desk. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.

  Stone leaned forward and examined the note. “I believe I do,” he replied. “It appears to be a fifty-dollar bill, United States currency.”

  “That’s what it appears to be, certainly, but it is not.”

  “Then what is it?” Stone asked innocently.

  “It’s an extremely good counterfeit note,” the man replied.

  “You could have fooled me,” Stone said.

  “Have you ever seen it before?”

  “I’ve seen many fifty-dollar bills,” Stone replied, “but I don’t recall ever having seen this one.”

  “What was the source of the cash your secretary deposited in your bank account?” the other man asked.

  “The funds came from a client.”

  “And where did he obtain them?”

  “From the New York State Lottery, I believe.”

  “The New York State Lottery does not give people large sums of cash,” the man said.

  “I thought that was why they were in business,” Stone said, “apart from also taking large sums of cash from other people.”

  “Quite true,” the man said, “but their policy is, I believe, to issue a check on the state treasury’s funds or to wire transfer winnings to the account of a winner.”

  “Well, I can’t argue that with you,” Stone said. “Now that you mention it, when I asked my client where he got the funds and he told me about winning the lottery, I pointed out that very same thing to him.”

  “And what did he have to say about that?” the agent asked.

  Stone shrugged. “I don’t suppose it would be a breach of attorney-client confidentiality if I told you he told me he cashed a check.”

  “On what bank?”

  “He didn’t mention its name.”

  “And you think a bank would just give your client a million dollars in cash?”

 
; “After corroborating his balance, certainly.”

  “Can you tell me how your client managed to include a single counterfeit fifty-dollar bill in a one-million-dollar payment to you?”

  “That fifty-dollar bill was not in the cash my client gave me. He gave me only one-hundred-dollar bills.”

  “Did you look through all the hundreds?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “So, it may have been among the cash he gave you?”

  “If it was, it was a mistake of his bank,” Stone replied.

  “And you don’t know which bank it was?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Would you mind if we asked your client?”

  “Not as long as you don’t expect me to give you his name,” Stone replied. “That would be a breach of attorney-client confidentiality.”

  “Mr. Barrington,” the man said, sighing. “We are agents of the federal government. As an officer of the court you are obliged to help us in our inquiries.”

  “As long as they don’t involve a breach of client confidentiality, I’m happy to help you,” Stone replied.

  “Could you do this, then: Could you call your client and ask him for the name and address of his bank?”

  “I could…” Stone began.

  “And for his permission to tell us?”

  “Now that is something I could do,” Stone said. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  Stone walked to Joan’s office. “Will you please call Herbie Fisher and ask him for the name of his bank? Tell him the Secret Service would like to know.”

  “You mean all that cash was counterfeit?”

  “No, apparently only a single fifty-dollar bill was.”

  “It was all in hundreds.”

  “I told them that, but they were skeptical.”

  Joan opened a desk drawer and pulled out a paper band. “There was one of these on each hundred-thousand-dollar bundle,” she said.

  Stone took the band. “That will do nicely.” He returned to his office and handed the band to an agent. “There was one of these around each hundred-thousand-dollar bundle of hundreds,” he said. “The name of the bank is printed upon it. Will that do?”

  “Yes, I believe it will,” the agent said, reading the name of the bank.

  “Then I wish you well in your inquiries,” Stone said, rising and offering his hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Barrington,” the man said, then turned to go.

  “I would certainly like to know how all this comes out,” Stone said. “If you have a moment to call.”

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t reveal information relating to a case,” he said, and then, with his companion, he left.

  Stone buzzed Joan.

  “Yes?”

  “What was the exact amount of the deposit you made?”

  “One million dollars.”

  “Is that on the deposit receipt?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is the receipt stamped and dated?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Did you watch the teller count the money?”

  “I watched her put it into a counting machine,” Joan said.

  “And she didn’t mention an extra fifty dollars in the stack?”

  “She did not.”

  Stone hung up, baffled.

  13

  Stone was in his dressing room when Felicity walked in, holding her shoes in her hand. She offered him her lips, and he accepted. “Your feet are tired?” he asked.

  “I no longer have feet,” she replied, going into the bedroom. “I’m walking on stumps.” She began shedding clothes. “What time is dinner?”

  “Eight-thirty. We’re meeting Dino.”

  “What a surprise! Wake me in an hour, please.”

  STONE FINISHED DRESSING, read for a while, then woke her as requested.

  “Is it morning?” she asked sleepily.

  “Not yet. Another ten hours to go.”

  She sat up. “A shower,” she said.

  “Thataway,” he replied, pointing.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, she was as fresh as a bouquet of roses.

  “How do you do that?” Stone asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Recover from exhaustion in half an hour?”

  “I slept for an hour, remember?”

  “Yes, but you still seemed exhausted.”

  “Not exhausted, just sleepy. I’m quite well now. May we go to dinner? I’m starved.”

  DINO HAD NOT yet arrived, so Stone ordered a Knob Creek and Felicity’s Rob Roy. “How was your day?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” she replied. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet tomorrow.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Stone laughed. “Of course not; it was a silly question.”

  “I’m thinking of quitting,” she said without preamble.

  Stone was shocked. “I’m shocked,” he replied. “Truly.”

  “I’ve got twenty years in, and there’s a pension.”

  “Can one live well on a British civil service pension?”

  “One can if one has a comfortable private income, a house in London, another in the Isle of Wight and yet another in the south of France. Daddy died last year, and I was his only child.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Daddy wasn’t sorry,” she said. “He had been in pain for a year, and he was glad to go.”

  “I’m sorry he was in pain. I’m glad he left you well off.”

  “I would have been really well off but for the taxes. Fortunately, Daddy was liquid enough that I didn’t have to sell the properties. If I retire, will you come and see me?”

  “I will come and see you, retired or not.”

  She patted his hand. “You’re sweet.”

  DINO ARRIVED, WAVED for his Scotch and sat down. “Good evening, one and all,” he said.

  “You sound cheerful,” Stone said.

  “I’m always cheerful,” he replied.

  “Well… no. You are often dour.”

  “Me, dour?”

  “Often.”

  “Well, I’m not dour tonight,” he said.

  Felicity spoke up. “Could your good cheer be related to some success with the FBI regarding the photo of Stanley Whitestone?”

  “Yes, it could.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  Dino pulled an envelope from his pocket. “The FBI photo comparison program pulled this from a bank security camera two blocks up Park Avenue from the Seagram Building.” He laid the photo on the table. It was that of a stocky man in a good suit, wearing a hat, entering the bank. “It was a good match.”

  Stone looked at the photo. “It’s no better than the one we got from the Seagram Building,” he said.

  “Wait, there’s another angle,” Dino said, producing another photograph and laying it on the table. This one was full face, but from farther away.

  Stone and Felicity peered at it.

  “Can they enhance it?” Felicity asked.

  “This is the enhanced version,” Dino said.

  “It gives an impression of the same man,” Stone said, “but it’s too blurry for identification. The Seagram stuff was much sharper.”

  “The bank equipment isn’t as recent,” Dino said. “Would you rather have a blurry photograph or no photograph at all?”

  “Hobson’s choice,” Felicity said.

  “What?” Dino asked.

  “It’s Britspeak for no choice at all,” Stone replied.

  “May I keep these?” Felicity asked.

  “Sure,” Dino said. “Anybody hungry?” Without waiting for a reply, he waved at a waiter for menus.

  “I need red meat,” Felicity said. “Sirloin, please, medium rare, pommes frites.”

  “It shall be so,” Stone replied, ordering two.

  “Make it three,” Dino said.

  “DO YOU EVER think of retiring, Dino?” Felicity asked when thei
r steaks were ruins of their former selves.

  “Never,” Dino said. “I’m going to do the full thirty, and then we’ll see.”

  “You’ll have to take a promotion,” Stone said.

  “Nah, I have an understanding with the commissioner.”

  “Dino doesn’t want to be a captain,” Stone explained to Felicity. “He likes to pretend he’s still a street cop.”

  “I don’t pretend,” Dino said. “I am a street cop.”

  “Yes, but you never see the street, except from the rear seat of your cop-chauffeured car,” Stone pointed out.

  “I understand, Dino,” Felicity said. “Sometimes I wish I were, well, a street agent again.”

  “They got you cuffed to a desk?” Dino asked.

  “A very good description,” she replied.

  “I wouldn’t like that.”

  “It has its advantages,” Felicity said.

  “Name one,” Dino said.

  “I haven’t been shot at for quite some time,” she replied.

  “That’s okay if personal safety is important to you.”

  “It isn’t important to you?” Stone asked.

  “Nah, I don’t mind an occasional bullet in my direction.”

  “This is news to me,” Stone said to Felicity. “I’ve never heard of Dino’s fondness for flying lead.”

  “I understand what he means,” she said. “One remembers the occasions when death was near but passed one by.”

  “You bet your sweet ass one do,” Dino said.

  “I remember getting shot in the knee,” Stone said. “I didn’t find anything to like about it.”

  “Not even survival?” Felicity said.

  “Oh, well, yes,” Stone said. “That and not getting shot higher up.”

  She squeezed his thigh. “I’m grateful for that, too.”

  14

  Stone and Felicity got out of the ambassador’s old Rolls-Royce in front of his house. As the car pulled away, the opposite side of the street was exposed, and Stone, standing on his doorstep, fumbling for his key, saw her.

  He hustled Felicity inside, locked the door, picked up the nearest phone and pressed the intercom and page buttons. “Willie, pick up any phone.”

  “I’m here,” Willie said.

  “Where?”

  “In the kitchen.”