Stone, who wasn’t sure, gave no hint of it to his client. “Leave the legal stuff to me. More important right now is your lawyer is about to die of starvation. How about an overdue meal.”
“Still don’t feel like eating. I’m the one who just got indicted, remember? I’ve got to get a bath and change of clothes or I’ll die. Only I can’t face that apartment right now. How about lending a client a few bucks for some new underwear, jeans, and shirt and use of your credit card for a night in a hotel? It won’t screw up your card; I’ll get some money tomorrow and pay cash when I check out.”
“It won’t screw up my card, just my reputation. This is a small town, Sara. All I need is to have everyone buzzing about how I spring my very first criminal law client on a writ of habeas corpus, only to check her into the nearest hotel at the first opportunity. You know what habeas corpus means?”
“No.”
“‘You have the body.’ I can hear the lawyers now: ‘Stone goes into court and says “you have the body.” Then he goes to the desk clerk and says, “I have the body.”’” Stone grunted. “That’s the literate ones; the rest’ll just think you’re paying my fee in a manner that, unfortunately, is not all that unusual in this town.”
“Nice people,” said Sara.
“Human beings,” Stone replied, “only too ready to think the worst in any given situation.”
“Okay,” Sara said, throwing up her hands as they reached the Mustang, “what’s the solution? What do we do now?”
Stone reached into his hip pocket and produced his wallet.
“Here’s a hundred. That should get you dressed if you stay away from designer jeans. Then I take you home to my Aunt May. You’ll love her; she’s a real character. She’ll like you in spite of the fact you’re associating with the likes of me: Wait’ll you see where I live. Big old Victorian mansion. Belonged to my uncle. He and May lived there. His law offices were on the first floor. They’re mine now. You want a bath? May’s got a bathtub just this side of a swimming pool. They made ’em big in the nineteenth century; nobody dieted then. Stay there till you feel up to facing your apartment again. But don’t stay too long. May’s food will blow you up like a balloon.”
“Wait a minute,” Sara protested. “How come it’s going to ruin your reputation to check me into a hotel, and it’s okay to move me into your house?”
Stone smiled. “Because I’m using the credit card to check me into the hotel. If you think my Aunt May would let me use the home she spent forty-seven God-fearing years of monogamy in to make moves, forget it. Wait’ll you meet her. You’ll see what I mean.”
“That may be,” Sara said, still protesting, “but there’s no way I’m putting you out of your room—”
“You’re not,” Stone interrupted. “That old place has as many rooms as Versailles. May’ll probably have you in the room farthest away from mine anyway, just for propriety’s sake.”
Sara smiled as she stuffed the hundred-dollar bill into her pocket. “You must have some love life. Or are most of the charges on that credit card the local hotel?”
Stone grimaced. “Very funny.”
“Oh. So … what do you … I mean, are you…?”
“I’m straight, if that’s what you mean.” Stone headed the Mustang up a highway entrance ramp and betrayed his annoyance at the conversation’s subject by rocketing out onto the highway directly in front of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler. Only the blistering acceleration of the V-8 sucking fuel through all four barrels of the big Holley kept them from being run down. It was a dumb move, and Stone knew it. He eased into the slow lane, then turned to Sara and said, “Look, it’s none of your business, but let me explain something to you. When I was in the navy, I lived by the navy’s rules, written and unwritten. The unwritten rule was that for a single officer, any woman was fair game except enlisted, a military wife, or a single sister or daughter without the ranking male’s blessing. That was the culture. That left a big field, and I played it. Here,” said Stone, gesturing toward the surrounding town, “everyone marries young, then spends the rest of their lives in bed with their neighbors! Some culture.”
Sara held on. Stone was starting to go fast again.
“So,” he said, “after I’m here a couple of months, I broke down and dated this eighteen-year-old stunner. Took her to dinner across the river. Great restaurant. Great date. The conversation ran out when we finished with the menu. She had a frame of reference began last Friday. Didn’t know Ho Chi Minh from Jefferson Davis.”
A shopping mall appeared on the right, and Stone entered the lot and headed toward a discount chain store. He pulled into a slot and said, “There you go, the polyester palace. The finest Taiwan, Singapore, and Korea have to offer. I’ll wait for you.” As Sara got out, he tilted his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. It seemed only moments later that he was awakened by Sara returning and opening the passenger door.
“How’d you make out?”
“Fine,” said Sara, holding out some small bills and change to him. “Here’s your change, and thanks.”
Stone started up the car and waved the proffered money away as he drove back out to the road. “Hang on to it. You might need it. And besides, I can keep a hundred in my head a lot easier than some odd number.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Sara turned to put her packages into the backseat.
The rest of the short ride over to Garden Street was in silence save for the raspy exhaust note of the Mustang. Stone brightened as he turned into the driveway of number 182. The house was outsized for the neighborhood. Others like it from the nineteenth century had long since been dismantled and their lots subdivided. Number 182 reigned in its original size and gingerbread splendor. Only the lack of a fresh coat of paint kept it from looking new.
Stone drove on past the porch that started at the front of the house and continued round the corner, becoming integrated into an equally beknobbed and spindle-trimmed porte cochere. He parked in the shelter of its enclosure. Sara looked out at the vines—so old they were two and three inches thick around—that had grown to nearly enclose the open side across from the steps leading to the double-doored entrance to the old mansion. The vines had started to green.
The two of them got out of the car and walked up the steps. To the left of the doorway was a discreet sign that read:
STONE & STONE
COUNSELORS-AT-LAW
A black hard-rubber button projected from an ornate brass doorbell. Stone pressed it. From inside came the clear tones of a chime, much like those of a grandfather’s clock.
“Sounds like a grandfather’s clock,” said Sara.
“Yeah,” said Stone, “and the grandfather’s clock sounds like the goddamn doorbell. Drives me nuts. Every time I hear the doorbell, I have to check my watch to be sure it’s not the clock. Thank God May answers the door. After forty-seven years of practice, she can tell the difference.”
The latch clicked, and the right-hand side of the double doors opened, to reveal a diminutive woman of about sixty-five. Her hair was pure white and worn in a half-undercurl short bob of a “flapper” from the 1920s. She looked like a platinum blonde whose face had aged but whose hair had not. One look at Sara and Aunt May’s expression turned from one of expectant greeting to accusation.
“What,” she asked Stone, “have you done to this poor girl?”
“I look that good, huh?” said Sara.
“Aunt May,” Stone said, ignoring both remarks, “I’d like to present my client, Sara Rosen. Sara, Aunt May.”
“Oh, my. Please do come in, Miss Rosen.”
Sara didn’t try to correct Aunt May to “Ms.” She accepted the invitation and entered a large vestibule, then continued into a much larger front hall. A living room with a great stone fireplace was to the right. It was so vast, the concert grand looked insignificant. Directly ahead was a stairway that could have come from San Simeon. The first landing was illuminated by a magnificent stained-glass window of a design that made
it appear of Moorish rather than Western origin. To Sara’s left was a law library dominated by a long conference table at its center. Farther to the left was a closed door with a brass plaque that stated simply OFFICE. The woodwork was heavily milled, the gingerbread removed for a cleaner look. The original darkness had been lightened by stripping the finish and restaining it a honey-golden hue. To the left of the stairway was the grandfather’s clock. It belonged in a museum. Sara found it all impressive and beautiful.
“Sara’s had a bit of trouble, Mazie,” Stone said. “Some thieves have vandalized her apartment. She has nowhere to stay and is, understandably, upset. Knowing your generous nature, I felt it would be all right to offer her one of the guest rooms.” As his aunt frowned, Stone hastened to add, “Knowing how you feel about sailors bringing girls home, I’ll be packing a bag and staying at a hotel.”
Aunt May brightened. “It’s for your own good, dear,” she said to Sara. “God made men, but the devil motivates them.”
Sara made a face at Stone. “Amen to that!” she said. Then, to Aunt May: “I have some fresh clothes out in the car. I’ll just be a minute.”
“I’ll have a hot tub ready in no time,” said Aunt May.
“God, that sounds wonderful!” Sara exclaimed. “The condition I’m in, I’m surprised you didn’t want to hose me down first out in the yard.”
Stone chuckled. “I’ll volunteer for that.”
Aunt May smiled at Sara. “Considering what you’ve been through, my dear, your condition is just fine. Of course,” she continued, the smile vanishing as she looked at Stone, “the company you’re keeping is something else again.”
4
“Counselor!” Ira Levin greeted stone with typical effusiveness. “Come on in! You came at a good time. Business is slow. Tell me everything. What can I do for ya?”
Stone smiled. He had to; Levin’s greeting had that effect on people. “Oh,” he said, “just trying to get a little scoop on what’s going on from Rhinekill’s greatest source of intelligence.”
“Intelligence? I dunno about intelligence,” said Levin. “Information, maybe. If I had intelligence, I wouldn’t be runnin’ a cigar store. I’d be rich with beautiful damsels hangin’ all over me.” Ira Levin’s face glowed at the thought. “Anyway,” he continued, “who ya wanna know about? Just name ’em. I’ll give ya sex life and finances on anybody but me. On accounts, I ain’t got any ’a either of ’em.”
They were both laughing as Stone said, “Nothing that interesting, Ira. It’s not a person, it’s a company—Riegar.”
Levin’s face clouded instantly. “Yeah,” he said. “Riegar.” He paused, brow furrowed, collecting his thoughts. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know anything, but, you know, I hear things. Some of what I hear I don’t like.”
“Such as?”
“Well, it’s almost like someone was stirring up the Indians, ya know? There’s a lot of bad feeling going around about the animal people and what they’re trying to do. I know they’re just tryin’ to stop testing stuff out on animals—and I ain’t sayin’ they’re right or wrong—but there’s rumors going around that they want to shut the plant down. Now I know the research is just a small part of the operation down there, an’ if ya stopped all the animal testin’, probably the only jobs would be lost would be the monkey handlers, and they’re not from here, anyway. But a lot of people don’t know any better an’ think all the production and shipping workers from town here are gonna be thrown outta work. There’s a lot of resentment building up.”
As he listened to Levin’s recitation, Stone’s look grew troubled, a fact that did not escape the shrewd eye of the stout little storekeeper. Ira Levin was a good source of intelligence because he was equally good at collecting it. “What’s a matter?” he asked. “Harry leave ya a lotta Riegar stock?”
“No. It’s just I’m representing a woman picked up down there last night. One of the animal-rights people.”
Levin looked up at Stone quizzically. “You doin’ criminal work now, counselor? That’s a first for you, ain’t it?”
The troubled look on Stone’s face turned pained. “A first and last, I hope. It’s kind of a long story. Seems she’s a relative of an old friend. I said yes in a weak moment, and I’ll probably regret it. What bothers me more is, the way things are going, she’ll probably regret it.”
Levin reverted to form. “Nah, counselor, you’re gonna do fine. She’s better off with you than Clarence Darrow. You’re gonna be another Perry Mason. Watch, you’ll see!… Hey, is your client that nice Jewish girl I seen her name inna paper, Sara Rosen?”
“You got it.”
“Ya know,” said Levin, “it’s kinda too bad they did that.”
“Did what?”
“Put her name inna paper an’ all. She’s the first one of them animal people to get named in the paper. When they busted all the others for protestin’, they just gave the number an’ said they were all from outta town.”
“Figures,” answered Stone. “The others were just arrested for disturbing the peace or some such. My client was charged with a felony … burglary.”
“Yeah,” said Levin, “still an’ all, it could be a problem.”
“Why?”
“Well, like I said, there’s resentment. Before now, it was just at the animal people as a whole. An’ unless one of them’s carrying a sign, who’s to know? Try to keep her picture outta the paper. Bad enough now the yahoos got a name to focus on, know what I mean?”
“Good point,” said Stone. “Fat chance of pulling it off, though.”
“I dunno,” Levin protested. “You could…”
“Ira, it’s gonna be all I can do to keep her from giving a press conference!” Stone frowned. “You think someone might want to physically hurt Sara Rosen? I mean anyone in particular or just she’d be a natural target of bozos at the local gin mills?”
Levin ran his hand over his hair and hesitated. “The bozos, sure. They’re bullies and would go after anybody unpopular at the moment. But that’s not what I mean. I’d say you got two problems. One is the monkey handlers.”
“The monkey handlers,” Stone repeated, “that’s the second time you mentioned them. Who are they?”
Levin looked Stone in the eye. “Look, I’m an old Jew. Old enough to remember things, right? So maybe I’m making too much of something.” Levin paused. “The ‘monkey handlers’ is what the other workers, the ones from around here, call the guys who handle the animals for the experiments in the research labs. Nobody from here works there. No local people. No one really knows what goes on in there. The monkey handlers are all from the old country. They’re all Germans. They work three shifts a day, like cops, when the animals are there.”
“How often is that?” Stone asked. “Sara said there were no animals in the lab she saw the other night.”
“I don’t know. But there’s more than one lab. A number of them, I think. So one could be empty and another full at any one time. Now the word the company put out is that this is all secret research, and they can’t let anyone know what’s going on until they get a patent. So the Germans keep that all to themselves.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Stone.
“Yeah,” Levin replied, “but these guys are supposed to be some tough cookies. They don’t mix with the Americans. Stay strictly to themselves. But they look like you don’t wanna fuck with them, know what I mean? Anyway, you’re probably right. It’s reasonable. It’s just I get the creeps still when I put Germans and laboratories and experiments together in my old Jewish head.”
“That’s reasonable, too,” said Stone. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. There’s a rumor, just a rumor, that the company’s bringing in some strike-bustin’ headbreakers.”
“Strikebreakers?” Stone looked puzzled. “There’s no strike!”
“Yeah,” said Levin, lighting up a huge cigar that prompted Stone to take a step backward, “but there’s demonstrations. Word is they paid off som
e skinhead biker gang from across the river to beat the shit out of the demonstrators.”
“You know the name of the group?”
Levin gave a mirthless smile. “The Heads from Hell. They wear embroidered signs on the back of vests—”
“Colors,” Stone interjected.
“Whatever,” said Levin. “You’ll be able to tell them by it. It’s got two connected H’s tilted over to the side. The connected parts of the H’s are red and woven thicker than the rest, which is black. Looks somethin’ like a red lightning bolt through a swastika.”
“Wonderful.” Stone grimaced. “Anything else?”
“Well, I dunno,” Levin said, exhaling a deadly cloud of cigar smoke, “but when I saw your client’s name in the paper? Something clicked. But it’s probably nothing,” Levin concluded, dismissively.
“Let’s hear it, anyway.”
“Those monkey handler guys? Would your client know any of them? Or would they know her? Crossed paths before or somethin’ like that?”
Stone was attentive. “Not that’s she’s given me any indication of. Why d’you say that?”
Levin scratched the back of his head with his cigar-holding hand, spilling ashes on his collar. “The Germans. They talk German among themselves all the time. Only speak English when they have to, to talk to the locals. Probably figure none of the Americans can speak German, so they can talk in private. And they’re right, I guess. But our guys hear them goin’ at it, and it’s like in a World War II movie, you know? Where every other German word is jawohl or oberst. And after a while, you notice it. From what I hear, these guys talk a lot about someone named Sara.”
“What?” Stone’s voice was suddenly intense, probing. “What did they say? How do you know?”
“I don’t know,” Levin protested. “This is all second and third hand, remember. It’s just that the Germans say Sara a lot. Enough for some people around them who don’t speak German to notice it as a familiar word they say.”
Stone drew a long, slow breath. “Well, I’ll certainly have to have a talk with my client about that one. Boy, you’re full of good news, Ira.” He put his hand to his face and pulled his nose in thought. Then his expression changed. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Ira. I really appreciate the information, believe me. I can use all the help I can get on this one. I’m beginning to feel I’m in over my head. I’m a real estate lawyer, for Christ’s sake!”
The Monkey Handlers Page 6