by Stuart Woods
“We have a London office, as you know,” Eggers said. “It’s in a building that Wight’s company built and manages.”
“So he’s your landlord, and that’s it?”
“A solicitor I know in London tells me that Wight is a large consumer of legal services,” Eggers said.
“Given his past, do you want to be seen to represent him?”
Eggers shrugged. “His reputation in this country is better than in his own, and I happen to know that he has acquired two building sites in midtown. He also owns a building on East Fifty-seventh Street that houses Strategic Services.”
Stone knew that Strategic Services was one of the two or three largest private security companies in the United States. “Have you had any dealings with them?” he asked.
“I’ve played tennis with Jim Hackett a couple of times at the Racquet Club,” Eggers replied, referring to the owner of the company. “We had a drink afterward last week, and I think he might be a good source of referrals.”
“He sounds worth cultivating,” Stone said. “I don’t know much about his background.”
“He’s ex-Paratroop Regiment.”
“He’s British?”
“Scottish, but you wouldn’t know it to talk to him,” Eggers said. “He came to this country twenty-five years ago, and he’s very much assimilated.”
“He has a lot of ex-special ops people on staff, doesn’t he?”
“That’s the rumor,” Eggers said. “And from both sides of the Atlantic. His corporate protection people are mostly former U.S. Secret Service.”
“I don’t know a lot about his company,” Stone said, “but I have the impression that they have been mixed up in some unsavory things, for their clients.”
“I’ve never heard of any evidence to support that,” Eggers said, “but any outfit that’s as secretive as Strategic Services is bound to generate rumors. They never speak to the press, never comment on their work or so much as acknowledge the name of a client.”
“I can see how that might perk up some ears,” Stone said.
Eggers’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Yes? Please send him to my dining room.” He hung up. “Our possible future client has arrived,” he said.
22
Lunch was served in Eggers’s private dining room, off his office. The room was paneled in walnut, and the bookcases were filled with his collection of old law books, bound in leather. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth, giving off the lovely scent of piñon wood that Eggers had shipped in from Santa Fe.
By the time the soup course plates were being taken away, Stone was bored rigid. The talk was of London clubs that Eggers and Wight belonged to. Stone noticed that the Royal Yacht Squadron, of which Eggers was a foreign member, was not mentioned, and he assumed that Wight had been blackballed by that club. By the time the main course of lamb chops was served, all the talk was of real estate. Stone was having trouble keeping awake and had no opportunity to raise the subject of Stanley Whitestone. Then his cell phone vibrated on his belt.
Stone stepped away from the table and answered it.
“It’s Joan,” she said. “Herbie Fisher just called, and he’s in some sort of trouble. He’s in the tank at the Nineteenth Precinct.”
“I’ll go right over,” Stone said, grateful for the interruption. “Excuse me, Bill, Lord Wight,” he said to the two men, “one of my clients has an emergency, so I’ll have to leave you.”
Wight stood up and shook his hand. “I’ll speak to Sarah later today, Barrington,” he said, “and I’ll give her your regards.”
“Please do,” Stone said.
“I’ll call you later,” Eggers said.
Stone got out of there. It was a beautiful day, and he decided to walk up to the Nineteenth, which was in the East Sixties. Herbie would appreciate his presence there more if he had to stew awhile.
Stone knew the desk sergeant from the old days, when they had both been patrolmen. “Hey, Mac,” he said.
“Hiya, Stone. How’s it going?”
“Not too bad,” Stone replied. “I believe you’re hosting a client of mine, one Herbert Fisher. What’s the beef?”
Mac consulted a large ledger. “Disorderly conduct,” he said.
“How disorderly?”
Mac hit a few computer keys and read aloud from the arrest report. “Subject was a passenger in a limousine stopped for a traffic violation. While I spoke with the driver, subject got out of the car and began to berate me for stopping his car. I told subject to quiet himself and return to the rear seat, but he refused and assaulted me. I placed subject in handcuffs and transported him to the Nineteenth Precinct.”
“You know what kind of assault?” Stone asked.
“I talked to the officer when he brought Fisher in. I believe it was repeated jabs to the chest with a forefinger.”
“Trot him out, will you, Mac?”
“Two minutes,” the cop replied. “Number two’s available.” Stone went to interview room number two, sat down and waited. A moment later, Herbie, in restraints, was escorted into the part of the room on the other side of the thick plate-glass partition. One of his hands was uncuffed so that he could use the telephone. He picked it up.
“Stone,” he said, “a cop tried to beat me up.”
“Save it, Herbie,” Stone replied. “I’ve heard all about it, and the incident could get you up to a year at Riker’s but probably more like thirty days.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Save it,’ Herbie. Now if you’ll behave yourself for half an hour I’ll try to get you out of here.” Stone pressed a button, and the escorting officer returned. “We’re done,” he said to the man. Herbie was escorted back to the tank, still protesting.
Stone left the interview room and walked upstairs to the detective squad room. Dino was sitting in his glass-enclosed office at the far end of the room, and he waved Stone in and pointed at a chair. He finished his conversation and hung up. “So,” he said, what brings you out of your cozy East Side town house and into this temple of justice?”
“Herbie,” Stone replied.
Dino rolled his eyes. “What now?”
“He had an argument with a cop during a traffic stop, and the guy ran him in for disorderly conduct; he’s in the tank. I’ll buy the next two dinners at Elaine’s if you’ll get him released and make the report go away.”
“Are you attempting to bribe an officer of the law?” Dino asked sternly.
“Yes,” Stone replied.
“The next five dinners,” Dino said.
“Four, and that’s my best offer. Herbie can rot.”
“Done.” Dino made the call. “You can meet him downstairs. See you tonight?”
“Yeah, and thanks.”
“I’m ordering the good wines,” Dino said.
“Don’t press your luck, pal,” Stone replied and went back downstairs.
HERBIE WAS LED from the cells and into the public area, rubbing his wrists. “I want to sue them,” he said.
Stone took him by the arm and marched him into the street. “Sue who?” he asked.
“All of them, the whole precinct.”
“For what?”
“Disrespect,” Herbie said.
“That’s not grounds for a lawsuit, Herbie, especially since you’ve been a guest here before. They tend to remember those things.”
The Maybach glided to a halt next to where they were standing, and the chauffeur got out and opened the rear door.
“I think I found the right penthouse,” Herbie said. “It’s on Park Avenue, up in the nineties.”
Stone thought that was probably far enough from his house. “Sounds great, Herbie.”
“You want to come and take a look?”
“Can’t do it today; I had to leave an important meeting to uncan you.”
“I’m going to pick up Sheila and take one more look,” Herbie said.
“I’m sure Sheila will give you sage real estate advice,” Stone said, “but
if I were you, I wouldn’t ask her opinion on decor.”
“Why not?”
“I think Sheila’s tastes might run more to the Bronx than to Park Avenue.”
“There you go again, misjudging people,” Herbie said. “Sheila is from Queens.”
“Of course she is,” Stone said.
“By the way, I’ve got a witness to an assault on me that was instigated by the Wilds,” Herbie said.
“Who’s the witness?”
“Sheila.”
“Herbie, Sheila probably works for someone close to the Wilds.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s a hooker, and the Wilds are probably her pimp’s loan shark and bookie, respectively.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Herbie said.
“Go buy your apartment,” Stone said. “If you like, I’ll do the closing.”
“Closing?”
“That’s where you and the seller meet, he gives you documents transferring the apartment to you and you give him money. I should think that an Internet attorney like yourself would know that.”
“I knew that,” Herbie said. He got into the Maybach and was driven away.
Stone hailed a cab.
23
Joan was on the phone as Stone walked into his offices. “Bill Eggers for you on one,” she said.
Stone walked back to his office, sat down and picked up the phone. “Hey, Bill.”
“What do you mean walking out on us that way?” Eggers demanded.
“I had a client in the tank at the Nineteenth Precinct, and, anyway, I was of no use to you in a conversation about clubs and real estate. By the way, I noticed you and Wight don’t have the Royal Yacht Squadron in common.”
“Wight was blackballed,” Eggers said.
“I figured. How did the meeting go?”
“He’s selling a building he owns in town, and we’re doing the legal work.”
“Congratulations! I’m glad to have been able to make some rain for you.”
“I made my own rain, no thanks to you. You just pointed me at him.”
“I introduced you and rather warmly, I believe.”
“All right, all right, you introduced us. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I get a referral fee, don’t I?”
“Don’t press me, Stone; you’ll get something when the sale closes and Wight’s bill is paid.”
“Your word is good enough for me, Bill.”
“Which one of your clients was in jail?”
“One Herbert Fisher, who stupidly got into an altercation with a cop during a traffic stop.”
“You’re handling that kind of crap?”
“He paid me a very nice retainer to do all his legal work. He’s buying a penthouse apartment on Park Avenue as we speak.”
“Maybe you should introduce him to us,” Eggers said.
“Believe me, Bill, you don’t want to know him, and I don’t want anybody to know that I know him.”
“Oh, that kind of client.”
“You remember when I represented that guy who shot Carmine Dattila, aka Dattila the Hun, in a coffeehouse in Little Italy?”
“Sure. You were famous for a day.”
“Herbie Fisher was that guy.”
“You’re right. We don’t want to know him, but since you mentioned it, how did you get him off?”
“I made a case to the DA for self-defense, which was helped by the fact that a NYPD/FBI task force had just disarmed everybody in the coffeehouse and had Dattila under electronic and visual surveillance.”
“I should have thought that would have clinched the case against your client.”
“Sure, but it would have made both the NYPD and the FBI look like asses.”
“You’re a lucky son of a bitch, you know that?”
“Sometimes.”
“You want to play tennis at the Racquet Club tomorrow, with Jim Hackett and me?”
“Sure, what time?”
“Six o’clock.”
“See you then.”
“I’ll leave your name at the door.” Eggers hung up, and so did Stone.
Joan buzzed him immediately. “Herbie Fisher called while you were on the phone and said he bought the apartment and he wants to close tomorrow.”
“Get him back for me, please.” Stone waited until she buzzed, then picked up. “Herbie?”
“Yeah, Stone. I got the apartment.”
“How much did you pay?”
“Three and a half million dollars, and I got it furnished. They wanted five and a half, but I’m a good negotiator. I want to close tomorrow.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Herbie. First we have to do a title search.”
“What’s that?”
“Have you forgotten all the questions on that bar exam you sort of took?”
“It sounds familiar.”
“It means we have to find out if the title to the apartment is good, if there are any encumbrances, like mortgages. If there are, the seller has to pay them off at the closing, so you get a clean deal. It’s going to take at least a week.”
“Can I move in now?”
“No, Herbie. You don’t own it yet.”
“But I gave them a check for ten percent.”
“You’ll have to give them the other ninety percent before you can move in.”
“Can I move in on closing day?”
“I’ll see that that’s in the contract,” Stone said. “Is anyone living there now?”
“No. They already moved out and took everything they wanted. The rest is mine.”
“Talk to your real estate agent; she’ll get the whole thing together and put me in touch with the seller’s attorney.”
“Are you sure I can’t move in today?”
“Herbie, they won’t even give you the keys until the closing.”
“I can pick a lock.”
“Don’t you do that, Herbie! You want to go back to jail for breaking and entering?”
“Can I have the living room painted? I don’t like the color.”
“Talk to your agent; maybe she can get permission.”
“Can I break a wall down?”
“Don’t even think about it, Herbie. You have to play by the rules!”
“Oh, okay,” Herbie replied, sounding dejected.
“Listen, you can go out and buy furniture and pictures and other things and have them delivered the day after closing. You might need sheets and towels, too.”
“Yeah, Sheila and I could do that.”
“I think I need to have a little chat with Sheila,” Stone said.
“What for? You trying to get laid?”
“No, Herbie. I just need to straighten her out on where her loyalties lie.”
“Her loyalties don’t lie.”
“Her loyalties to you, Herbie. Is she going to be loyal to you or to her pimp?”
“I want to marry her,” Herbie said.
“In that case, you’re going to need an ironclad prenup, and I can do that for you.”
“What’s a prenup?”
“A prenuptial agreement that sets out what’s yours and what’s hers, should you get divorced.”
“We’re not going to get divorced,” Herbie said.
“That’s what everybody who ever got married believed, until they got divorced. This is absolutely mandatory, Herbie, and I don’t want an argument about it. When is the wedding?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t asked her yet.”
“Herbie, if you get married without my having gotten her signature on a prenup, I will stop representing you, and she will take all your money.”
“She’s not like that.”
“That’s what everybody who ever got divorced said. Promise me you won’t set a date until I say it’s okay.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“Good-bye, Herbie. I’ll get your closing set up.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.
“Yes?”
“Print out
a prenup for me, will you?”
“Sure. Which one?”
“The maximum-strength one.”
“Gotcha. You getting married?”
“No, but Herbie probably is.”
Stone heard a loud cackle as she hung up.
24
Stone got to Elaine’s first, and two couples he didn’t know were sitting at the table next to his. One of the men got up, walked around the table, tapped Stone on the shoulder and stuck out his hand. “Stone Barrington, I believe?”
Stone stood up and accepted the hand. “I believe, too,” he said.
“I’m Jim Hackett; I understand we’re playing tennis tomorrow evening.” Hackett was a little shorter than Stone, solidly built and had a broken nose that made him look like an ex-fighter.
“Hi, Jim,” Stone said. “I’ve heard about you from Bill Eggers, and I’m looking forward to our game.”
“So am I,” Hackett replied.
“I’m a little rusty, so I hope you’ll go easy on me.”
Hackett smiled. “Don’t count on it,” he said. “I hope Eggers told you we play for money.”
“He didn’t, so you can collect your winnings from him. I’m sure he’ll find a way to put my losses on his expense account.”
Hackett laughed. “See you tomorrow.” He went back to his seat.
Dino came in and sat down. “Where’s Felicity?”
“Working. Some sort of meeting.”
Dino waylaid a passing waiter. “Bring what’s-his-name here his usual Kentucky swill and me my usual princely Scotch,” Dino said. “And a wine list; Stone’s buying.”
“Here we go,” Stone said, rolling his eyes.
Dino pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Stone. “Here’s Herbie’s arrest report,” he said. “I scrubbed it from the computer, too.”
Stone looked it over and then put it in his pocket.
“Aren’t you going to burn it?”
“Not until I’ve shown it to Herbie,” Stone replied.
“What’s he up to these days, besides annoying honest police officers?”
“He bought an apartment on Park Avenue for three and a half big ones,” Stone said.
“Where on Park?”
Stone recited the number.
“Not the penthouse, I hope.”