Stuart Woods - Unnatural acts

“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.”

Herbie’s Maybach slid to a halt in front of the La Boheme 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 Boheme, he was camouflaged as one of the layabouts who alternated drinking grappa with playing bocce in the back garden.

Herbie’s appearance at La Boheme 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.”