Stuart Woods - Lucid Intervals

“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.

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?”