Stuart Woods - Lucid Intervals

“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.

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.”

“Well, you can hope,” Stone said. “What’s wrong with the penthouse?”

“Nothing if Herbie isn’t bothered by ghosts.”

“Ghosts? What are you talking about?”

“You know, if you read a real street newspaper instead of the Times, you’d know these things.”

“What things?”

“There was a double murder there about a year and a half ago: man and woman found hacked to death on the living room floor. The ME says the murderers used meat cleavers.”

“Why are you telling me this? I don’t want to know this stuff.”

“Herbie might. The apartment is unsalable; there’ve been two sightings of ghosts in the place. How much is Herbie paying?”

“I told you, three and a half million.”

“I guess that’s a bargain, kind of; they were asking five.”

“Herbie says five and a half but that he’s a great negotiator.”

“They should have paid him,” Dino said. “That’s the kind of thing that hangs over a piece of real estate for decades. I guess he could redecorate.”

“He bought it furnished.”

“Take my advice: when you draw up the contract, be sure to include a clause that requires the seller-or his estate-to have the living room carpet replaced.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone said.

“Can you get him out of it?”

“He already gave them a check for three hundred and fifty grand.”

“Did he sign the disclosure form?”

“I don’t know.”

“The murders would be a factor affecting the sale price,” Dino said. “If they didn’t disclose them, you might be able to get him out of the deal.”

“If I were on the other side of the deal, I’d say that a two-million-dollar discount ought to cover the, ah, incident.”

“But you’re not on the other side of the deal.”

Stone took a swig of his drink. “I’m not going to think about this now. Tomorrow is soon enough.”

Herbie and Sheila walked into Elaine’s.

“Oh, shit,” Stone said.

The couple stopped at Stone’s table. “Hi, Stone,” Herbie said. “You remember Sheila.” Herbie was reaching for one of the two empty chairs.

STONE PUT A leg up on one of the chairs. “Sore knee,” he said to Herbie. “Good evening, Sheila.”

Sheila turned to Herbie. “They don’t want us to sit here; let’s sit in the back.”

“Herbie,” Stone said, “when you put down the deposit on the apartment, did you sign anything?”

Herbie looked thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said, slapping his pockets and coming up with an envelope.

Stone took the envelope. “I’d better look this over,” he said. “See you later.” He turned back to his drink, and Herbie took the hint, for a change.

“You going to open the envelope?” Dino asked.

“Not until I’ve had another drink,” Stone said, waving at a waiter, who was way ahead of him. Stone took a sip of his second drink and opened the envelope. “Here it is,” he said, reading from the document: “ ‘Seller acknowledges that he is aware of the previous owners’ deaths by violence in the apartment and that his offer is made with due consideration of market consequences of that event.’ ”

“I guess you could call that disclosure,” Dino said, “even though it doesn’t mention the meat cleavers or machetes.”