Stuart Woods: Lucid Intervals

“With who?”

“With a client.” Stone’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Yes?”

“You said to interrupt you after five minutes.”

“It’s been at least half an hour,” Stone replied.

“No, it just seems that way when you’re with Herbie.”

“You have a point. Send him right in as soon as he arrives.”

“Herbie?”

“No, my other client.”

“Oh, that client,” Joan said, then hung up.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Herbie,” Stone said, looking at his watch again.

“Why? What did you do?”

This was turning into an Abbott & Costello routine. “Another client is due here right now, and I have to see him.”

“Can’t I stay until he arrives?” Herbie asked.

“No, he wouldn’t like that. It’s a client confidentiality thing.”

“Can’t I just wait outside until he’s gone?”

“I’m afraid not, Herbie. Good day.”

“Good day,” Herbie repeated. “I like that-‘Good day.’ ”

“Good day,” Stone said again. “It means you’re leaving.”

“Oh, okay,” Herbie said, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

Stone stood up and offered his hand. “Good day. I’ll see you when you have a legal problem to discuss.”

Herbie shook his hand. “Good day, Stone.”

“Good day and good-bye,” Stone said. He pointed at the door. “That’s the way out.”

“Won’t I run into your client if I go out that way? That would be a breach of confidentiality, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll just have to risk it,” Stone said. “Joan!” he shouted. “Show Mr. Fisher out!”

Joan emerged from her office. “This way, Mr. Fisher,” she said, and Herbie followed her to the door like a puppy.

Stone picked up the phone and dialed Bob Cantor.

“Cantor.”

“Bob,” he said, “do you have some special technique for getting rid of your nephew?”

“I just tell him to get the fuck out,” Cantor replied.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” Stone said. “Herbie was wearing a very nice suit.”

“Yeah, he’s dressing better since he got rich.”

“He said his suit was made by a tailor named Sam Leung at Lexington and Sixty-fourth. You might show Mr. Leung the photo of Stanley Whitestone.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll call Willie. He and Peter are canvassing tailor shops right now.”

“Any luck with the Seagram Building security tapes?”

“I got somebody running them down right now.”

“Let me know if you come up with anything.”

“Well, yeah, Stone. What else did you expect?”

“Bob, was Herbie dropped on his head as a baby?”

“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Cantor replied. “See ya.”

Stone hung up. Then Joan came in again.

“I’ve got news,” she said.

“What news?’

“Dolce is hanging out across the street again. You want me to shoot her?”

Stone thought for a moment. “No, but call Eduardo Bianchi’s secretary and find out if he’ll see me for lunch tomorrow.”

Stone drove out to the farthest reaches of Brooklyn, to Eduardo Bianchi’s elegant Palladian home on the beach. He was greeted at the door by the wiry and slightly sinister butler who had served Eduardo for as long as anyone could remember. Rumor had it that the man had once served as an assassin for Eduardo back in the days when he had been operating as a Mafia chief of such rank that his name was not known even at the capo level. No law enforcement agency had ever recorded him, followed him or, apparently, even known of his existence.

Now Eduardo Bianchi operated at a level where mayors, governors and even presidents sought his counsel, and he served on the boards of a number of New York’s most prestigious arts organizations and charities.

Stone joined Eduardo-now probably in his late eighties if not older-at a table shaded by a wide umbrella overlooking the Roman-style pool.

“Stone,” Eduardo said, rising and offering his hand, which was cool, dry and strong, “How very good to see you. Please sit down and have some lunch.”

Stone took a chair and, once again, marveled at the old man’s youthful appearance and elegant tailoring. “You’re looking very well, Eduardo.”

“Thank you, Stone,” Eduardo said, pouring him a glass of Pinot Grigio from a chilled bottle. “What are you working on these days? Your career is always so interesting to me.”

“At the moment, I’m trying to locate a gentleman who left a British intelligence agency some years ago with a great deal of knowledge that he put to work in the marketplace.”

“Fascinating,” Eduardo replied. “And for whom are you trying to locate him?”

“For his former employers.”

“You actually know people in British intelligence?”

“Only one person, really, but she is well placed in that community.”

“And what will they do with this gentleman when you have found him? Slit his throat in some quiet, English-gentlemanly way?”

“I have been assured that that will not occur, or I would not have accepted the job.”

Eduardo smiled. “Ah, you are such an ethical man, Stone. You know, it is often said that violence never solves anything, but I have found over the years that the correct degree of violence, discreetly applied, can solve a great many things.”

Stone was surprised; Eduardo rarely made reference to that part of his past.

Lunch was served: langoustine on a bed of saffron rice with much garlic butter. The Pinot Grigio was a perfect accompaniment.

Stone waited until the dishes had been taken away and coffee served before speaking of why he had come. “Eduardo, there appears to be a problem that I need your help in resolving.”

“Something requiring violence?” Eduardo asked, a small smile playing across his lips.

“Nothing like that,” Stone said. “It’s a family matter.”

“I was of the impression that all your family had passed on,” Eduardo said.

“I was referring to your family, Eduardo.”

A shadow seemed to pass over the old man’s face. “Most of my family have passed, too, except my sister and my daughters, Anna Maria and… Dolce.”

“It is of Dolce I speak,” Stone said.

“Ah,” Eduardo replied.

“She has been spending considerable amounts of time across the street from my house, accompanied by a large man.”

“Yes,” Eduardo said, “a reliable fellow.”

“I have begun to feel uncomfortable about her presence, and my secretary is very worried.”

Eduardo looked surprised. “Does Dolce have some problem with your secretary?”

“Oh, no,” Stone said quickly. “It’s just that her office window is at street level, and she sees Dolce standing there two or three days a week. This has been going on for about a month.”

Eduardo looked bleakly into his coffee cup, then took a small sip. “I am afraid I have been foolish, Stone,” he said. “Dolce seemed to have improved greatly over the past months, becoming again much the sweet daughter she once was. As a result, I have permitted her to leave the house and make trips into the city, accompanied by Mario, of course. He is quite fond of her.”

“I thought that in view of my past… difficulties with Dolce that you might wish to know of her visits to my neighborhood.”

“Yes,” Eduardo said. “You are quite right to inform me of this. You, as well as anyone, have personal knowledge of how dangerous Dolce could be when she was-how shall I put it?-not herself.”

Stone nodded. “I am concerned for her safety,” he said.

Eduardo shook his head. “I believe you should, perhaps, be more concerned with your own.”

“Then you think she may be relapsing?”