Stuart Woods: Lucid Intervals

“Is that the sort of information Stanley Whitestone was selling?”

She grimaced. “He was selling everything but, thank God, not the toe tag; that was after his time. If word got out about that, there would be husbands dropping dead every day in their dozens, and not a few wives, too.”

“That reminds me,” Stone said. He produced his iPhone, pressed a couple of buttons and showed her a minute or so of the Seagram footage. “I don’t know if this is the guy,” he said, “but we eliminated all the other candidates. This one has the virtue of dressing British and walking funny.”

“The quality is very good,” she said. “Amazing, in fact. Where did you get the equipment?”

“The cameras are high-definition, off-the-shelf stuff; the iPhone comes from the Apple Store at Fifty-ninth and Fifth.”

“Let me see it again,” she said, and she watched closely as he reran it.

“What do you think?”

“I think he walks funny,” she said, “and I’ve been trying to picture exactly how and why Stanley walked funny. If this is Stanley, then all that weight he has gained has accentuated his gait.” She handed the phone back to Stone. “This is a very good effort,” she said. “It would have taken a lot longer if my people had done it. Can you e-mail me the images?”

“Of course.” Stone tapped a few buttons. “It’s done.”

“Now,” she said, “can you find this man?”

“If he returns to the Seagram Building,” Stone said. “My guy has alerted security there to keep an eye out for him.”

“Have we heard from Dino and the FBI yet?” she asked.

“No, the FBI takes longer than my guys and your guys put together, but it’s a remarkable system for plucking faces out of the files. Do you think Stanley Whitestone might have committed a crime in this country?”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” she said, “but I’d be very surprised if the FBI or anybody else has caught him doing it.”

“Well, if he has been caught at something and his image pops up, the FBI will be all over this.”

“And if he should fall into their hands,” she said, emptying her drink, “he’ll tell them everything he knows about us and all he can make up, just to stay out of prison.”

“Perhaps I should have thought of that before asking Dino to do this.”

“No, I think it was the right thing; it might turn up something, and we might get to him before the FBI does.”

“Whatever you could say. I might still be able to stop Dino.”

“No, this isn’t going to be easy; we’re going to need every resource available. The trail is very cold.”

“As you wish.”

She looked at him closely. “Subject change,” she said. “Why are you still alone?”

Stone blinked. “Why are you?” he asked.

“My work,” she replied. “Now back to you.”

“I don’t know, really. They come and they go. I get dumped a lot.”

“Why?”

“I think they think I’m incapable of commitment.”

“Is that true?”

“No, I don’t think so, but I’m very careful about who I commit to. Don’t you think you’re blaming too much on your work?”

“I tried to explain this before: it works better if we’re both in the service. We are the only people who understand us. Say I married some barrister or stockbroker. There would be a constant schedule of work-related social events, and I would make very few of them. I work all hours, and men get lonely, just as women do. Men are not understanding when you tell them nothing about what you do. It drives them crazy.”

“I suppose I can understand that, but you’ve told me quite a lot tonight.”

Felicity laughed. “If, say, the Chinese or the North Koreans captured you and you told them everything I’ve told you, they would kill you because you told them nothing.”

“See,” Stone said, laughing. And then their dinner arrived.

Stone was at his desk the following morning when Herbie Fisher appeared at his office door, unannounced. The phone buzzed, and Stone picked it up. “Yes?”

“Mr. Herbert Fisher to see you,” Joan said drily.

“Thank you so much,” Stone said, and hung up. “What can I do for you, Herbie?” he asked.

Herbie came in and took a seat across the desk from Stone. “I know who’s trying to kill me,” he said.

Stone held up a hand, a stopping motion. “Herbie, think back a couple of years: someone was trying to kill you then, remember? Dattila the Hun?”

“Oh, yeah. I remember that.”

“We sued him, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“And what happened?”

“Uh, I shot him.”

“Right.”

“It was easier than suing him.”

“Easier for you,” Stone said, remembering what he had had to do to keep Herbie from being tried. “If you kill somebody else you think is trying to kill you, the DA is going to remember that little incident with Dattila. You understand?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Don’t guess, Herbie, know it. You can’t make a habit of that sort of thing and stay out of prison.”

“All right, I know it.”

“Now, who’s trying to kill you?”

“My bookie,” Herbie said.

“And what is his motive?”

“I stopped betting with him.”

“You got a new bookie?”

“No, I just stopped betting. I went into the bar he works out of, put a hundred and forty-eight grand on the bar-that squared me with him-and told him I wasn’t betting anymore.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He didn’t take it very well,” Herbie said.

“He didn’t take it very well how?”

“Well, first he shook my hand and slapped me on the back and offered me a credit line of a quarter million.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Stone said.

“When I told him I wasn’t betting anymore he backhanded me across the face and told me if I tried betting with anybody else he would kill me.”

“He assumed you would change bookies?”

“I guess.”

“I suppose that would upset him.”

“I explained it to him: I told him I just wasn’t going to bet anymore… with anybody. That really pissed him off, like I had violated his constitutional rights or something.”

“And you think he took it hard enough to want to kill you.”

“Well, if I’m not going to bet anymore, what does he have to lose?”

“Herbie,” Stone said, “that may be the first entirely logical thing you’ve ever said to me. You’ve just had a lucid interval.”

Herbie looked puzzled. “Huh?”

“You paid off your loan shark, too, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I only owed him ninety grand.”

“How did he take it?”

“Not very well, either. Of course, he’s my bookie’s brother, so maybe it runs in the family. He told me I would have to go right on paying the vigorish, and I told him to go fuck himself.”

“Who are these people?”

“Joe and Moe Wildstein.”

“That sounds like two-thirds of the Three Stooges,” Stone said.

“Well, it’s not. They’re known around town as the Wild Boys.”

“Tell me, Herbie-not to digress-why did you decide to stop betting and borrowing with the Wildsteins?”

“The Wild Boys.”

“I stand corrected. Why?”

“I thought about it, and I think it’s because when you’re betting with money you don’t have, it doesn’t seem real.”

“Until they try to collect.”

“Well, yeah. But up until that moment, it’s like Monopoly money, you know? But if you’re laying a bet with money you actually have, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea. I mean, you could lose, you know?”

“I can guess,” Stone said. “Now let’s get back to your lawsuit against the, ah, Wild Boys. Is it both of them you want to sue?”