Stuart Woods - Fresh Disasters

Stone shook the hand by grabbing the fingers, preventing a grip. “Just fine, thanks.” He sat down.

“I’ve already ordered,” Finger said. “Important meeting. What’ll you have?”

“A small salad and the Dover sole,” Stone said to the waiter. “And a glass of sauvignon blanc.”

“You know,” Finger said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, giving Stone a close view of thousands of dollars of hair plugs embedded in his scalp, “I hear around town you’re a fairly smart guy. How’d you let yourself get involved in this ridiculous thing?”

“Oh, well, let’s see,” Stone said, screwing up his face for thought and staring at the ceiling. “Egregious violence perpetrated in a public place upon an innocent by a man with deep pockets. That clears my bar for case acceptance.” He looked at Finger and smiled. “I’ll bet it clears your bar, too, Bernie.”

“But Stone, didn’t you consider who you’re suing?”

“Bernie, it’s not like Carmine Dattila is the archbishop of New York; he’s a cheap hood-all right, an expensive hood-who makes his way in the world by preying on those weaker than he. He’s a piece of dog shit in the gutter, Bernie, and I have to wonder what kind of lawyer would represent him in a public courtroom.”

Finger went all pink, but his response was cut off by a tray of a dozen fat oysters set before him. He ate four of them, emptying them from the shell into his mouth, before he managed a reply. “All right, let’s just stay away from personal abuse here.”

“Stop insulting my intelligence, and I’ll stop insulting your client list.”

Finger ate four more oysters. “Look, let’s cut to the chase; I want to make a proposal!”

Stone dug into his salad. “So, propose.”

“What we’ve got here is your stubborn client and my stubborn client. Carmine is never, repeat never , going to cough up a thin dime of his own money to buy your client off.”

“That’s okay,” Stone said. “When I win in court, and I will, I’ll just attach everything connected with him-lock, stock and coffeehouse. I’m sure I can wring a nice piece of change out of his visible assets.”

“You think Carmine has assets? Jesus, Stone, not even his fucking pinkie ring is in his own name; even his clothes , for legal purposes, are borrowed. You’re talking about drilling a dry well, and that’s going to cost you a lot of time, and time, as any lawyer knows, is money.”

Stone’s Dover sole arrived and was expertly boned by the captain and placed before him. He took a bite and savored the flavor and the texture. “Speak, Bernie.”

“How’s about this. I’ve got a nice little personal-injury suit in my firm right now-my newest associate is handling it-and it’s going to settle for half a million, maybe six hundred thousand, before very long. How about I toss you the case; you settle it, take your cut and give Mr. Fisher whatever you think he’ll take, then pocket the rest. It’s quick, clean, and requires no outlay for my client or even, for that matter, his knowledge. Your client makes out, you make out, my client doesn’t get mad and I make it up on the next case!”

Stone took another bite of the sole, chewed, swallowed, then took a sip of his wine. “Bernie, I do not possess the mathematical skills to count the number of ways that that is unethical, immoral, illegal and just a terrible idea. If you’re so afraid of your client that you won’t or can’t persuade him to do the right thing, then just write me a check for, say, half a million on your firm’s account, and make it back from Dattila in fees. Then everybody’s happy, unless Dattila figures out what you did, but you’re too smart to let that happen.”

Finger downed his last four oysters, stood up and threw down his napkin. “All right, you son of a bitch, I tried. Now I’m going to show you how law is practiced.”

“Is that what you were doing last night, with the two gorillas? Practicing law? Oh, by the way, did they ever find their car?”

Finger went pink again. “You’ll see,” he said, and turned to leave.

“And Bernie…”

“Yeah?”

“If you try and stick me with the check, I’ll embarrass you before the whole room.”

Finger turned and did his very best impression of a man, in high dudgeon, storming out of a restaurant. Half the eyes in the place followed him, then swiveled back to Stone, who was calmly enjoying his Dover sole.

Stone had been sipping bourbon at Elaine’s for ten minutes when Celia Cox swept into the place. She was wearing a long wool coat, which was open at the front, to reveal a short silk dress that displayed an acre of cleavage and miles of leg. The sound of heads swiveling and eyeballs snapping could be heard in the sudden silence, which lasted for about a second and a half before the hubbub resumed.

Stone rose to greet her, but not far enough. She was wearing four-inch heels, which made her tall enough to play in the NBA game on the TV. He stood on his tiptoes, kissed her on the cheek and took her coat.

“Where’s the ladies’?” she asked.

Stone pointed to the rear door. “Turn right there, then it’s the second door on your left.”

“Be right back.”

Stone sat down to applause from a bunch of guys a couple of tables down. He tried not to blush.

Dino walked in and took his usual seat. “So, where’s the broad?”

“In the ladies’,” Stone said. “Remember, you get one drink, then you vanish in a puff of smoke.” He was looking forward to this introduction.

“Sure, sure.” Dino’s Scotch arrived. He took a sip and spat.

“It’s the Great Scot,” Stone said. “I ordered it special for you, so you would get the message.” He signaled to a waiter, who brought Dino’s usual Johnnie Walker Black and removed the offending glass.

“That was a shitty thing to do to a guy,” Dino said, swishing the Johnnie Black around in his mouth to dissolve the last remnants of the Great Scot.

Celia returned from the ladies’ and Stone and Dino stood. “Celia Cox, Dino Bacchetti, an old friend.”

She reached down to shake his hand. Dino came up exactly to her nipples. “How do you do?” she asked, amused.

“Hello,” Dino managed, awestruck.

“Dino’s joining us for just this one drink,” Stone said.

“Oh, what a shame,” Celia said. “Can’t you stay for dinner, Dino?”

“Well, I…”

Stone kicked him under the table.

Dino winced. “I’m meeting somebody, business.”

“What a pity.”

“Isn’t it,” Stone said, unable not to smile. “What would you like to drink?” he asked Celia.

“Do they have any decent bourbon in this joint?” she asked sweetly.

“Waiter, bring the lady a Knob Creek. On the rocks?”

“Perfect,” she said.

“So nice to meet a woman who drinks bourbon,” Stone said.

“I’m a southern girl from a small town in Georgia called Delano, where they consider Scotch un-American.”

Menus arrived. “Only two,” Stone said to the waiter. “Dino has to be someplace.”

“I think that’s my cue to scram,” Dino said, rising. “So nice to meet you, Celia. I hope to see a lot more of you.”

“That’s my line,” Stone said. “Good night, Dino.”

The waiter escorted Dino to another table and held the chair for him.

“You were rude to your friend,” Celia said.

“We do that a lot,” Stone replied, “but only because I didn’t want to share you.”

“Thank you for not saying there’s enough of me to go around; I’ve heard all the tall jokes.”

Elaine came over and sat down, and Stone introduced the two women. “You’re taller sitting down than I am standing up,” Elaine said.