Stuart Woods - Fresh Disasters

“Look over there,” Herbie said, nodding.

Stone looked. Two large men were occupying a sofa meant for four; they were the two who had dragged Herbie from Elaine’s the night all this had started. He walked past them to the reception desk, gave his name and was directed to the conference room.

“Are they the guys who held you in the attic?” Stone asked.

“Yeah,” Herbie replied, tugging at Stone’s sleeve and nodding again. Carmine Dattila was getting off the elevator. “And that’s the guy who told them to kill me slow.”

“You wait here,” Stone said. “I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

“Are you kidding? With those two guys? They’ll kill me while you’re gone.”

“Just a minute,” Stone said. He went to the reception desk. “I’m here for two depositions, and I need a private room where one of the witnesses can wait.”

“First door on your right,” the woman said. “That’s an empty office.”

Stone walked back toward Herbie, noting that the two large men were deep in conversation with Carmine Dattila and ignoring them.

He escorted Herbie to the empty office. “You wait in this room, and don’t leave for anything,” he said.

“But what if I have to go to the john?”

“You’re just going to have to hold it, unless you want to have another conversation with Tweedledum and Tweedledee out there.”

“Their names are Cheech and Gus,” Herbie replied. “I forget which is which.”

“Do you want to die, Herbie?”

“No.”

“Then don’t leave this office until I come for you.”

“Aw, okay.”

“If you’re gone when I come back, your lawsuit will be dismissed, and Cheech and Gus will find you and kill you slow.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Herbie said testily.

“There’s a TV; you can watch the soap operas.”

“Yeah, great!”

Stone left and went back to the conference room. Bernard Finger, Carmine Dattila and a court stenographer were waiting for him. “Good morning,” he said to the assembled group, then took a seat.

“Are you ready to begin?” Finger asked.

“Yes.” He turned to the stenographer. “Please swear the witness.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Finger said.

“Swear him, and if you haven’t already explained to him that the laws of perjury apply, please do so now.”

“He understands.”

The stenographer produced a bible and swore in Dattila.

Stone elicited his name and address and made sure the stenographer got it down right. “What is your occupation, Mr. Dattila?”

“I manage a coffee shop.”

“Do you also own the coffee shop?”

“No.”

“Do you own the building in which the coffee shop operates?”

“No.”

“Do you own a corporation that owns these properties or do you own them through a third party?”

“Objection,” Finger said. “Mr. Dattila declines to answer on the grounds of possible self-incrimination.” He turned to the stenographer. “In the future, I’ll just say ‘Fifth’ when objecting on those grounds.”

“It’s not a crime to own a building or a coffee shop, Mr. Dattila.”

“The objection stands.”

“Mr. Dattila, do you also directly or through other parties operate a gambling enterprise?”

“Fifth!” Finger said. “You surprise me, Stone.”

“Mr. Dattila, does anyone owe you money?”

Dattila looked at Finger.

“You may answer,” Finger said.

“Maybe.”

“Where do you keep the record of who owes you money?” Stone asked.

Dattila silently tapped his head with a forefinger.

“Let the record show that the witness tapped his forehead. Do you have a written record of those who owe you money?”

“No,” Dattila replied.

“How much money does Herbert Fisher owe you?”

“Who?”

“Herbert Fisher, the plaintiff in this lawsuit. How much does he owe you?”

“Fifth!” Finger said.

“That was a little slow, Mr. Finger. This is material information, and you can’t object to it.”

“I’m not sure,” Dattila said.

“Does the figure twenty-four thousand dollars ring a bell?”

“Could be, maybe.”

“What means have you employed to collect Mr. Fisher’s debt?”

“I might have had a friend ask him, you know, nice.”

“Does nice include having him dragged out of a restaurant and beaten on the sidewalk?”

“Objection,” Finger said. “Irrelevant.”

“It’s perfectly relevant, as it’s part of the basis of our suit.”

“Maybe somebody insisted a little,” Dattila said, “without my personal knowledge.”

“Mr. Dattila, after repeated, unsuccessful attempts to collect the debt from Mr. Fisher, what steps did you take?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Did you order two of your employees, namely Cheech and Gus, who are sitting outside in the reception room, to kidnap and torture Mr. Fisher?”

“Me?” Dattila looked shocked.

“Answer the question, Mr. Dattila.”

“I wouldn’t never do nothing like that.”

“Did you enter the room where Cheech and Gus were torturing Mr. Fisher and order them to, quote, ‘kill him slow’?”

“I’m afraid you’ve got me mixed up with some other guy.” Dattila turned to Finger. “Can I go now?”

Finger turned to Stone. “I don’t think you’re getting anywhere here.”

“I’ll make the charge of perjury at an appropriate time,” Stone said. “No further questions, until I get him on the witness stand in court.”

“Then I think we’re done here,” Finger said. “I’ll call you, Carmine.” The two men shook hands, and Dattila left.

“My witness is ready,” Stone said. “Wait here, and I’ll get him.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Finger said. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to a lot of lies.”

“You mean, like the lies we just heard from your client?”

“Good day, Stone. I’ll see you in court.”

“You certainly will.” Stone got up and walked through the reception area to the empty office where he had deposited his client.

Herbie was gone. He checked the men’s room: not there, either. He went back to the receptionist. “Excuse me, have you seen my client, the young man I put in the empty office?”

“Oh, he left about five minutes later,” the woman replied.

“What about the two large men who were waiting on the sofa over there?”

“They left right after your client did,” she replied, then went back to her People magazine.

Back on the street, Stone looked up and down the block. Herbie, Cheech and Gus were nowhere in sight. He was crossing Third Avenue, with the light, when the car struck him.

Like a film clip on a loop, the scene played over and over against the inside of Stone’s eyelids. He felt some sort of blow, then flew through the air, looking down at the top of a dark blue car. When he was about even with the rear bumper, the scene repeated. “Stop it, goddammit!” he yelled.

“Well, you’re awake,” a low woman’s voice said.

Stone opened his eyes and saw a ceiling of acoustic tiles and fluorescent light fixtures. He lifted his head, but a soft hand on his forehead pressed it back down.

“Just relax. Do you know where you are?”

He had caught a glimpse of a pretty girl in a green garment with a stethoscope around her neck. “Hospital, maybe? Just a wild guess.”

She laughed and pressed a button, raising the head of the bed. “Right the first time,” she said. “Do you remember anything?”

“Flying over a dark blue car,” he replied. “That’s it. I left a law firm’s office, and I was flying over a dark blue car. Over and over.”