Stuart Woods - Fresh Disasters

“This does not sound like a very nice man you’re suing,” Marilyn said.

“I think that sums him up in a nutshell,” Stone replied. “He is not the sort of man most people want to tangle with.”

“Then why are you tangling with him? Are you so very brave?”

“It’s a long story,” Stone said.

Marilyn turned to Dino. “People say that when they don’t want to talk about something.”

“You are quick,” Dino replied.

There was a muffled ringing noise, and Marilyn dug a cell phone out of her purse. “Excuse me,” she said. “Hello? It’s difficult to say at the moment. If you insist. All right. Half an hour.” She closed the phone. “I’m afraid you gentlemen are going to have to excuse me,” she said. “I have kind of an emergency.”

“A massage emergency?” Dino asked.

“It’s a long story.”

Dino turned and glanced at Stone. “People say that when they don’t want to talk about something.”

Marilyn laughed. “You are quick, Dino. Stone, I’ll see you tomorrow morning at ten.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“I can’t wait to get my hands on you.” She gave a little wave and hurried away.

“Ask her if she makes calls at police stations,” Dino said.

Stone slept a little later than usual. At nine Joan buzzed him.

“Mmmf,” Stone said.

“Rough night?”

“No, I have a masseuse coming at ten, so it’s hardly worth getting out of bed.”

“A Mr. Bernard Finger called and left a message before I got in. Do you know him?”

“He’s a lawyer. I met him once, at the courthouse; he was defending a drug dealer. It’s probably about the Dattila thing.”

“So, Mr. Dattila is responding?”

“I’m not going to count on it. I’ll call him back later; don’t want to look too anxious.”

“Right.”

“Will you send the lady up when she arrives? Her name is Marilyn.”

“Wilco.”

“I love it when you talk pilot.” He hung up, turned over and went back to sleep. The phone buzzed again; Stone picked it up. “What?”

“It’s ten forty-five, and she hasn’t shown.”

“Ah, okay. I’ll deal with it.” He rolled out of bed, went to his dressing room, rummaged through the contents of his pockets dumped on the dresser top the night before and found Marilyn’s card. He went back, sat on the bed and dialed her number. There came back a loud squawk and a mechanical voice: “The number you have dialed is not in service; please check the number and dial again.”

He must have dialed a wrong digit, he thought, and he dialed again; same result. Very peculiar. By the time he had showered, shaved and dressed it seemed very, very peculiar. He went down to his office and called Bernard Finger.

“Stone Barrington!” Finger shouted into the phone, as if they were long-lost friends. Finger was a large, voluble man.

“Good morning, Mr. Finger. You rang?”

“Call me Bernie!” Finger shouted. “Everybody does! And I’ll call you Stoney!”

“Over my dead body,” Stone replied.

“Ha! My client can arrange that!” He dissolved in loud guffaws.

“And your client is…?”

“You’ve met him, Stone. Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you. What can I do for you, Bernie?”

“I represent a certain party downtown who was baffled yesterday to have you walk into his place of business and hand him a summons! He wants to know what this is all about!”

“Didn’t you read the complaint, Bernie?”

“Well, not exactly; it didn’t really survive the day!”

“I’ll send you a copy.”

“Just give me a quick run-through, and I’ll read it later!”

“My client lost a considerable sum of money, betting with one of your client’s employees. When he failed to pay fast enough, two of your client’s other employees dragged him from a public eating establishment, causing him great humiliation and embarrassment, then proceeded to beat him on the sidewalk, until they were interrupted by a police officer.”

“Did the cop arrest them?”

“No.”

“Well, then it couldn’t have been too serious, could it?”

“I assure you, my client takes it very seriously, since he now faces plastic surgery to his face, and he is looking forward to meeting your client in court.”

Finger’s tone changed, and he spoke more quietly. “Well, Stone, I have to presume you know who you’re dealing with here.”

“Bernard Finger, Esquire, I presume.”

“Heh, heh. Well I’m sure you understand that my client is not accustomed to being hauled into court on civil matters.”

“Only landlords are accustomed to that,” Stone replied. “I suggest you explain to your client that this is, indeed, a civil matter, which means that he will be required to testify, and he won’t be able to clam up the way he does when he’s addressed by the U.S. attorney. Tell him that I will look forward to questioning him about his various sources of income and his business practices, and I am certain that various members of the federal legal establishment will be present in the courtroom to hear his answers and to learn if he perjures himself. I would also expect a trial to be attended by many members of the media.”

“Well, Stone, that ain’t never going to happen.”

“Then I will see your client in civil jail while he ruminates on his response to my client’s lawsuit.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, Bernie, your client doesn’t understand, and I hardly need remind you that it is your duty to explain it all to him, a prospect that I do not envy you. By the way, yet another of your client’s employees attacked and injured me in the La Boheme coffeehouse yesterday, and I am contemplating legal recourse. Finally, you should tell your client that I anticipate an extralegal response to this suit, either against my client or myself, and that I welcome such actions, since they will only strengthen my position and make him further liable for a criminal action against him.”

“Stone, you sound very tense, you know. You should have a massage, or something. Good morning.” Bernard Finger hung up.

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone.”

“Morning.”

“Guess who I just had a call from.”

Dino sighed. “Just tell me.”

“Bernard Finger.”

“The man himself?”

“None other. He represents Carmine Dattila.”

“Big surprise, not that he represents Carmine, but that he bothered to call you.”

“Guess who else represents Dattila.”

“You got me again.”

“The lovely Marilyn, from last night.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“She didn’t show for our appointment this morning, and the phone number on her card is a phony. Then, after my conversation with Finger, he says, slyly, that I sound tense and I should have a massage. I think the preponderance of the evidence points to a pecuniary relationship, at the very least, between Marilyn and Carmine.”

“So you think he sent her to Elaine’s to pump you about your lawsuit?”

“What else?”

“That sounds more like something Bernie Finger would do.”

“You have a point,” Stone said.

“I frequently do.”

“Listen, why don’t you put some of your little-used police skills to work and find out who she is?”

“So what am I going to go on? Beautiful blonde with phony phone number? I don’t think our computers could handle that.”

“I guess not.”

“And besides, it’s not as though she committed a crime. I don’t think it’s a felony to offer massage and not show up.”

“It ought to be,” Stone said.

“In a more perfect world.”