Stuart Woods - Reckless Abandon

“That sounds good to me,” the judge said. “Mr. Fisher, you are sentenced to suspension of your driver’s license for five years, a ten-thousand-dollar fine, and twelve months’ imprisonment.”

Herbie began to cry.

The judge looked down at his desk and said, quietly enough so the full courtroom could not hear him, “Imprisonment suspended on condition of good behavior.”

The four policemen sitting behind Dierdre were on their feet, protesting loudly, while Dierdre tried to calm them.

“Pay the clerk,” the judge said, rapping his gavel. “Next case?”

Stone took Herbie’s arm and dragged him out of the well of the courtroom, hoping to get him out before the Monahan brothers regrouped and came after Herbie.

Lance moved out of a row of seats and met them at the rear of the courtroom. “Let’s step outside,” he said, and they went into the hallway.

“You said you’d make it go away!” Herbie wailed.

Stone grabbed him by a lapel and shook him. “It did go away. Didn’t you hear the judge?”

“He said a year!”

“He also said suspended.”

Herbie wiped away a tear. “He did?”

“He did,” Lance said. He took an envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to Stone. “Pay his fine, and let’s get him out of here. Go ahead, we’ll wait here.”

Stone went back into the courtroom, found the clerk, and paid Herbie’s fine with the ten thousand dollars in cash in Lance’s envelope. He got a receipt, then rejoined Herbie and Lance in the hallway.

Lance led them out of the courthouse, and they paused at the bottom of the steps.

“Herbie,” Stone said, “do you know what ‘suspended’ means?”

“It means I’m a free man, doesn’t it?”

“No, it means you’re a free man until the second you fuck up again-until you get a ticket for jaywalking or for playing your car radio too loud-for anything at all. That happens, you’re doing a year at Rikers. You understand that?”

“Yes,” Herbie said.

“Herbie’s not going to fuck up again,” Lance said, staring at Herbie. “You remember your little sojourn in the Virgin Islands last year, Herbie?”

“Yeah, sure,” Herbie said.

“Did you like it there?”

“Yeah, it was great. I had this great deal going where I took pictures at the hotels.”

Lance took an envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Herbie. “I’m glad you liked it, Herbie, because you’re going back. Here’s your ticket.”

“I am?”

“Your flight leaves at six-twenty this evening. A man will pick you up at your home at four o’clock. You have until then to sell your car and pack.”

“I have to sell my car?” Herbie wailed. “But I just bought it!” He pointed at a new Mustang parked at the curb ten yards from where they stood. There were three parking tickets on the windshield.

“I’m afraid there’s no car ferry service to the Virgin Islands,” Lance said. “And since you can’t drive that or any other car for five years, you’ll have no need of it. By the way, there’s a voucher in the envelope for two weeks in a small hotel in Charlotte Amalie and transportation from the airport. There’s also two thousand dollars in cash, to help you get on your feet.”

“Herbie,” Stone said, “if you get into the slightest trouble in Charlotte Amalie, your previous and current convictions will pop up on the police computer, and you’ll find yourself back here, in Rikers, in a heartbeat. Do you understand?”

But Herbie wasn’t listening. “Hey!” he yelled, pointing at his car. A tow truck had pulled to the curb ahead of it. Herbie sprinted to the car, dove inside, got it started, and roared away from the curb, scattering parking tickets in the wind.

“I can’t believe he’s driving home,” Lance said.

“I wouldn’t have expected anything else,” Stone replied. “Lance, what did you say to Judge Goldstein?”

Lance shrugged. “Let’s just say the judge is a patriot. Nice doing business with you again, Stone.”

“Please, Lance, no more.”

“We’ll see,” Lance replied and strolled toward a black Lincoln parked at the curb with its motor running. Lance opened the door and paused. “Dinner tonight?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Elaine’s, eight-thirty.” He got into the car and it pulled away.

Stone noted that the car had a diplomatic license plate. He wanted one of those.

STONE GOT HOME around noon and went to his office. “Where’s Holly?” he asked Joan.

“Oh, she borrowed your car and went somewhere.”

Stone blinked. “She borrowed my car?”

“She said you said it would be okay, so I gave her the extra set of keys.”

“Any idea where she went?”

“Not a clue.”

Stone went into his office and signed some letters, then picked up the phone and dialed his car phone number. It rang four times before she figured it out.

“Hello?”

“Holly, it’s Stone. Where are you?”

“Sitting outside the La Boheme coffeehouse, in Little Italy.”

“You’re not going to get my car full of bullet holes, are you?”

“A brochure in the glove compartment says it’s armored.”

“Well, it is, sort of, but I’ve never actually tested the armor. I’d prefer it if you returned it in the same shape as when you drove it away.”

“Well, sure, I’ll try.”

“When, exactly, did I say you could borrow my car?”

“At dinner. Don’t you remember?”

He did not. “I guess. When are you coming home?”

“A couple of hours, if Trini doesn’t show up. If he doesn’t come for lunch, I’ll leave it until later. Can I buy you dinner tonight?”

“No, but a guy from the CIA will buy us both dinner at Elaine’s.”

“The CIA? No kidding?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’ve never met anybody from the CIA. This ought to be interesting.”

“I hope not. I’ve just spent an all-too-interesting morning in court because of him. I’ve learned that you don’t want interesting, where the CIA is concerned.”

“Holy shit!” Holly yelled.

Stone heard his car start. “What’s going on, Holly?”

“It’s Trini! He’s leaving the La Boheme right now and getting into a Cadillac!”

“Holly, please don’t try a car chase in downtown Manhattan. It’s not like at home in Orchid Beach.” He heard the car’s engine rev.

“I don’t think he saw me,” she said.

“Holly, don’t hang up the phone.”

She hung up the phone.

Stone was left holding a dead receiver. He hung it up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“Joan, call my insurance agent and confirm that my car is insured for any driver. If it’s not, add Holly Barker as an insured driver, and hurry.”

“Will do.”

Stone tried to think what he could do about this, and he came up with a quick answer: absolutely nothing. This hick-town cop was loose in Manhattan with his seventy-thousand-dollar car, and involved in a chase with an FBI-protected murderer at the front end of things. He buzzed Joan again.

“Yes, Stone?”

“Did you get that insurance thing done?”

“I have them on the other line now.”

“Make sure it’s effective immediately.”

It was after five when Holly returned to Stone’s house.

“Hello?” she called up the stairs.

“Come on up,” Stone called back.

Holly came into his bedroom, shucking off her coat. Daisy padded along beside her, then hopped up onto the bed with Stone, who had been reading the Times .

“Hello, Daisy,” Stone said, half expecting her to reply. She gave him a big kiss, then lay down and snuggled against him.

“She likes you,” Holly said.