Стюарт Вудс - Barely Legal

“It’s a worthless marker. I already paid it back.”

“Does it say paid anywhere, Mr. Fisher? When someone pays off a marker they either take it back or scrawl paid across it. I don’t see that here, do you?”

Herbie groaned. In the old days he had not been careful at all about his paperwork. Not getting a receipt for a ninety-thousand-dollar payment was par for the course.

“So, Mr. Fisher. What I want you to remember is, no matter who you think you paid back, you owe the money to me. I’m Mario Payday. I have a reputation to uphold. They don’t call me Mario Payday because I have a reputation for not getting paid. They call me Mario Payday because I have a reputation for getting paid all the time. You, Mr. Fisher, have the opportunity of helping me to build that reputation. Since you claim you were not aware of this obligation, I am going to be lenient. From the way that you’re dressed, it is perfectly clear that you should have no trouble discharging your debt. But just to show you what a nice guy I am, I will forgo the vig. But I want the rest of the debt paid in full by this time tomorrow.

“You have twenty-four hours, Mr. Fisher.”

Tommy Taperelli was in a very bad mood. He’d been on the phone with his mistress when his wife called him at work, resulting in the nightmare scenario he’d always envisioned of having two women on hold and being in danger of pushing the wrong flashing button and saying the wrong name, resulting in a messy and financially disastrous divorce. He couldn’t deal with it, not with the verdict hanging fire and the whole Kenworth business up in the air. His mistress would just have to get off the line. He pushed the button to tell her that, and realized by doing so he had put himself in the nightmare scenario. He hung up on whichever woman was on the line and disconnected the other one. Breathing hard, he leaned back in his desk chair and poured himself a shot of whiskey to settle his nerves.

The phone rang.

Taperelli tossed off the shot and scooped up the phone.

It was Mookie. “Court’s over.”

“They got a verdict?”

“No, they quit for the day. I thought it was never going to end.”

“Is the trial almost over?”

“Fuck, no. They’re still on the same witness. You get the idea the lawyer’s just stalling till the other guy gets back.”

“When is that?”

“I don’t know. He said emergency appendectomy. How long does that take? Kind of a rinky-dink operation, isn’t it? I mean, an appendix ain’t worth shit.”

“This lawyer Fisher. What’s his first name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know how many Fishers there are in the New York phone book?”

“You want me to count ’em?”

Taperelli slammed down the phone and called James Glick.

The lawyer answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Mr. Glick,” Taperelli said ominously, “do you know who this is?”

There was a pause, then, “Oh. Hi.”

“How come you weren’t in court today?”

“My appendix burst. I had to have surgery.”

“So you’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Well, that depends on—”

“That wasn’t a question, Mr. Glick. You’ll be back tomorrow. Right?”

“Right. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You’ll be in court, and you’ll get a verdict by tomorrow night. Or you know what? You’ll wind up right back in the hospital. What hospital you in?”

“Oh, I gotta go, the doctor just walked in,” James Glick said, and hung up.

Taperelli stared at the phone. James Glick hung up on him? No one hung up on Tommy Taperelli. No one. In the middle of the conversation? Without answering his question? Not only did he not know what hospital James Glick was in, he hadn’t had a chance to ask him Fisher’s first name.

Taperelli snatched up the phone and called James Glick back.

The call went to voice mail.

Taperelli flung his phone across the room. It clattered against the wall.

James glick hung up the phone in mortal terror.

Tommy Taperelli knew! Glick was sure of it. He hadn’t bought the appendix operation one bit. That’s why he’d asked for the name of the hospital. Thank God he’d sent the second call to voice mail. God bless caller ID.

But if Taperelli was on to him, when did he get on to him? And how did he know? Could Herb Fisher have ratted him out? No, not possible. He had been on the Acela when he called Herb Fisher. Even if Herb had tipped him off, Taperelli couldn’t get men on the train. And Herb didn’t know he was on the train. He was just being paranoid.

James Glick’s mind did a backflip. Wait a minute. If Tommy Taperelli wanted him in court tomorrow, Herb Fisher couldn’t have taken the plea bargain. If he had, the case would be over and there would be no court to show up in, and Herb Fisher would be hanging by his balls from the nearest construction crane.

James Glick looked up from the sandwich he was trying to choke down in the restaurant in Union Station while he waited for the next train for Miami. Two guys who looked like torpedoes were sitting at a table across the way. They had their chairs angled so they were both facing him.

Glick looked away, willed himself to eat his sandwich and not look back. His resolution lasted a good thirty seconds.

One of the thugs was still looking.

James Glick left his sandwich on the plate and called for the check.

Herbie Fisher owned a very nice penthouse on Park Avenue, but the two paintings that adorned the wall of his foyer were probably worth more than the apartment itself. The Picasso and the Braque had been a gift from Eduardo Bianchi, who had left them to Herbie in his will. Eduardo had only known Herbie a short time, but had been fond of the boy, and had placed a great deal of weight in Stone Barrington’s approval. Herbie had been shocked and touched by the inheritance, and he displayed the paintings proudly. He fully intended to purchase other art objects, but never seemed to have the time.

As he stepped from the elevator, utterly exhausted from the day in court and his encounter with Mario Payday, he found Yvette standing there clad in nothing but stiletto boots, a sheer negligee, and lingerie that to his experienced eye looked like La Perla.

Yvette thrust a martini into his hand and loosened the ribbon at the neck of the negligee, which fluttered to the floor.

Herbie blinked and gawked. “What the hell.”

“Hi, honey,” Yvette said. “I was pretending I was the wife in a sitcom welcoming her husband home. Isn’t this how they do it?”

Without giving him a chance to answer, she threw her arms around his neck, spilling the martini, and kissed him on the mouth. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to bed, all thoughts of court and old gambling debts forgotten.

David Ross went home to his father’s Fifth Avenue apartment. David had a dorm room at Columbia, but his father’s apartment was more convenient, being on the East Side like the court. It was also more comfortable. The councilman’s floor-through duplex boasted several amenities not available in the dorm room, like food, for instance, and David’s own shower and sauna and big-screen TV.

David’s father met him in the foyer, which was large enough for the average apartment’s living room. It was furnished with a couple of divans and side tables, to handle the slipover from the parties the councilman was sometimes forced to throw.

“What do you mean you didn’t take the deal?” Councilman Ross said. “I had it all worked out.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I tried to tell you, you didn’t listen.”

“Because you didn’t listen to me. I didn’t do it. The drugs weren’t mine, and someone set me up.”