Стюарт Вудс - Barely Legal

“But you’re following this guy.”

“I hope so. If you lose him, you don’t get the fifty bucks.”

“I’m not sure I wanna do this.”

“Okay. Drop me off next to a cabbie who does.”

The cabbie gave him a look, but pulled out and started driving.

The car was stopped at a light on Second Avenue.

“Stay back. If he spots you, you don’t get the fifty bucks. And he’ll probably shoot you in the head.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Yeah. I’ll still give you the fifty, even if he shoots you in the head.”

“I don’t wanna do this.”

“I’m kidding. It’s fine. Here’s the other fifty. There’s two more at the other end if you get me there and he hasn’t spotted us on the way.”

The car went over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge and drove straight to a shabby house in Queens. There was a parking space out front. The guy parked the car and went in.

“Drive on by,” Herbie said.

“I need the number.”

“No, you don’t. You’re not writing it down.”

The cabbie looked betrayed. “You said I could write down the number.”

“You don’t need the number. Put down the cross streets. That’s what I gave you. The cross streets. Isn’t that how you write down most addresses? Fifty-seventh and Seventh?”

“Not outside Manhattan.”

“Yeah, well, this time the passenger did. Drive down to the corner, turn left, and stop. You can write down the cross streets.”

“You’re paying me off?”

“Yeah. Here’s the hundred I promised, plus enough to cover the meter. If you want a return fare, hang out here counting your money. I should be back.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Half an hour.”

“Half an hour?”

“Or however long you think another hundred-dollar bonus is worth. Just don’t decide to knock on the front door and ask me if I’m going back.”

From the terrified look in the cabbie’s eyes, there was no danger of that.

Herbie hurried down the block to the address. The house had a concrete walkway to the door. He hesitated, afraid of making noise that would alert whoever was inside to his presence. There was a front lawn the size of a postage stamp, but it was thick grass. Herbie walked on it, crept silently up to the door.

There was a front window. The curtains were drawn, but there was a crack at the far right side. An open grate to the basement window just below was a hazard, but Herbie eased around it, leaned close, and peered in.

The man he’d been following was standing in the living room, griping at two men who were sitting at a card table playing cribbage, and a third man just sitting on the couch and watching TV. He didn’t seem to be griping about anything in particular, he was the kind of guy who just liked to gripe. He said something vague about traffic, but there hadn’t been any traffic, and something about having to tail a guy first, all of which might have made sense if he were making excuses for being late, only he didn’t appear to be late because no one got up to go.

Each one of the guys was sporting a shoulder holster with an ugly-looking gun.

The guy he’d been following said, “So, where’s the girl?”

The goon on the couch jerked his thumb. “Upstairs.”

“Can I see her?”

“No, you can’t see her. What do you think this is, your private peep show? You’re here to sit watch.”

“What does it matter?”

One of the card players stopped playing long enough to point his finger at the guy. “Because she’s important to someone and we don’t want to fuck it up. So you pay attention to me. You do not have any contact with the girl. If you do, I’ll know, and it will not be good. It will not be, how do they say, conducive to your health.”

“Do we get to kill her?”

The player laughed and shook his head. “Fucking idiot. If we gotta kill her, it’s not a ‘get to’ thing, it’s a job. And it would be done by the pros, not you. You’re just a guy. You got your gun?”

“Yeah.”

The guy took it out of his shoulder holster and held it up.

“You don’t gotta show us, I’m just asking.” To the man on the couch he said, “Jesus, where did you get this dingbat?”

“I didn’t get him. Mookie got him.”

The card player sighed. “There’s one exception,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“If the cops come, you kill the girl and get out.”

By the time he got home, Herbie was a nervous wreck. He knew where Melanie was, but he couldn’t rescue her. If he went to Dino, the cops would raid the place and those jerks would kill the girl. So what could he do?

He could go into court and throw the case. That would buy some time, but that would destroy his client’s life. It could put him in danger, too. In jail, some subhuman specimen could attack him in the shower or stab him during lunch.

Unfortunately, it was the lesser of two evils. David’s possible demise, balanced against Melanie’s almost certain one. The gunmen he’d seen through the window weren’t subtle. They had made their intentions known. At the slightest hint of a rescue the girl was dead. That was the way they played. It might not be what the brains of the outfit wanted, but it was what the menials intended to carry out.

Herbie had to rescue her himself. Pose as a mailman, pose as a cable TV repairman, pose as a pizza delivery boy, for Christ’s sakes, he knew that worked, all you needed was a box. He could probably talk his way in, but what did he do then? Overpower three or four armed thugs with his bare hands? The chance of that succeeding seemed awfully slim.

Herbie wished he had a gun. He’d had one for years, got rid of it when he cleaned up his act. The gun had gone the way of everything else. Everything except his IOU. That had survived over the years, despite being paid off, and transferred, and forgotten, and remembered, and transferred again, a worthless piece of paper that might well cost him his life.

Why hadn’t he ditched the IOU and hung on to his gun?

Herbie got up at six, rented a car, and headed for upstate New York. On the way he called Stone Barrington.

“I’m not going to be in court.”

“Are you sick?”

“I’m fine. I’ve just got things to do.”

“In the midst of a criminal trial?”

“I know you can handle it.”

“Herbie.”

“You were going to be there anyway, Stone. What’s the big deal?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Let the witness go.”

“You’re kidding.”

“The jurors are getting bored. Let him go.”

“I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

“I’m serious. We’ve made our point.”

“We got an adjournment so he could get his notes.”

“Right. I guess we have to ask him about that. What was he looking up?”

“Herbie.”

“Oh. How did they know David would be at the party? I’m sure he’s come up with a good answer. Let him tell it and let him go.”

“Shouldn’t I show a little interest in the answer?”

“Why? No one else will. Time to score some points with the jury. Throw it back in the ADA’s court. If he wants to ask him questions, there’s nothing we can do about that.”

A speeder whizzed by on the left.

“Are you in your car?” Stone said.

“No, I got the TV on,” Herbie said. Lying to Stone and Dino again was getting to be a habit.

Herbie got off the phone and concentrated on his driving.

It had been a while since he had taken the tactical training course, but Herbie had no problem recognizing the entrance of Strategic Defenses, despite the unobtrusive sign at the side of the driveway. Were it not for that, it might have passed for any gated community. He announced himself and was buzzed in.