Стюарт Вудс - Barely Legal

“I’m not amused, Mr. Fisher. You’ve got two minutes before you’re out the window again. I wouldn’t waste them.”

“You know what it’s like with an addict. One drink, and they’re back on the sauce. Or one hand of cards. Well, that’s me, and that’s how I ran through my money, and that’s why I have a conservator. He was put in charge of clearing up all my past debts, and making sure I didn’t accrue any present ones. Well, this is a past debt, and he has to honor it, which he is willing to do. The only problem is he won’t give me the money.”

“Hey,” Carlo said, “what kind of runaround is this?”

Mario put up his hand. “Mr. Fisher, my boys are getting impatient. You say you can get the money, then you say you can’t. While I certainly appreciate the circuitous logic you’re spewing, if it does not end with me getting the money, it would be very unfortunate for all concerned.”

“Of course you get the money, and you get it today. I’m just explaining why it isn’t in my pocket. My conservator wouldn’t give me ninety thousand dollars to pay you because he knows I am an addict, and you don’t give ninety thousand dollars to an addict. He knows I’d go straight to the track.”

“That would be most unwise, Mr. Fisher.”

“To try to double my money before I paid you off? To an addict like me that would seem like the wisest thing in the world. But that’s not going to happen because my conservator won’t give the money to me, but he’ll give it to you. Which frankly would be a big relief. I would like this matter resolved as much as you would. So what do you say? Let’s go get it.”

“Who is this conservator?”

“My uncle Henry, who was put in this position because he was a hard-nose, pain-in-the-ass stick-in-the-mud who won’t make a move without a second or third opinion. You can be assured he has looked you up, knows you are who you say you are, knows you have a reputation, and knows you are not the type of man to forgive a debt. He has come to the conclusion that you have to be paid, though I must say, he is not happy about it.”

“The happiness of your uncle is not my top priority.”

“I understand. Unfortunately, it’s one of mine.” Herbie gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

Mario Payday frowned. “Are you sure Uncle Henry has the money?”

“I just got off the phone with him.”

“Why can’t he bring it to us?”

“He doesn’t like traveling with that much cash.”

“And yet he has it with him. That makes no sense.”

“He lives near the bank,” Herbie said. “He doesn’t live near you.”

Mario Payday took a puff on his cigar. He exhaled a billow of smoke and nodded to the goon who was his driver. “Bring the car around.”

David’s Cabbie was getting antsy. “How much longer are we going to wait here?”

“Not much longer,” David said, though of course he had no idea, and he was getting antsy himself. The meter kept clicking over, and while he could cover it with a credit card, keeping the cabbie happy might take a cash bribe, and he was low on cash.

There was a bank across the street.

“See that ATM? Hang in here. I’m going to get you some money.”

David waited for the light to change, then hopped out of the cab and sprinted across the street. He swiped his card, punched in his security code, and took out four hundred dollars.

Herbie came out of the office building with two goons and a plump man with a mustache and a big cigar. A town car drove up to the door. They climbed into it and it took off.

David raced across the street, dodging a bus and a truck, jumped into the cab, and said, “That’s him in the limo.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

David fanned the wad of twenties. “Drive, or I’m hopping out.”

The cab took off.

Fred screeched the Bentley to a stop in front of Herbie’s building. Stone hopped out and pointed his finger at the doorman. “I have to pick up Herbie’s iPad. Give me his key.”

The doorman knew he was a friend of Herbie’s, had actually been there when Stone helped Herbie furnish the place. He gave him a key and sent him up. The hundred-dollar tip probably didn’t hurt.

The iPad wasn’t in Herbie’s office, or in the living room, or in the bar. He eventually found it in the bedroom sitting on a bedside table next to a bottle of perfume and the latest issue of Vogue . Yvette’s side of the bed. Stone wondered if Herbie had ever used the iPad himself.

Stone switched it on and opened the tracking app.

A light began blinking in the midst of a map.

Stone rang for the elevator and called Dino. “He’s in Queens.”

“Then he’s not going after Taperelli. He lives in Jersey.”

“Who’s in Queens?”

“I have no idea, but I’m on my way.”

“You calling the cops?”

“Not the local cops. Herbie wouldn’t want that. I’m taking my best men.”

“I’m one of them.”

“I can’t wait for you.”

“Are you kidding me? I’ve got the iPad. Fred’s double-parked out front. You’ll be lucky if you keep up.”

Melanie was weighing her odds, which she was hard-pressed to do because she was almost delusional with exhaustion and hunger. They hadn’t been feeding her. She’d complained, but they hadn’t given a damn. They clearly weren’t prepared for keeping prisoners, or at least they weren’t prepared for keeping one alive. No one knew where she was, including her, and no one was coming to help, and the options she’d rejected before were looking more and more attractive.

She thought about the window. Even if she could get it open — and that was a big if — would she be able to survive the fall and run far enough away to get help?

Was that a better chance than attacking a man on her way to the bathroom? It seemed a toss-up. They had their guns out now, each time they opened the door. Still, they wouldn’t be expecting an attack, wouldn’t realize how agile she was. Could she disarm an armed man?

She liked the idea better than the window, all that jagged glass slashing her to bits as she smashed her bones on the pavement below.

She’d do it the next time they took her to the bathroom. She’d hear the key in the lock and she’d be ready.

Taperelli was sitting in his large leather chair with his feet up and a drink in his hand. On a local chat show Jules Kenworth was pontificating on the benefits his new building would have for the community. To hear him talk, Jules Kenworth was almost singlehandedly responsible for easing unemployment and bringing commerce to New York City.

Tommy Taperelli’s wife stuck her head in the study door.

“Not now,” Taperelli said irritably. His wife knew better than to disturb him in the study.

“There are cops outside. I thought you’d want to know.”

Taperelli kicked his feet off the settee and spilled his drink. “What the hell!?”

He went to the window, lightly brushed aside a corner of the curtain, and looked outside.

Taperelli called Mookie. “I’ve got cops on my house.”

“Oh?”

“So far they’re just doing drive-bys, no one’s knocked on the door. But they’re staking the place out, so maybe someone talked and they’re looking for the girl. If so, they’re looking in the wrong place. They’ve got no reason to look in the right place, but be alert. You out there now?”

“Yeah.”

“How many guys you got?”

“Me, Gus, Chico, and Lou.”

“Everybody carrying?”

“Sure.”

“Check on the girl.”

Mookie hung up the phone and went upstairs. The door was closed, the key was in the lock.