Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“Thank you. I will avoid corners until further notice.”

“Have you heard back from Terry Barnes?”

“I have not.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to — not today, anyway. I suspect that Mr. Barnes is in a dark bar somewhere, nursing loosened teeth, broken ribs, and a triple scotch.”

“What do you advise?” Herb asked.

“Armed guards,” Stone said, then hung up. He rang Fred on the house intercom.

“Yes, sir?”

“Fred, we have an imminent threat somewhere, possibly circling the neighborhood.”

“Of what nature, sir?”

“Name of Donald Trask: tall, heavyset, in excellent condition for a man of his age, enjoys inflicting pain on those who annoy him.”

“Have you annoyed him, sir?”

“Without even trying.”

“Then I’ll take a turn around the block, sir, and see if I can spot him.”

“Be careful, Fred. Don’t let him get a punch in.”

“He’ll be expecting you, not me, sir.”

“A good point. Be careful.”

Stone hung up and called Dino.

“And what service may the NYPD render to you this fine day?” Dino asked.

“I believe you employ people who are schooled in the art of removing dangerous characters from the street and housing them elsewhere.”

“We’ve been known to do that.”

“Well, there’s one around my house somewhere: to wit, one Donald Trask, six-four, two-twenty, good shape, mean.”

“Has he threatened you?”

“He has formed the opinion that I am representing his wife in a divorce action against him.”

“Are you?”

“I am not. Herbie Fisher is, but I have not learned enough of the man’s language to convince him of that. He invited me into the ring at the New York Athletic Club to settle the matter of his divorce.”

Dino laughed heartily. “I’d pay for a ringside seat to that! Are you taking him up on it?”

“Are you insane?”

“Well, I don’t think an invitation to a boxing match at a gentlemen’s club constitutes a threat of actual violence, so I can’t yank him off the street. You’re lawyer enough to know that. Call me from the ER after he’s found you, and I’ll see what we can do.”

“With friends like you, who needs assassins?”

“All right, all right, I’ll get a couple of guys to brace him and tell him he’d be happier in a bar somewhere, getting unconscious.”

“I think he may have already spent considerable time in that effort, and you should tell your guys to be careful with him, he’s dangerous. Tell them to keep their Tasers at the ready.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.” Dino hung up.

Fred left the house by the front door, pausing to select a golf umbrella with a thick, heavy briar handle from the stand in the hallway. As he descended the front stairs he unbuttoned his jacket and transferred the umbrella to his left hand, leaving his right free for other action. He walked down the street to the corner of Second Avenue, stopped, and looked around. On the corner opposite him, looking thoughtful, was a man answering the description Stone had provided. Fred crossed the street.

The man looked up, saw Fred coming, and clearly dismissed him as a threat.

“Mr. Trask?” Fred asked. “Mr. Donald Trask?”

Trask looked down at him and shifted his weight, as if to be ready. “Yeah, what?”

Fred took hold of the golf umbrella with both hands and swung it at the load-bearing knee.

Trask made a loud noise and collapsed in a heap.

“Have a nice day,” Fred said, “but do it in another neighborhood.” He walked away, back toward the house.

Stone’s direct line rang. “Stone Barrington.”

“It’s Dino. My guys located your guy on the corner of Second Avenue, lying in a heap, clutching a knee.”

“What happened to him?”

“He said he was attacked by a midget with an umbrella.”

Not far wrong, Stone thought, given the disparity between Fred’s size and Trask’s.

“They got him into a cab and sent him home,” Dino said. “Happy?”

“Happy,” Stone replied.

“Dinner?”

“Sorry, otherwise engaged.” They both hung up.

Stone got to his feet at Patroon, but Ken Aretsky, the owner, was already assisting Cilla Scott down a step or two and restoring her knee scooter to its proper place. He waved to give her a target.

She made it with a few deft pushes of her other foot.

“You look as though you were born on that thing,” Stone said, helping her to be seated.

“It feels like that long,” she replied. “I’m going to try tippy-toe tomorrow.”

“Don’t rush it,” Stone advised, “you could screw up things and make them worse.”

“Do they sell alcoholic beverages in this restaurant?” she asked.

“My apologies. What would you like?”

“A very dry Belvedere vodka martini, olives.”

The beverage was rushed to her.

“Two-legged days,” she said, raising her glass.

“I’ll drink to that, but you’re supposed to wait four days before you try.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll wait until day after tomorrow.”

“I had occasion to be introduced to your husband today,” he said.

She looked surprised. “Where?”

“In my office.”

“He doesn’t even know your name,” she said. “At least, not from me.”

“Then he has a spy in your camp.”

“What ensued?”

“I explained to him that Herb Fisher, not I, represents you. He seemed unable to make that leap. Perhaps you could tell him that?”

“I already have. Herb had his first meeting with Donald’s attorney today. I’m told it went well.”

“Then nobody told Donald. He’s very upset about the deal offered him.”

“Herb says my offer is more than a court would give him. I hope Terry Barnes can make him understand that.”

“His judgment was probably impaired by alcohol. He called later in the day and offered to arrange a boxing match at the Athletic Club, in which he and I would duke out a settlement.”

She placed her face in her hands. “That is so embarrassing,” she said. “Please accept my apology.”

“You’ve nothing for which to apologize. He was hanging out near my house, so Fred went out and had a word with him.”

“Your Fred? That darling little man?”

“That darling little man reduced Donald to a quivering heap with a single blow from an umbrella,” Stone said. “Two passing police officers got him into a cab and sent him home, wherever that is.”

“The Athletic Club,” she said. “He’s taken a room there. I hope he’ll take the opportunity to sober up.”

“Is he an alcoholic?”

“Borderline, maybe. I’m not sure. He drinks to excess when angry or unhappy.”

“That must be most of the time these days,” Stone observed. “Still, I suppose he must have his charms or you wouldn’t have married him.”

“He used to, really he did. Strangely enough, the success of his fund in a rising market seemed to depress him. I suppose he realized that it was Daddy’s money, and mine, he was riding on.”

“The realization of one’s inadequacies can be a trigger for depression, I suppose.”

“Are you speaking from experience?” she asked.

“Inadequacies? Me? I assure you, I am a perfectly adequate person, if imperfect. On rare occasions, I can even rise above adequacy.”

“Good to know,” she said, taking a gulp of her martini. “God, that’s good.”

“Tell me,” Stone said, “what’s your game plan?”

“For how far ahead?”

“The next few months, say.”

“One: get divorced. Two: get housed. Three: decorate housing. I haven’t gotten much further than that.”

“Those seem reasonable short-term goals.”