Barely Legal

14

Herbie came out of court feeling relieved. He hadn’t done any good, but he hadn’t done any harm, either. James Glick could take over the cross-examination and it would be as if he’d never appeared. That was okay with him. Herbie was out of ideas, and this was not a case he wished to be associated with. He would be very happy just to be a footnote.

Herbie looked for a cab, though he did not expect to get one. He headed down Centre Street toward the subway at City Hall.

“Herbie Fisher.”

Herbie stopped, found himself looking into the face of a muscle-bound goon. Another steroidal specimen stood next to him.

“Yeah?” Herbie said.

“A friend of ours would like to have a little talk.”

Herbie exhaled sharply. “Look. It’s late, I’m tired, I’ve had a long day. If you don’t mind, I’d just like to get home.”

“Ah, but we do mind, Mr. Fisher.”

Herbie looked from one to the other. “Gentlemen, it is broad daylight.”

The goon shrugged. “So what?” He gestured to a car that had just pulled up to the curb.

“I’m not getting in that car.”

The goon shoved a gun in his ribs. “Oh, I think you are, Mr. Fisher. Please don’t make me hurt you. The boss won’t like it if I hurt you.”

Herbie found himself prodded toward the car. Before he knew it, he found himself in the backseat, seated between two thugs. As the car took off, the driver half turned in his seat.

The driver was Carlo, the hood who had accosted him in the restaurant. Herbie recognized him and his mouth fell open.

Carlo grinned. “Don’t worry, Mr. Fisher, you’re not going to be whacked.” After a moment he added, “Yet.”

The car pulled up in front of a dilapidated office building on Ninth Avenue in the Thirties. Carlo and another thug marched Herbie through the front door, which was open, and into an elevator in the back. The buttons in it were the type that went out of fashion in the fifties. They were metal, and thick, and stuck out a good inch.

Carlo pushed the button marked 8. It stuck going in. Then the door closed and the elevator lurched upward with an unsettling clanking noise. Herbie had visions of being trapped in the damn thing all night.

The door opened on the eighth floor. They marched him down the hall to a frosted-glass door with the hand-lettered sign FINANCIAL PLANNER. They opened the door and guided him inside.

Seated at the desk was a large man with a round face and a big mustache. He looked vaguely familiar. The man got up and came around the desk. “Herbie Fisher. How nice of you to drop in.”

“Who are you?”

“You don’t know me? I am hurt, I am wounded, I am cut to the quick.”

“You’ll get over it.”

Carlo punched him in the stomach. Herbie doubled up, gasping for air.

“Carlo, are such theatrics necessary?”

Carlo shrugged. “Seemed like it.”

“You were rude to my boy Carlo, Mr. Fisher. Last night, in the restaurant, if you’ll recall. Carlo does not take well to rudeness. He has a sensitive nature.”

Carlo looked like he bit the wings off flies. Herbie said nothing.

“You may not know me, Mr. Fisher, but I am Mario Payday, so called because every day is payday, and I am the one who gets paid. And you, Mr. Fisher, owe me ninety thousand dollars.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

Mario sighed. “I must say, you are not the first person ever to feel that way. Others have been of the same opinion until they saw the error of their ways.”

“If you will forgive me, Mr. Payday, I have heard of you, of course, but I don’t owe anybody ninety thousand dollars.”

“You are wrong, Mr. Fisher. You owe it to me.”

“No, I don’t.”

It happened fast. One moment Herbie was standing in front of Mario Payday. The next he was off the ground, flailing in a bear hug. He felt hands on his legs, heard a window open, and suddenly he was a short-range missile, hurtling out into the open air. At the last moment hands closed around his ankles and jerked him upside down, and the next thing he saw was the Ninth Avenue traffic in the street far below. Coins fell from his pockets, any one of which might have killed a passing pedestrian. It occurred to him that he was being shaken. The two men holding him appeared to be playing a game to see which one of them could come the closest to letting go entirely without actually letting him fall.

Mario Payday must have felt that way, too, because the words “Don’t drop him” filtered down.

Herbie’s original thought, that this couldn’t be happening, had been replaced by abject fear, so he found the words reassuring. The big boss didn’t want them to drop him, therefore he wouldn’t be dropped. He was as safe as any man hanging upside down out an eighth-story window could be.

Then suddenly they were pulling him up, and he was inside the office and back on his feet, and Mario Payday was in front of him, his expression benign and friendly and comforting. It was the most chilling thing he had ever seen.

“Are you all right, Mr. Fisher? You look a bit pale. Do you feel faint? Would you like a drink? Carlo, pour him a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

“Yes, you do. You’re coming to your senses. It’s always a shock when one comes to one’s senses.”

“I don’t need a drink.”

“Sure you do. Give you a moment to recollect.”

Carlo shoved a glass of whiskey into Herbie’s hand.

“Now, Mr. Fisher, do you recall the ninety thousand dollars you owe me?”

Herbie set the glass on the desk. “The ninety thousand I paid back to Vinnie the Vig?”

Carlo took a step toward Herbie, but Mario put up his hand. “Yes, that ninety thousand, Mr. Fisher. I’m glad you remembered.”

“You’ll pardon me for asking, but why would an ancient debt to Vinnie the Vig, which I actually paid off, have anything to do with you?”

Mario nodded. “That is a fair question. Do you know how you know it is a fair question? Because you are not hanging out the window for asking it. It appears your marker became collateral in a transaction between Vinnie the Vig and Benny Slick.”

“I don’t know Benny Slick.”

“Maybe not, but he received this marker from Vinnie the Vig shortly before the gentleman’s untimely demise.” Mario unfolded the marker and held it in front of Herbie’s face. “Here’s the original marker. Pay to the order of Vinnie the Vig, ninety thousand dollars, signed Herbie Fisher. You can see where Vinnie the Vig crossed out his name, wrote in the name of Benny Slick, and signed it, transferring the debt to him. And here, where Benny Slick crossed out his name, wrote in mine, and signed it, transferring the debt to me.”

“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.”