Barely Legal

15

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.