Dirty Work

8

A full bladder woke Stone early in the morning, and he had relieved himself and crawled back into bed before he realized he was alone. He raised his head from the pillow. “Carpenter?” he called. No answer.

Stone struggled from the bed and looked in the bathroom, then in his study. She was gone, but her bags were still there. He stumbled back to bed, but as he lay there, his unconscious began to reveal what it had come up with during the night. After a few minutes of communing with his psyche, Stone sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Ten past nine, and he had slept like—excuse the expression—a stone.

He picked up the phone and called Dino at his office.

“Bacchetti,” Dino snapped into the phone.

“It’s Stone.”

“Don’t say another word. Meet me at Clarke’s for lunch.” He hung up.

“What the hell?” Stone said aloud. He was wide awake now, and he got into a shower and shaved, dressed, and went down to his lower-level office. He could hear Joan Robertson’s computer keyboard clicking away as he came into his office from the rear door. The clicking stopped.

“I’m in,” Stone called out.

Joan appeared in the doorway. “Herbie Fisher has called three times in the past twenty minutes,” she said, placing a call slip on his desk.

Stone groaned. “Get him for me. And I’m having lunch with Dino, so don’t book me for anything before three.”

Joan left, the light on Stone’s phone went on, and she buzzed him.

Stone picked up the phone. “Shut up, Herbie,” he said, before the kid could say anything.

“What have you gotten me into?” Herbie yelled.

“I told you to shut up, and if you don’t do it right now, I’ll hang up, and you can handle your own legal difficulties.”

Herbie shut up.

“Now listen to me very carefully, because this is the last time you and I are going to speak, on the phone or in person. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Herbie replied, sounding contrite.

“I’m going to work on getting the charges against you reduced—”

“Reduced? I’ll still have to go to jail.”

“Shut up, Herbie.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m going to work on getting the charges against you reduced to something that will get you probation instead of time.”

“But I’ll still have a record,” Herbie protested.

“Shut up, Herbie.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have any prior arrests or convictions, and you’re gainfully employed, so we can probably get you unsupervised probation, so you won’t have to report in every week.”

“That would be nice.”

“It would be very fucking nice, seeing that the alternative is probably five to seven for the manslaughter charge.”

“When do I get paid?” Herbie asked.

“PAID!!!!????” Stone screamed down the phone. “Paid for what?”

“Well, I did the job, sort of,” Herbie said.

“Yeah? Then where are the photographs of two people doing disgusting things to each other?”

“Well, my camera is still in the apartment,” Herbie pointed out. “I could go back and—”

“Don’t you go anywhere near that apartment!” Stone shouted.

“Could you stop yelling at me, please?” Herbie said, sounding wounded. “It’s not very polite. And could I point out that my camera is brand-new, and the warranty is registered in my name, and if the cops find it, they can trace it back to me?”

Stone was momentarily taken aback by the appearance of a rational thought from Herbie, but not for long. “They’ve already arrested you for being in the apartment. What difference does it make if they trace the camera back to you?”

“Oh,” Herbie said. “Right.”

“Leave the camera to me,” Stone said. “Where do you work?”

“At Walgreens, in Brooklyn.” Herbie gave him the address and phone number of the drugstore.

“Listen,” Stone said. “If I can get that camera back, and if the pictures are worth anything, and if you never, ever call me again for any reason, then you’ll get paid.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Herbie said, seeming to sense it was the best deal he was going to get.

“Did Tony Levy give you his card?”

“Who?”

“The lawyer who got you bailed out last night.”

“Oh, him. Yeah.”

“If you have any further problems with the police, call Levy, not me. He’ll deal with the situation.”

“Okay.”

“How much was your bail?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

‘ ’What?”

“That’s what the judge said.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered. “If you run, Herbie, I’ll hunt you down and deal with you myself. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Did Levy explain the conditions of your bail?”

“Well, yeah.”

“See that you follow those conditions to the letter.”

“All right.”

“Now, you sit tight and wait to hear about the charges. When I hear something, I’ll call Levy, and he’ll call you.”

“I got it.”

“And you understand never to call me again?”

“Right. And since I won’t be talking to you anymore, Stone, I’d just like to say what a pleasure it’s been working with you, and—”

Stone slammed down the phone, swearing. He buzzed Joan.

“Yes, boss?”

“Joan, please dip into the cash in the safe. Hand-deliver twenty-five thousand dollars to Irving Newman and a thousand to Tony Levy. Both addresses are in our book.”

“Right now?”

“Take a long lunch and do it then. And make them count it, and get a receipt from both.”

“Will do, but that will pretty much clean us out of cash.”

“Okay.” Stone hung up and listened to his stomach growl. He hadn’t had any breakfast, and it was too early for lunch. He rested his forehead on the cool desktop and tried to empty his mind of everything.

Then Joan buzzed him. “Bill Eggers on line one,” she said.

Stone groaned again and picked up the phone.