Fresh Disasters

20

Stone made it through breakfast without having to perform again, which was just as well, because he was nearly too sore to walk properly. He saw Celia to the front door, and she took an invitation from her purse and handed it to him.

“Devlin has a show opening tomorrow night at this gallery in SoHo. It might be a good time to speak to him.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Stone said. “How about lunch at La Goulue, Sixty-fifth and Madison at one o’clock the day after?”

“See you there,” she said, planting a serious kiss on his kisser.

Stone disengaged with reluctance and limped to his office.

Joan came in, bearing the Post. “I won’t ask why you’re late,” she said. “I saw her leave from my window.”

“Thanks for not asking,” Stone said, accepting the newspaper, which was open to Page Six. Four excellent photographs of Bernie Finger and Marilyn the Masseuse adorned the upper quarter of the page, and tiny strips of black covered only their most private parts. “Wow,” Stone breathed, as he read the story, which made mincemeat of Bernie’s slander suit.

The phone rang, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice,” she said in her best secretarial tones, then she listened and covered the phone with her hand. “It’s Henry Stead, from Page Six.”

Stone had had one previous conversation with Stead a few months before. He pressed the speakerphone button. “Good morning, Mr. Stead.”

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington. I trust you’ve seen Page Six today.”

“Mr. Stead, I know this will come as a crushing disappointment, but I am not a regular peruser of either your newspaper or your page.”

“And yet you managed a timely riposte to Bernie Finger’s account of your luncheon at the Four Seasons.”

“My secretary’s taste in newspapers is not so lofty as mine, and, from time to time, she may share some tidbit with me, particularly if it takes my name in vain. Today, so far, she seems to actually be doing her work, so she has shared nothing. Care to give me the short version?”

“Well, yesterday we ran a mention of Bernie’s current extramarital affair. Bernie, of course, sued us immediately, so today we ran the corroborating photographs, featuring a naked Bernie on a penthouse terrace with an equally naked masseuse named Marilyn. Tomorrow, we expect to report that Mrs. Finger has filed for divorce. In fact, I believe the story is already set in type.”

“And however did you get Bernie to pose for these pictures? I’ve met him only once, at the aforementioned luncheon, but he certainly didn’t seem built for nude photos.”

“Oh, your good friend Mr. Cantor supplied the photographs.”

“I’m afraid the only Mr. Cantor with whom I am acquainted is Eddie, of the banjo eyes, and I believe he is far too dead to supply you with nudies of Bernie Finger.”

Stead managed an appreciative chuckle. “Mr. Barrington, this page appreciates your contributions to our output, and as long as we can maintain this friendly relationship, you will have our gratitude, expressed in our treatment of you in these pages.”

“Mr. Stead, while I am always appreciative of kind treatment, I cannot offer a quid pro quo, not being the gossipy sort, but I wish you well in your endeavors, particularly with regard to Bernie Finger. I bid you good morning.” He disconnected.

“Nicely done,” Joan said. “Tell me, did you ever feel even a twinge of conscience about this? I wasn’t really sure you’d go through with it.”

“A twinge, yes, for about half a minute. Then I remembered Bernie’s attempt to sabotage my reputation with his altered-state account of our lunch, and I started to feel really good about screwing him, which is how I still feel.”

“And how about torpedoing his marriage? Do you expect to reap any karma for that?”

“Well, Bernie’s ego, not his marriage, was my objective, but although I have done Bernie an ill turn, I’m sure that is more than made up for in good karma by the service I have done Mrs. Finger, who will presently be rid of Bernie and very rich. I predict she will remarry within the year.”

The phone rang again, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice.” She listened and handed Stone the phone. “Bob Cantor.” She returned to her office.

“Good morning, Bob,” Stone said.

“Morning, Stone.”

“I’ve just had Page Six on the phone, and Henry Stead made a half-hearted attempt to make me admit that I know you.”

“Which you repulsed?”

“In emphatic fashion. What’s up?”

“I still haven’t heard from Herbie, and now I’m really worried. He’s never gone this long without asking for money.”

“Have you made inquiries?”

“Yeah. I know I’m supposed to be a detective, but I’m damned if I can catch his scent.”

“Have you been to his home?”

“Not yet, but I guess I’d better go over there. I have a key.”

“Give me the address, and I’ll meet you,” Stone said. He scribbled it down. “Give me half an hour. I’ll meet you out front.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to run out to Brooklyn; Herbie Fisher is missing and Bob is concerned.”

“I thought it was awfully quiet around here,” Joan said.

Stone hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. It was weird, he reflected, how Herbie’s sudden absence could leave a hole in his day. He couldn’t say he missed the idiot, but still…

Bob Cantor was standing on the sidewalk in front of a handsome brownstone in a gentrified neighborhood. “This way,” he said, opening the iron gate and taking the stairs that led to the basement. “He lives in the super’s apartment.”

Cantor let them in with his key and scooped up a pile of mail on the floor outside the apartment. He opened the front door.

“Let’s do this like a crime scene,” Stone said.

“I’m way ahead of you,” Cantor said, handing Stone a pair of latex gloves. He led the way from the foyer into the living room. The room had been tossed-no, more than tossed, trashed. A bookcase holding an elaborate stereo system lay facedown on the floor, its contents smashed. Every piece of upholstered furniture had been slashed to the springs, and the drawers of a small desk were scattered here and there. An inspection of the single bedroom revealed the same treatment, and even the bathroom had been thoroughly turned over.

“What do you think they were looking for?” Stone asked.

“Money, what else?”

“And why would anybody think Herbie has money?”

“Well, he’s always telling anybody who’ll listen that he does. I guess somebody believed it.”

“I suppose so.”

“You think this is Carmine Dattila’s work?”

“Who else?”

“Well, I’m sure he’s not the only person Herbie owes money,” Stone said.

“Maybe not, but Dattila is probably the only lender with a personal army to do work like this.”

The two men stood in the apartment with but one thought between them.

“You think Herbie is still alive?” Cantor asked.

“I think that depends on whether Herbie can convince them that he has some hope of paying,” Stone said. “It’s time to call the Brooklyn cop shop.”