Lucid Intervals

6

Herbie Fisher walked into Stone’s office wearing a surprisingly good suit. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “Thanks for taking my case.” ingly good suit. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “Thanks for taking

“What case?” Stone asked.

“My case,” Herbie said plaintively. “I told you last night.”

“You told me somebody was trying to kill you.”

“Right,” Herbie said. “That’s my case.”

“Herbie,” Stone said with as much patience as he could muster. “You are an attorney, are you not?” Herbie had gotten some sort of degree from an Internet diploma mill and had actually passed the bar exam-or, more likely, had paid someone to take it for him.

“Yeah, sure,” Herbie said, “I’m a bona fide lawyer.”

“Well, you’re a member of the bar,” Stone said. He had seen evidence of the fact in a list of those passing the exam in a legal newspaper. “And as such, you should know that people trying to kill you is not a legal case.”

“Sure, it is,” Herbie replied, with the confidence of a newly minted pseudo-attorney.

“How is it a case?” Stone asked. “Are you suing somebody? Is somebody suing you?”

“Not yet,” Herbie said, failing to choose an option. “But I’ll sue, if I can find out who’s trying to kill me.”

“Well, Herbie, you let me know when you find out, and I’ll sue them for you.”

“Great!” Herbie said, as if his prayers had been answered.

“Anything else?” Stone asked, looking at his watch.

“That’s a nice watch,” Herbie said. “What kind is it?”

“It’s a Cartier,” Stone said.

Herbie produced a small notebook and took a pen from his pocket. “How do you spell that?”

“T-H-A-T.”

“No, that Cardeay name.”

Stone spelled it for him.

“Where did you buy it?”

“From Cartier,” Stone replied. “They have a big store on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street.”

Herbie wrote that down, too.

“Is that an English suit you’re wearing?” Stone asked.

“Yeah, do you like it?” Herbie replied.

“It’s very becoming. Who made it for you?”

“An English tailor.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sam Leung,” Herbie replied.

“Leung is a Chinese name,” Stone pointed out.

“Yeah, but he makes English suits. He makes any kind of suit you want.”

Stone jotted down the name. “Where is he?”

“Lex and about Sixty-fourth, upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “Anything else?” Why the hell hadn’t Joan interrupted him?

“Gee, I don’t know. Why don’t we just talk?”

“Talk about what?” Stone asked, intrigued by this turn in the conversation.

“I don’t know,” Herbie said, shrugging. “What do lawyers and clients talk about?”

“Legal problems,” Stone said.

“Like wills?”

“Sometimes.” Stone looked at his watch again.

“You gotta be somewhere?”

“I have another meeting,” Stone said.

“With who?”

“With a client.” Stone’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Yes?”

“You said to interrupt you after five minutes.”

“It’s been at least half an hour,” Stone replied.

“No, it just seems that way when you’re with Herbie.”

“You have a point. Send him right in as soon as he arrives.”

“Herbie?”

“No, my other client.”

“Oh, that client,” Joan said, then hung up.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Herbie,” Stone said, looking at his watch again.

“Why? What did you do?”

This was turning into an Abbott & Costello routine. “Another client is due here right now, and I have to see him.”

“Can’t I stay until he arrives?” Herbie asked.

“No, he wouldn’t like that. It’s a client confidentiality thing.”

“Can’t I just wait outside until he’s gone?”

“I’m afraid not, Herbie. Good day.”

“Good day,” Herbie repeated. “I like that-‘Good day.’ ”

“Good day,” Stone said again. “It means you’re leaving.”

“Oh, okay,” Herbie said, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

Stone stood up and offered his hand. “Good day. I’ll see you when you have a legal problem to discuss.”

Herbie shook his hand. “Good day, Stone.”

“Good day and good-bye,” Stone said. He pointed at the door. “That’s the way out.”

“Won’t I run into your client if I go out that way? That would be a breach of confidentiality, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll just have to risk it,” Stone said. “Joan!” he shouted. “Show Mr. Fisher out!”

Joan emerged from her office. “This way, Mr. Fisher,” she said, and Herbie followed her to the door like a puppy.

Stone picked up the phone and dialed Bob Cantor.

“Cantor.”

“Bob,” he said, “do you have some special technique for getting rid of your nephew?”

“I just tell him to get the fuck out,” Cantor replied.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” Stone said. “Herbie was wearing a very nice suit.”

“Yeah, he’s dressing better since he got rich.”

“He said his suit was made by a tailor named Sam Leung at Lexington and Sixty-fourth. You might show Mr. Leung the photo of Stanley Whitestone.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll call Willie. He and Peter are canvassing tailor shops right now.”

“Any luck with the Seagram Building security tapes?”

“I got somebody running them down right now.”

“Let me know if you come up with anything.”

“Well, yeah, Stone. What else did you expect?”

“Bob, was Herbie dropped on his head as a baby?”

“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Cantor replied. “See ya.”

Stone hung up. Then Joan came in again.

“I’ve got news,” she said.

“What news?’

“Dolce is hanging out across the street again. You want me to shoot her?”

Stone thought for a moment. “No, but call Eduardo Bianchi’s secretary and find out if he’ll see me for lunch tomorrow.”