Criminal Mischief

10

Stone called a familiar number.

“Herb Fisher.”

“Hi, it’s Stone.”

“Hi, there. It’s been a while. What’s up?”

“Kitty Crosse is up.”

“She’s something, ain’t she? Too bad the bar association frowns on sex with clients.”

“Fortunately, she’s not my client.”

“I envy you your availability.”

“What kind of divorce did she have?”

“She got it done. I think her husband was a little afraid of her. His attorney certainly was. Meetings were short.”

“What do you think of the husband?”

“I think he’s the kind of guy who likes to beat up smaller guys, which in his case, includes just about everybody.”

“He’s a bully, then?”

“That’s what we used to call them in the neighborhood.”

“Is he also a coward?”

“A coward?”

“They say that bullies are really cowards.”

“Probably some truth in that.”

“Any advice on dealing with the husband?”

“Yeah, get in the first punch, and give it all you’ve got. If he gets up, he’ll be dangerous.”

“That sounds like good advice.”

“Or, alternatively, you could just leave his ex-wife alone, before he knows about you.”

“Too late for that,” Stone said. “He was waiting outside my house this morning when we left to go car shopping, and he followed us all the way to Bloomie’s.”

“What did you buy?”

“Not I, she. A Bentley Flying Spur. Is her check going to clear? I vouched for her.”

“No problem there. Harry Hillman is a rich man — or was before he met Kitty.”

“I can relax, then.”

“I wouldn’t do that, not with Harry on my tail.”

“Noted. Any thoughts on how to discourage him?”

“I mentioned getting in the first punch, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“After that, you’re on your own. If you have a pair of brass knuckles tucked away, you might tuck them into a pocket.”

“They ruin the line of a suit.”

“Not as much as rolling around on the pavement.”

“Point taken. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

They both hung up.

“Fred,” Stone called out.

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you have some brass knuckles?”

“Not on me, sir, but just a moment.” He rummaged in the armrest compartment, then handed Stone something: two rolls of quarters. “They’ll have much the same effect as the knuckles, sir, but they’re worse on the hands. You might think of wearing gloves. There are some in your seatback pocket.”

“Right.” Stone reached into the pocket, pulled out some fur-lined gloves, and slipped into them. “Is the Mercedes still with us, Fred?”

“He is, sir. Like he was bolted to our bumper.”

“Pull over somewhere along here, and keep the engine running.”

Fred pulled over. “You need some backup, sir?”

“You might keep an eye on his driver.”

“Righto.” Fred put the car in park, got out, and stood by his door.

The Mercedes passed, then pulled over in front of the Bentley. Harry Hillman got out, and he was, Stone reflected, as advertised. Stone leaned on the Bentley’s rear door, crossed his arms, and waited.

“I’d like a word with you, my friend,” Harry Hillman said and continued toward Stone without breaking his stride.

Stone pushed off the car and, grasping a roll of quarters in each hand, keeping his left side toward Hillman, waited another step, then hit the big man hard, with a straight left to the nose. Then, while Hillman took a moment to figure out why he was in pain and bleeding, Stone delivered a hard right to a spot just under the man’s heart, which dropped him to one knee. Without hesitating, Stone swung a roundhouse right to his head, catching him under the ear.

Hillman lay on his back, gasping and staring at the sky. Out of the corner of his eye, Stone saw Hillman’s driver start to step forward, when Fred, moving faster, stepped between Hillman and the driver. “Now, son,” Fred said gently. “All you want to do is to get him up, into the car, and out of here with no further fuss.”

The man stopped and nodded. Stone got back into the Bentley, and so did Fred. In a moment, it was all behind them.

“I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with him, sir,” Fred said.

“Not if I see him coming,” Stone replied.

“Keep the quarters, just in case.”

“Good idea.”

“I’ve got a blackjack somewhere,” Fred said. “You’re welcome to that, too.”

“A blackjack will get you put in jail in New York,” Stone said. “Quarters are just pocket change.”

“Well, there is that,” Fred replied, then drove on.