Lucid Intervals

22

Lunch was served in Eggers’s private dining room, off his office. The room was paneled in walnut, and the bookcases were filled with his collection of old law books, bound in leather. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth, giving off the lovely scent of piñon wood that Eggers had shipped in from Santa Fe.

By the time the soup course plates were being taken away, Stone was bored rigid. The talk was of London clubs that Eggers and Wight belonged to. Stone noticed that the Royal Yacht Squadron, of which Eggers was a foreign member, was not mentioned, and he assumed that Wight had been blackballed by that club. By the time the main course of lamb chops was served, all the talk was of real estate. Stone was having trouble keeping awake and had no opportunity to raise the subject of Stanley Whitestone. Then his cell phone vibrated on his belt.

Stone stepped away from the table and answered it.

“It’s Joan,” she said. “Herbie Fisher just called, and he’s in some sort of trouble. He’s in the tank at the Nineteenth Precinct.”

“I’ll go right over,” Stone said, grateful for the interruption. “Excuse me, Bill, Lord Wight,” he said to the two men, “one of my clients has an emergency, so I’ll have to leave you.”

Wight stood up and shook his hand. “I’ll speak to Sarah later today, Barrington,” he said, “and I’ll give her your regards.”

“Please do,” Stone said.

“I’ll call you later,” Eggers said.

Stone got out of there. It was a beautiful day, and he decided to walk up to the Nineteenth, which was in the East Sixties. Herbie would appreciate his presence there more if he had to stew awhile.

Stone knew the desk sergeant from the old days, when they had both been patrolmen. “Hey, Mac,” he said.

“Hiya, Stone. How’s it going?”

“Not too bad,” Stone replied. “I believe you’re hosting a client of mine, one Herbert Fisher. What’s the beef?”

Mac consulted a large ledger. “Disorderly conduct,” he said.

“How disorderly?”

Mac hit a few computer keys and read aloud from the arrest report. “Subject was a passenger in a limousine stopped for a traffic violation. While I spoke with the driver, subject got out of the car and began to berate me for stopping his car. I told subject to quiet himself and return to the rear seat, but he refused and assaulted me. I placed subject in handcuffs and transported him to the Nineteenth Precinct.”

“You know what kind of assault?” Stone asked.

“I talked to the officer when he brought Fisher in. I believe it was repeated jabs to the chest with a forefinger.”

“Trot him out, will you, Mac?”

“Two minutes,” the cop replied. “Number two’s available.” Stone went to interview room number two, sat down and waited. A moment later, Herbie, in restraints, was escorted into the part of the room on the other side of the thick plate-glass partition. One of his hands was uncuffed so that he could use the telephone. He picked it up.

“Stone,” he said, “a cop tried to beat me up.”

“Save it, Herbie,” Stone replied. “I’ve heard all about it, and the incident could get you up to a year at Riker’s but probably more like thirty days.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Save it,’ Herbie. Now if you’ll behave yourself for half an hour I’ll try to get you out of here.” Stone pressed a button, and the escorting officer returned. “We’re done,” he said to the man. Herbie was escorted back to the tank, still protesting.

Stone left the interview room and walked upstairs to the detective squad room. Dino was sitting in his glass-enclosed office at the far end of the room, and he waved Stone in and pointed at a chair. He finished his conversation and hung up. “So,” he said, what brings you out of your cozy East Side town house and into this temple of justice?”

“Herbie,” Stone replied.

Dino rolled his eyes. “What now?”

“He had an argument with a cop during a traffic stop, and the guy ran him in for disorderly conduct; he’s in the tank. I’ll buy the next two dinners at Elaine’s if you’ll get him released and make the report go away.”

“Are you attempting to bribe an officer of the law?” Dino asked sternly.

“Yes,” Stone replied.

“The next five dinners,” Dino said.

“Four, and that’s my best offer. Herbie can rot.”

“Done.” Dino made the call. “You can meet him downstairs. See you tonight?”

“Yeah, and thanks.”

“I’m ordering the good wines,” Dino said.

“Don’t press your luck, pal,” Stone replied and went back downstairs.

HERBIE WAS LED from the cells and into the public area, rubbing his wrists. “I want to sue them,” he said.

Stone took him by the arm and marched him into the street. “Sue who?” he asked.

“All of them, the whole precinct.”

“For what?”

“Disrespect,” Herbie said.

“That’s not grounds for a lawsuit, Herbie, especially since you’ve been a guest here before. They tend to remember those things.”

The Maybach glided to a halt next to where they were standing, and the chauffeur got out and opened the rear door.

“I think I found the right penthouse,” Herbie said. “It’s on Park Avenue, up in the nineties.”

Stone thought that was probably far enough from his house. “Sounds great, Herbie.”

“You want to come and take a look?”

“Can’t do it today; I had to leave an important meeting to uncan you.”

“I’m going to pick up Sheila and take one more look,” Herbie said.

“I’m sure Sheila will give you sage real estate advice,” Stone said, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t ask her opinion on decor.”

“Why not?”

“I think Sheila’s tastes might run more to the Bronx than to Park Avenue.”

“There you go again, misjudging people,” Herbie said. “Sheila is from Queens.”

“Of course she is,” Stone said.

“By the way, I’ve got a witness to an assault on me that was instigated by the Wilds,” Herbie said.

“Who’s the witness?”

“Sheila.”

“Herbie, Sheila probably works for someone close to the Wilds.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she’s a hooker, and the Wilds are probably her pimp’s loan shark and bookie, respectively.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Herbie said.

“Go buy your apartment,” Stone said. “If you like, I’ll do the closing.”

“Closing?”

“That’s where you and the seller meet, he gives you documents transferring the apartment to you and you give him money. I should think that an Internet attorney like yourself would know that.”

“I knew that,” Herbie said. He got into the Maybach and was driven away.

Stone hailed a cab.