Fresh Disasters (14 page)

S
tone opened the door and got into the cab, and as he did, someone pushed him across the seat and got in behind him. Stone drew back his right arm, ready to smash an elbow into his assailant’s face.

“Hey, Stone, don’t hit me!” a plaintive voice yelled.

Stone looked over his elbow. “Herbie, where the hell have you been?”

“Don’t yell at me, Stone.”

The driver piped up. “Where to?”

Stone gave him his address. “I’m not yelling,” he said to Herbie. “Now why did you bail out of your deposition?”

“It was those two guys, Stone; they were after me.”

“Did they drag you out of the building?”

“Well, no, not exactly.”

“You left of your own accord, then?”

“Kind of. But they followed me out, and I had to outrun them again.”

“Herbie, if you hadn’t left, they wouldn’t have followed you out.”

“Well, maybe. I was just uncomfortable with them sitting out there, so I hit the elevator.”

“And where have you been since then?”

“Around.”

“And why didn’t you call me?”

“I was embarrassed.”

“I didn’t know that was possible,” Stone said.

“Huh?”

“What do you want, Herbie?”

“I need some money.”

“What for?”

“I’ve gotta get a room somewhere, and I’m broke. I don’t even have subway money. I was waiting for you outside Elaine’s, but when I saw the cops come, I ran.”

“Why? Are the cops looking for you?”

“No. It was just instinct, I guess.”

“Are you dropping the lawsuit?” Stone prayed for a yes.

“Oh, no, I still want to sue the bastard. Can we reschedule the deposition?”

“That won’t be necessary. Luckily for you, Dattila’s lawyer decided not to depose you. I guess his client had already told him what to expect. We’ll get a trial date soon.”

“Great! I’m looking forward to the trial!”

“I can’t imagine why,” Stone replied.

“Because I want to see Dattila squirm.”

“Dattila doesn’t squirm,” Stone said, “and certainly not from anything you could say to him.”

“Just wait till I get on the stand.”

“It’s your word against his, Herbie. That is, unless there’s a videotape of Dattila telling his goons to kill you slow.”

Herbie reached into his inside coat pocket, pulled out a small dictating machine and pressed a button. There was what sounded like a chair scraping across the floor, then a male voice. “What do we do with him, Mr. Dattila?”

“Kill him slow,” Dattila replied.

Stone snatched the dictator from Herbie’s hands. “Why didn’t you tell me you had this?”

“I was going to spring it in my deposition and make Dattila shit in his pants.”

“I don’t think that would have been Dattila’s response,” Stone said, “but his lawyer might have done that. Herbie, I almost hate to say this, but the recording might actually give us a chance of winning this thing.”

Herbie beamed. “I thought so.”

“And if you’d given it to me immediately, instead of playing games, we might have already settled your suit.”

“I don’t want it settled, I want to win it.”

“Is that what they taught you at your Internet law school, Herbie? Never settle? Settling is a good thing, Herbie; you get money, maybe an apology, and Dattila doesn’t put a contract out on you, if you’re lucky. Hasn’t it ever crossed your mind that, even if you do win the suit and get a judgment, and humiliate Dattila in open court, that you’ll have a target on your back for the rest of your days? Or the rest of Dattila’s days, whichever comes first.”

Herbie looked sober for a moment. “I hadn’t thought about that,” he said.

“It’s time for some thinking, Herbie. Listen, can you get back into your apartment without anyone seeing you?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, then, go home, let yourself in, don’t turn on any lights or the TV, and don’t make any noise, and don’t answer the phone unless it rings once, then stops, then rings again a minute later. If it does that, it will be me.”

Herbie muttered these instructions to himself. “But what am I gonna eat?”

Stone pressed some bills into his hand. “Whatever you do, don’t order in. Stop at a deli and pick up enough groceries for a few days.”

“Okay.”

“And, Herbie, draw all the curtains. Don’t even let the light in the refrigerator be seen.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t leave the apartment, except late at night, and only then to get more food.”

“You said I can’t run the TV?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Well, what am I gonna do?”

“All right, you can run the TV in the daytime, but not at night. They’ll see the flickering light.”

“Okay.”

The cab stopped at Stone’s corner. “Herbie,” Stone said, “please don’t get yourself killed. At least, not yet.”

“Okay,” Herbie said.

Stone got out of the cab and watched Herbie disappear into the night.

S
tone worked through the morning, clearing his desk so that he could leave early to meet Celia in Connecticut and avoid weekend rush-hour traffic. Joan came into his office.

“We haven’t heard anything from Bernard Finger’s office about his financial statement, have we?”

“I haven’t,” Stone said. “Call Sam Teich over there and tell him I expect the accounting today. I want to get the settlement paid and the money in the bank.”

“Okay.” She left and came back. “Sam Teich has already left the office for the weekend; won’t be back until Monday. Mr. Finger has left, too, for Las Vegas, expected back on Monday.”

“Damn it,” Stone said, “I forgot to hound them about the accounting. Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait until Monday morning. Call Sam Teich first thing. I may wait until Monday morning to come back to town.”

“Well,” Joan said, “don’t wear yourself out up there.”

S
tone was upstairs packing a bag when Dino called.

“Hey.”

“Good morning.”

“Afternoon.”

“Oh, all right, good afternoon. What’s up? I’m trying to get out of here for Connecticut before the rush-hour traffic starts.”

“Big news: It’s already started.”

Stone looked at his watch: two
p.m.
“Shit,” he said.

“I just called to let you know Devlin Daltry made bail at night court. Apparently, he had a lawyer standing by.”

“Swell, so he’s loose on the town again.”

“Yeah, watch your ass.”

“I hope he tries to follow me; I’ll lose him in the wilds of Connecticut. He’ll never find his way home again.”

“That fast car of yours is gonna get you killed yet.”

“What kind of car does Daltry drive? I mean, apart from the stolen Taurus he used to run over me.”

“A white BMW M6, the sports coupe. That was the first thing we checked after your bump-and-run experience.”

“It wasn’t a bump-and-run experience; it was a
hit
-and-run experience.”

“Whatever.”

“It was an experience I hope you never have, being hit and runned.”

“How’s the leg?”

“Several colors of black, blue and yellow, thank you, each indicative of a level of pain.”

“Take your pills.”

“Don’t worry; the minute I’m through driving for the day.”

“See you Sunday night at Elaine’s?”

“If I don’t stay until Monday morning.”

“Don’t wear yourself out up there.”

“You’re as bad as Joan. Bye.” Stone hung up, grabbed his duffel and headed for the garage. Halfway out of the room he stopped, went back to his dressing room, opened the safe and took out his little Colt Government .380 auto, a holster and two magazines. He put the holster on his belt, slapped in a magazine, racked the slide, flipped on the safety, holstered the pistol and put the spare magazine in his pocket. He checked his wallet to be sure he had his Connecticut carry license, then headed for the garage again.

Third Avenue was jammed with cars headed uptown for the bridge, so he turned west and fought his way across town toward the West Side Highway. By the time he reached it it was after three o’clock, but at least traffic was moving pretty well, at least until he encountered a backup because of a fender-bender. Once past that he zoomed along for all of two minutes before the backup at the turn for the George Washington Bridge slowed him down again, but once past that he was driving at speed again. Farther north, on the Saw Mill River Parkway, he switched on the illegal-in-New-York-State fore-and-aft radar detector and let the Mercedes E55 out a little on the winding road, enjoying the 5.5-liter turbocharged engine and the superb suspension and brakes. Then he remembered the white BMW M6 coupe and started checking his rearview mirror.

Once he thought he caught sight of such a car, but he quickly left it behind. After he joined I-684 north, the fun was over for a while—too many New York State troopers. The radar detector constantly beeped, and he was glad he’d slowed down.

He took I-84 east to the turnoff for Route 7 north and to its end. From there, he was on country roads again, and that was when he found the white M6 in his mirror, staying well back but there.

Once free of some local traffic, he accelerated up a fairly straight stretch of Connecticut roadway, across a bridge, past an old mill, then right on Wewaka Brook Road. Half a mile later, he turned into a friend’s driveway, drove up a hill, flew into his friend’s garage, then got out of the car and peeped at the road. The M6 passed in a white blur with a howl. Stone got back into his car, reversed his route and drove into Bridgewater.

He parked in front of the local shop and bakery, went in, bought a double espresso, drank it, then got back into his car and made his way to Washington without further sightings of the BMW. He pulled into the driveway of his little cottage, parked behind the hedge, grabbed his duffel and let himself into the house.

“Hello!” he called out. No response. He looked into the kitchen, found it empty, then walked upstairs to the bedroom, the .380 in his hand. At the foot of the bed was a massage table, all set up and draped with sheets. “Celia!” he called out, but there was no answer. Then he felt something hard poking into his back.

“Stick ’em up,” an odd, deep voice said.

Stone raised his hands and was greeted with a girlish giggle. He turned around to find Celia, dressed in a short robe, her hand formed into a gun, laughing uncontrollably.

“You thought I had you, didn’t you?”

He put his arms around her, lifted the hem of the robe with one hand and slapped her hard on the ass with the other. “Bad girl!”

She laughed and kissed him. “Put the gun away. You have time for a drink while you’re getting out of your clothes,” she said. “Then I’m going to give you the best massage you ever had.” She went to the dresser, where a glass, an ice bucket and a bottle of Knob Creek awaited and poured them both a drink.

Stone was already naked when she turned around. She handed him his drink.

“Take a big swallow, then lie facedown on the table.”

“I don’t know if facedown is physically possible at the moment,” he said, pushing against her to show her why.

“Oh, deal with it,” she said, taking his drink and shoving him toward the table. She set the drink on a little shelf, meant for resting his elbows.

Stone climbed onto the table, did some anatomical shifting for the sake of comfort, then settled onto the sheet and put his face into the cradle. Celia had put a straw in his drink, so he was able to sip without lifting his head. She pottered around for a moment, then came toward him.

He felt a trickle of hot oil down his back.

“Too hot?”

“No, just right.” He took another sip of the bourbon from his straw.

She began to work on him, rubbing the hot oil into his back and buttocks and the back of his thighs, paying particular and tender attention to his bruised leg. He had forgotten how strong she was and what good hands she had. She spent three-quarters of an hour kneading every available muscle, then told him to turn over. He took the last sip of the bourbon and followed instructions.

“Well,” she said, “if I had put a sheet over you, you would have supplied the tent pole.”

“All your fault,” he breathed, as she began massaging his neck and shoulders and scalp. She continued down his body for another half hour, until he thought he would explode, then she gently cupped his testicles in her hand and, with the other hand and the hot oil and, occasionally, her mouth, she rendered him limp and helpless.

“Sleep for a while,” she said, spreading a blanket over him.

His leg was throbbing where she had massaged it. “There’s a bottle of pills in the left-hand pocket of my trousers,” he said. “Give me one, please.”

She gave him the pill with a little water. “I know it’s sore, but it will feel better tomorrow. I’ll wake you in time for dinner.”

Stone drifted into a soft, fuzzy sleep.

S
tone and Celia arrived at the Mayflower Inn for dinner. He loved the place, and always looked forward to the perfume of wood-burning fireplaces as he entered. The inn had originally been designed as a school by Erich Rossiter, the same architect who designed Stone’s house, and had been expensively converted to its new use by a local couple with deep pockets. It was handsome, gracious, welcoming, and the food was good.

They were seated in the dining room and ordered drinks. Stone was still feeling the glow from the massage, augmented by the warmth of the painkiller, when he ordered a cosmopolitan for Celia and his second bourbon of the evening.

The room was full, not unusual on a Friday evening, when the overflow spilled into the adjacent bar, where a pianist could be heard tinkling away.

“Gosh, I feel good.” Stone sighed.

“Thank you,” Celia said. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“As well you should,” Stone replied, smiling and waving at a neighbor couple a few tables away. “I’m ready to supply a written recommendation, should you ever need one.”

“For the massage or the sex?” she asked, stroking the inside of his thigh under the table.

“Both.”

They ordered, and their first course arrived. When they had finished it, Celia excused herself and departed for the ladies’ room. Stone sat sipping his wine, happy in his cocoon of well-being. Then Celia returned to the table and sat down, looking flustered.

“Something wrong?” Stone asked.

“Devlin Daltry is in the bar,” she said. “I saw him as I passed the door.”

A flush of anger swept through Stone. “Did he see you?”

“No, I’m sure he didn’t.”

“I’ll be right back,” Stone said.

She tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t make a scene,” she said. “He revels in that sort of public misbehavior.”

“Don’t worry,” Stone said. He walked to the men’s room and paused at the door for a glimpse into the bar. Daltry was sitting on a stool, talking to a pretty girl next to him. Stone used the men’s room, then paused again on leaving. Daltry was still there, and he hadn’t seen Stone.

Stone walked to the front door and out into the night. A car had just pulled up, and its occupants were walking into the inn as the valet parker drove away their car. Stone found himself alone on the porch. A few cars to his left, he saw the white BMW M6 parked. He looked around once again to be sure he was alone, then he walked down to the car and quickly unscrewed the valve covers from the two tires facing away from the inn’s front door, found a twig and let the air out of both tires. He stood up and looked around. He was still alone. He started back toward the door, when suddenly his anger overwhelmed him. The parking lot was lined with a row of stones the size of soccer balls. He walked to the front of the BMW, picked up one of the stones and, with some effort, heaved it through the windshield of the car. The crash was surprisingly muted, and Stone walked back into the inn, leaving the rock in the driver’s seat. He encountered no one, and he glanced into the bar again. Daltry had his back to the door. Stone rejoined Celia.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Nothing. I saw him but thought better of speaking to him.” He was giddy with elation at what he had done.

They finished their main course and coffee, and Stone gave his parking ticket to the waiter as the check arrived. “Please give this to the valet,” he said. “We’ll be there in a moment.”

When they departed the inn, the valet was there with Stone’s car. They got in and drove slowly back to the house. By the time they were inside, Stone’s elation had swung the other way. What had he done? Letting the air out of the man’s tires was a stupid, juvenile prank, but heaving the rock through the windshield was insane. If anyone had seen him, he’d have been arrested. What had he been thinking?

They went upstairs, and as Stone was emptying his pockets, he came up with the bottle of painkillers and looked at the label. “Do not take in conjunction with alcohol,” it read.

Good God, he thought. Eliza was right; he had run amok! And Daltry was going to go nuts when he saw his car. It would be easy enough for him to learn that Stone and Celia had had dinner at the inn, and he would certainly put two and two together. He would react badly.

Stone fell into bed, exhausted, and Celia was miffed at his inattention.

S
tone was awakened early the following morning by the doorbell. By the time he got into a robe, it was ringing again. He slipped the little .380 out of its holder and into the pocket of his robe, then went downstairs to confront Devlin Daltry.

Instead, he found a state trooper on his doorstep, a man he knew, who served as the local constable. He opened the door. “Good morning, Harry,” he said.

“Good morning, Stone,” the trooper replied. “Sorry to get you up, but I have to ask you something.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Did you have dinner at the Mayflower last evening?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you encounter a man named Devlin Daltry?”

“No, I did not.”

“Do you know Mr. Daltry?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“Did you do something to Mr. Devlin’s car, a white BMW?”

“No, I didn’t. I wasn’t even aware of such a car.”

“It was parked in front of the inn, and someone let the air out of two tires and threw a large rock through the windshield.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Stone said. “There was a parking attendant; didn’t he see anything?”

“No. He was parking another car.”

“And you suspect me of doing this?”

“Mr. Daltry suspects you. He made a report, so I had to look into it.”

“I understand, Harry. You should know that Mr. Daltry is unbalanced. He has been stalking the woman who is my house guest at the moment; she’s had to take out a TRO against him. He’s behaved in the same way with other women, and on one occasion, I’m told, tried to run down a man who was with one of them.”

“I’m very interested to know that, Stone,” the trooper said. “Would you say he was unbalanced enough to damage his own car and blame you?”

“I would. The NYPD suspects him of being the man who struck me with a car earlier this week, a hit-and-run that put me in the hospital and did this.” He held up the blue cast.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Stone. Are you feeling all right now?”

“Yes, except for this,” Stone said. He pulled back the robe to reveal his bruised leg.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t broken,” the trooper said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you with this, Stone. You leave Mr. Daltry to me. He’s ordered a flatbed truck to take his car back to New York; I’ll see that he leaves with it.”

“Thank you, Harry. I’d appreciate that.”

“Does he know where your house is?”

“I don’t know, but it wouldn’t be awfully hard for him to find out.”

“You might just be on alert for the next couple of hours; it’ll take that long for the truck to pick him up.” The trooper gave him a little salute, got back into his car and left.

Stone went back into the house and found Celia in the kitchen, making breakfast.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“That was our local constable, a state trooper. Someone damaged Daltry’s car at the Mayflower last night, and he blamed me.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I know the man. He’s seeing Daltry out of town.”

“He’ll come back,” she said.

“After breakfast, we’ll go back to New York. It would be too easy for him to find you.”

“All right.”

After breakfast Stone called the trooper and arranged to hire an off-duty officer to watch the house for the weekend; then they packed up and left for New York.

T
hey were back on I-684 south when Stone pointed ahead of them. “Look,” he said. “That’s Daltry’s car on the flatbed; he’ll be in the truck.” He pulled her head into his lap. “Stay down until we’re out of sight.”

He caught a glimpse of Daltry sitting next to the truck driver as they passed. A glance in the rearview mirror detected no reaction from the man as they passed. He kept Celia’s head in his lap until they had exited the interstate onto the Saw Mill River Parkway.

They spent the remainder of their weekend cloistered in Stone’s house, cooking, massaging and making love.