Herbie got off the subway downtown and began looking for a place to have breakfast. He passed a newsstand and picked up a Daily News. He reflected that he was going to have to start reading the Times, now that he was a lawyer. It looked better.
He found an early-opening restaurant and ordered eggs, bacon and pancakes. He had lost weight in that lousy hotel, and now he was going to gain it back. He ate slowly and turned to the paper. There was a front-page story: Carmine Dattila released from jail. That pissed him off all over again. He checked his watch frequently; he didn’t want to be too early.
At nine o’clock he paid for his breakfast and took a walk. He found a street vendor selling cheap raincoats, and he bought one, along with a rain hat and some sunglasses. It did look like rain after all, and he could use a disguise of sorts. Dattila’s people were still out there, looking for him.
He walked slowly downtown, window-shopping and looking at the career girls on their way to work. He was going to specialize in career girls after he got his law office open. He stopped and looked for a long time in the window of an expensive men’s store. He was going to buy good suits like that and get a better haircut, too. Also shoes. Alot of men who were trying to look good stinted on the shoes. He hated cheap shoes; they made the whole outfit look cheap.
He continued downtown, checking his watch from time to time. Just after ten would be perfect, he reckoned, and this had been confirmed by what he had read in the paper.
He reached Mott Street and increased his pace a bit. He turned and walked quickly down to where he could see the sign for the La Boheme coffeehouse. A black Cadillac sedan sat at the curb, its engine idling.
He had it all worked out; he knew exactly what to do, from start to finish. He opened the door to the coffeehouse and walked quickly in; the door closed itself behind him. He kept walking at the same pace, not hurrying, heading for the table at the rear. He walked straight up to it, raised his hand and fired two shots at Carmine Dattila’s head, then he spun around, waving the cop’s pistol he had borrowed at people who were half out of their chairs. He was surprised not to see any weapons; he had half expected to be shot himself. He went quickly to the door and backed out into the street, still holding the gun out before him.
Half a dozen men fell on him from different directions. He dropped the gun and offered no resistance. A moment later he was handcuffed and in the back of a police car. “Hey, where did you guys come from?” he asked the driver.
“We’re all over town, pal,” the driver replied.
Stone lay on his back, breathing deeply, emptied of the ability to do anything about his desire for Eliza Larkin. She sat up in bed, naked, eating a piece of toast from a tray and reading the newspaper.
“How many times was that?” Stone asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” she replied, “but you will astonish me if you have anything left.”
“But you do?”
“I don’t have to get an erection,” she explained. “And I’m in pretty good shape, so I expect I could go all morning, if you have any interest.”
“Interest, yes; strength, no.”
“Interest is good,” she said, patting his belly.
Joan’s voice came from the intercom. “Assistant District Attorney Monahan is on line one,” she said, articulating the title carefully. Good Joan.
Stone held a finger to his lips for Eliza to see, and she nodded. He picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Stone,” Dierdre said, “I hardly know what to say to you. I would have thought, just thought, that you would have been able to keep Herbert Fisher out of trouble, after his close call at the hotel.”
“Herbie is on a bus to Florida,” Stone replied, careful not to use her name. “He called me from the road early this morning.”
“Maybe from the road,” Dierdre said, “but not the road to Florida. Try the road to Little Italy.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You should be hearing from Herbie again soon,” she said, “when it finally dawns on him that he needs a lawyer.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Stone said. “What was Herbie doing in Little Italy?”
“Killing Carmine Dattila.”
“What?” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“At ten minutes past ten this morning, Herbie walked into the La Boheme coffeehouse and shot Dattila the Hun twice in the head, and actually got out of the place alive, because half an hour before, the police had gone in there and arrested everybody who had a gun. We still had a whole bunch of people hanging around the block in plain clothes, and they managed to disarm and handcuff Herbie before he could hurt himself.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the lockup downstairs. Frankly, we’re a little undecided as to what to do with him: charge him with first-degree murder or give him a medal for his service to the community. Could you get your ass down here as quickly as possible, please?”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Stone said. He hung up.
“I couldn’t hear that one,” Eliza said. “I guess nobody was shouting.”
“It’s just as well; you wouldn’t have believed it. I certainly don’t.”
An hour and ten minutes later Stone presented himself at the district attorney’s office and was ushered into a conference room where Dierdre Monahan and the chief deputy D.A. were already seated. Simultaneously, Herbie was brought in through another door, wearing shackles, his hands cuffed to a chain around his waist.
“Hey, Stone,” he said. “I…”
“Shut up, Herbie, and don’t say another word, or I’ll borrow a gun and shoot you.”
“I’ll loan you a gun,” Dierdre said.
Stone sat down opposite her and her boss, while Herbie was pressed into a chair at the end of the table. A uniformed policeman stood behind him, glowering.
Dierdre shoved a sheet of paper across the table. “That’s your client’s signature at the bottom of a waiver of his right to an attorney,” she said. She held up a cassette. “And this is the videotape of his full confession to the murder of Carmine Dattila.”
“Well, I don’t know why I had to come all the way downtown,” Stone said. “Why don’t you just electrocute him and get it over with?”
“Hey!” Herbie said.
“Shut up, Herbie, or I’ll have your mouth duct-taped.”
Herbie muttered something about free speech.
“Do you have any duct tape?” Stone asked Dierdre.
“I’ll send out for some,” she replied. “Stone, as I mentioned on the phone, we’re in a bit of a quandary here. We’d like your views on how to handle this.”
Stone looked back and forth between the two prosecutors. He had time to reflect that no D.A. had ever asked his advice about prosecuting a client of his. Then he got the picture. “Oh,” he said. “Right. My client, Mr. Fisher, has been hounded and abused by Carmine Dattila and his employees for weeks. They have beaten him, kidnapped him and his murder has been ordered by Mr. Dattila, a tape of which statement is in your possession. Additionally, after the only other witness against Mr. Dattila was murdered in jail, Dattila sent a hired assassin to the hotel where Mr. Fisher was being held in protective custody, where he murdered the two police officers guarding him and would have murdered Mr. Fisher, had he not had the presence of mind to escape the hotel suite before the assassin found him.
“These events convinced Mr. Fisher that the District Attorney and the police could not ever protect him, so, while the balance of his mind…may have been disturbed by these events, he found himself in the presence of Mr. Dattila and did the only thing he could do to protect himself in the circumstances and entirely in self-defense.” Stone stopped and took a breath. “That’s what I’d say to a jury, and I’d get an acquittal.”
Dierdre nodded. She looked at her boss questioningly, and he nodded. “All right,” she said. “You understand we can’t have people walking around the city armed and shooting people. How about he pleads to one count of illegal possession of a weapon and gets a year, suspended?”
“Done,” Stone said.
“A year?” Herbie asked, sounding horrified.
“Suspended, Herbie. Shut up.”
“There’s a judge waiting for us in his chambers,” Dierdre said, getting to her feet.
Half an hour later, Stone and Herbie stood on the steps of the courthouse in the sunshine. Herbie was examining the contents of an envelope that had been handed to him on the way out of the judge’s chambers.
“Do you have any money, Herbie?” Stone asked.
“Yeah, all my stuff is in here, except the cop’s gun. I guess they kept that.”
“Well, yes, they would have,” Stone said. “Do I have to explain to you that there are friends and employees of Carmine Dattila out there who would still like to squash you like a bug, even though the contract on your head may have expired with Dattila? And that you should go back to your aunt’s in East Hampton or any other place you like and lie very low for as long as possible, and that you should never again go near a bookie or a loan shark or Little Italy? Did I explain that to you?”
“I think you just did,” Herbie said.
“Then get your ass into a cab,” Stone said, clapping Herbie on the back. “And don’t ever, ever call me again.”
“Wait a minute,” Herbie said. “What about my civil action against Dattila? We could go for his estate.”
“Estate? You think Dattila had an estate? Like on paper? If he did, the IRS would get there first, believe me, and you’d find yourself in small claims court.”
“Oh,” Herbie replied.
“Get lost, Herbie.” Stone ran down the steps, waving at a taxi, and he did not look back.