Fresh Disasters Page 3

  “To Carmine or his consigliere, depending.”

  “Depending on what?”

  “If it’s to do with methods, to the consigliere; if it’s money, to Carmine.”

  “Who’s the consigliere?”

  “Carmine’s bastard son, Salvatore Stampano, known among the cognoscenti as Little Carmine.”

  Their dinner came and went, and Stone continued to plumb the depths of Joe Giraldi’s mob knowledge. The check came, and Stone put two other cops’ names on the credit card receipt, since the tab looked more like dinner for five or six.

  At the door, Stone shook Giraldi’s hand and thanked him. “Joe, you want to make five hundred bucks, quick?”

  “How?”

  “Serve Carmine Dattila for me.”

  Giraldi laughed heartily. “Listen, right now Carmine doesn’t know who I am, and I want to keep it that way. I’ll tell you where to find him, though.”

  “Where?”

  “At the La Boheme coffeehouse on Mulberry Street. Carmine spends his days there, making decisions and issuing orders. We’ve tried a dozen times to bug it, but they always figure it out. There’s an office upstairs we’ve never been able to get into.”

  “Thanks, Joe.” Stone trudged home, dreading his next move. He was going to have to serve Carmine Dattila himself.

  6

  The following day Stone met Dino at P. J. Clarke’s for lunch.

  The place was mobbed with advertising guys, lawyers and secretaries, but they had held a table for Dino.

  “I hear you met with Joe Giraldi,” Dino said. They sat down and ordered cheeseburgers.

  “‘Met with’ doesn’t cover it; the meeting cost me dinner at the Palm, and Giraldi ordered the Kobe beef.”

  Dino couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “That’s my Giraldi,” he said. “He wouldn’t take a nickel from anybody, but his knowledge trades high. But what’s the difference? You’re going to stick Eggers with the bill.”

  “Yeah, and I put your name on it, too, and another one, too, to try and justify the expenditure.”

  “Giraldi gave you what you need, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, and he agreed to testify, too.”

  “Did you really offer him five hundred to serve Dattila?”

  “Yes. I would have gone to a thousand, but I got the impression it wouldn’t have worked.”

  “Carmine has never been sued. You know why?”

  “Because nobody will serve him?”

  “You got it.”

  “How about you?”

  “Stone, detective lieutenants of the NYPD do not do process serving.”

  “Not even for a thousand bucks?”

  Dino looked hurt. “You wound me.”

  “Will you go with me for backup?”

  “Neither do we sell backup services to process servers.”

  “Will you drive me down there and wait?”

  “In whose car?”

  “I guess mine; you won’t use a squad car?”

  “Good guess.”

  “After lunch?”

  “Why not? Somebody needs to bring the body back.”

  A couple of years before, Stone had wandered into the Mercedes dealership on Park Avenue with a fat check in his pocket and a yen for some German engineering. He had driven away in a lightly armored E55 sedan that had been ordered by a man who had feared for his life, but the car had arrived a couple of days late. The deal was with the widow, with the salesman taking a cut. It had saved Stone’s life only once, but that had made it a bargain.

  Now they made their way into Little Italy, with Dino at the wheel, and Dino, Stone reflected, always drove as if he had just stolen the car.

  Dino screeched to a halt directly in front of the La Boheme coffeehouse, a dingy storefront with a cracked front window. “Are you carrying?” he asked Stone.

  “You bet your ass,” Stone said.

  “Gimme,” Dino said, holding out his hand.

  “You want me to go in there naked?”

  “You’re going to end up naked anyway, and it will inspire trust if they don’t find hardware when they frisk you.”

  Stone tugged the little Tussey custom.45 from its holster and handed it to Dino. “I’m going to want that back,” he said.

  “If you still need it,” Dino replied, admiring the beautiful weapon. “What does it weigh?”

  “Twenty-one ounces.”

  “Nice,” Dino replied.

  “I said, I’m going to want it back; don’t get too comfortable with it.”

  “What, you want to be buried with it?”

  Stone opened the car door. “You’re a ray of sunshine, you know that?”

  “I’m a realist.”

  “I’ll be back shortly.”

  “I’ll keep the engine running.”

  Stone grabbed the envelope containing the summons and got out of the car. He turned and rapped on the window with his signet ring, and Dino pressed the button. “What does Dattila look like?”

  “Oh, I forgot,” Dino said, reaching into an inside pocket and coming up with a photograph. “That’s him in the middle,” he said, “except he’s thirty years older.”

  Stone looked at the shot of half a dozen men in double-breasted suits, looking tough for the camera. The man in the middle was small, balding, and he wasn’t bothering to look tough. It made him look toughest of all. “Okay,” he said, pocketing the photo.

  He walked across the street and into the La Boheme coffeehouse. As he closed the door, the room-half full of men, no women-went silent. Stone looked around and spotted at a large table at the rear of the room Carmine Dattila, older, grayer, balder and heavier than in his photograph. He started toward the table.

  A large young man got up from a front table and impeded Stone’s progress. “Something we can do for you?” he asked, pleasantly enough.

  “I have business with Mr. Dattila,” Stone said. “My name is Barrington.”

  “Come again?”

  “Barrington.” Stone spelled it for him.

  The man quickly frisked Stone, and, feeling the empty holster, unbuttoned his jacket and had a look at it. “Where is what was in there?” the man asked.

  “In my car,” Stone replied. “I didn’t feel the need to come armed when visiting with Mr. Dattila.”

  “Wait here,” the man said, pointing at the floor, as if Stone didn’t know where it was. He walked back to the rear table, spoke for a moment with Dattila, then returned. “What is your business with Mr. Dattila?” he asked.

  “I’m an attorney; I want to speak with Mr. Dattila on behalf of a client, Mr. Herbert Fisher.”

  The man walked to the rear, imparted this information, then returned. “Mr. Dattila don’t know you or your client.”

  “Please tell Mr. Dattila it could save him a great deal of money if he talks to me.”

  The man returned to the rear, spoke to Dattila, then came back. “Follow me,” he said. He led the way to the rear, then stopped at the table. “Mr. Dattila,” he said, “this is Mr. Barrington.” He stepped a yard away but kept his eyes on Stone.

  Carmine Dattila gazed up at Stone through small eyes under bushy eyebrows. He reached into his shirt pocket, produced a stopwatch, punched it and laid it on the table. “You got thirty seconds,” he said.

  “Oh, I won’t need that long.” Stone reached inside the envelope in his hand, drew out the summons and handed it to Dattila. “You’ve been served.” He turned to go.

  “And how is this supposed to save me money?” Dattila asked, looking baffled.

  “It could save you a lot, if you settle, instead of going to trial.” He laid his business card on the table. “Have your attorney get in touch with me, and we’ll talk.” He turned and headed for the door, careful not to walk too quickly.

  He heard heavy footsteps behind him and before he could turn, somebody spun him around, and a fist crashed into his jaw. Stone flew backward through the plate-glass door onto the sidewalk. As if in sympathy, the cracked fro
nt window shattered, too.

  The man threw the summons at Stone, then stepped through the shattered door, ready to aim a kick.

  Suddenly, Dino was standing over Stone, a badge in his hand. “Police!” he said. “Back off.” The man grudgingly took a step backward, and Dino helped Stone to his feet. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

  “Fine,” Stone said, though he felt dizzy from the punch and the fall to the pavement. He bent over, picked up the summons and threw it into his assailant’s face. “Tell Mr. Dattila he’s been served, and the service was duly witnessed by Lieutenant Bacchetti of the NYPD. Also tell him I’ll see him in court.” He turned and began walking toward the car.

  “I’m wearing a vest,” Dino said. “Are you?”

  “Nope,” Stone said, straightening his tie. He got into the car, while Dino walked around to the driver’s side.

  Dino put the car in gear. “Here they come,” he said.

  Stone glanced over his shoulder and saw men spilling out of the La Boheme coffeehouse.

  “Dino,” Stone said, brushing broken glass off his jacket, “now would be a good time for you to drive the way you usually drive.”

  Dino stood on it.

  7

  Stone dropped Dino at the 19th Precinct. “Elaine’s, later?”

  “Sure,” Dino said.

  Stone drove home, put the car in the garage and went into his office. He sat down at his desk, and Joan came in. “Uh-oh,” she said, then disappeared toward the kitchen. She came back with some ice cubes wrapped in a dish towel and pressed it against his jaw.

  “I’m glad you’re alive, but I guess you didn’t exactly come away unscathed.”

  “You could say that,” Stone said, taking the ice pack from her and holding it to his face.

  “The swelling is conspicuous,” she said.

  “I noticed.”

  “I guess the other guy is pretty messed up, huh?”

  “Not a mark on him,” Stone replied, “but their front door is in many pieces.”

  “You busted their front door?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Did Mr. Dattila get served?”

  “He did.”

  “You think he’ll respond?”

  “Probably not, but then I’ll get a summary judgment, and I’ll take his fucking coffeehouse.”

  “Good luck on that,” Joan said. “I take it Eggers is expecting some ink from this episode?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Maybe I’d better do something about that.”

  “Do what?”

  “I know somebody who knows somebody on Page Six at the Post.” Page Six wasn’t on page six; it was just the name of the biggest gossip column in town.

  “I’m not sure how Eggers would respond to having Woodman and Weld on Page Six.”

  “Well, we’re not going to get it in the Wall Street Journal,” Joan said.

  “You have a point. Go ahead and speak to your friend; Page Six is what Eggers deserves.” He worked his jaw back and forth; it was sore.

  The phone rang, and Joan picked it up. “The Barrington Practice. Yes, he’s right here.” She handed Stone the phone. “A client.” She walked back toward her office.

  “Stone Barrington.”

  “Hi, it’s Herbert Q. Fisher.”

  Stone couldn’t suppress a groan.

  “I hear you’re having trouble getting Dattila served.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Stone demanded, annoyed.

  “I got my sources.”

  “Well, Mr. Dattila was duly served an hour ago.”

  “You think he’ll respond?”

  “I’m not clairvoyant, Herbie; we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “If he doesn’t, we’ll take everything he’s got.”

  “Herbie, it was tough enough serving Dattila; think how hard it would be to take property from him, under any circumstances.”

  “But we’d have the power of the court on our side.”

  “So far in Mr. Dattila’s life experience, the courts haven’t laid a glove on him. Now go away, Herbie; I’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ll check with you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t bother; I’ll call you when Dattila sends us a check.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sort of sore and tired; I’m going to go upstairs and take a nap.”

  “But you never take naps.”

  “Today is the exception.” He hung up and walked to the elevator. He didn’t feel like climbing stairs.

  Stone woke up in his darkened bedroom and looked at the bedside clock: nearly eight. He rolled out of bed and into a shower.

  At eight-thirty he walked into Elaine’s, feeling somewhat more human. The Knob Creek was on the table as soon as he sat down.

  “You’re looking a little rough,” Frank, one of the two headwaiters, said. “What happened to your face?”

  “I bumped into something.”

  “It’s turning a funny color.”

  “It is?” Stone got up, went into the men’s room and checked the mirror. It was, indeed, turning a funny color. He went back to his table, where Dino had arrived and was taking a sip of Stone’s drink.

  “I don’t know how you drink that bourbon stuff,” he said, making a face.

  “It’s the patriotic thing to do,” Stone explained, “instead of drinking that foreign gunk you’re so partial to. Bourbon is our only national whiskey these days. Do you know why it’s called Knob Creek?”

  “I give up.”

  “Knob Creek is the birthplace and boyhood home of Abraham Lincoln. You see how patriotic that is?”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  “I am a student of American history. Also, it’s on a little tag that comes with the bottle.”

  “Your face is turning blue,” Dino said.

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Maybe you ought to get it X-rayed.”

  “It’s not broken, just bruised.”

  “That was a pretty big guy who hit you.”

  “Yeah, but look what I did to his door.”

  “Well, you really cleaned that door’s clock, but I still think you ought to get your face X-rayed.”

  “Dino, when I start relying on you for medical advice, I’ll already be dead.”

  “And I’ll be there to say I told you so.”

  “I know, I know.” Stone flexed his neck and shoulders.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sore from hitting the pavement,” Stone said. “I think I need a massage; you know a masseuse?”

  “Well, I heard about this place down on First Avenue.”

  “Not that kind of masseuse.”

  “I’ll check my Rolodex when I get back to my desk.”

  “Thanks, pal.” Stone looked up to see a very beautiful woman enter the restaurant. Frank caught his eye and laughed. A moment later, he seated the woman at the table next to Stone’s.

  “Good evening,” she said as she sat down.

  “Good evening,” Stone responded. He turned back to his bourbon, again flexing his shoulders and neck.

  “You look a little stiff,” the woman said. “You should have a massage.”

  “You know, I was just telling my friend here that very thing when you walked in.”

  She opened her purse and produced a card, handing it to him. It read:

  MARILYN

  MASSAGE IN YOUR HOME OR OFFICE

  Stone smiled. “This is providential. If you’re alone, would you like to join us?”

  “Thank you, yes,” she said, rising.

  Stone held a chair for her. “My name is Stone Barrington; this is my friend, Dino Bacchetti.”

  “I’m Marilyn,” she said.

  “Marilyn what?”

  “Just Marilyn; it’s easier that way.”

  “May I get you a drink?”

  “I’d love an appletini,” she said.

  Stone ordered th
e drink.

  “Now,” she said, after her first sip. “Let’s get business out of the way.” She produced a notebook. “I’m free tomorrow morning at ten,” she said.

  “By an odd coincidence, so am I,” Stone replied. He handed her his card.

  “Will it upset anyone at your office if you are naked on a table?” she asked.

  “Not in the least,” Stone replied, handing her a menu.

  8

  Marilyn had ordered and was on her second appletini.

  “So, what do you gentlemen do?” she asked.

  “I’m an attorney,” Stone said, “and Dino isn’t a gentleman.”

  She laughed. “I’m sure that isn’t true,” she said soothingly to Dino.

  “Of course not,” Dino replied. “I’m a police officer. Stone used to be, but since he retired he thinks he’s a gentleman.”

  “I make no such claims,” Stone said. “That was Marilyn’s characterization.”

  “You look awfully young to be retired,” she said to Stone.

  “He was retired by popular demand,” Dino said.

  “You were kicked off the police force?” Marilyn asked, looking shocked.

  “I took a bullet in the knee; it was a medical retirement.”

  “How long were you a policeman?”

  “Fourteen years. It was long enough.”

  “And what kind of law do you practice?”

  “The shady kind,” Dino interjected.

  “I resent that,” Stone said.

  “You go right ahead.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Marilyn said. “You strike me as an ethical person.”

  “You are an excellent judge of character,” Stone said, patting her hand.

  “I am,” she agreed. “I rely on first impressions.”

  “You must be disappointed a lot,” Dino said.

  “Not at all.” She turned back to Stone. “And what sort of cases are you working on right now.”

  Dino burst out laughing. “Tell her, Stone.” He turned to Marilyn. “You’re going to love this.”

  “It’s a personal-injury suit,” Stone said, glaring at Dino.

  She reached over and touched his swollen jaw. “Were you the person injured?”

  “Not initially.”