Rutledge hung up.
Herbie hung up, too.
“Wow,” Bobby Bentley said. “That’s moving! Does it bother you that a lot of this has nothing to do with practicing law?”
“It all has everything to do with helping a client,” Herbie said. “By the end of the day, Mark Hayes won’t ever make another move without consulting me. You get back to the office, find the best intellectual property lawyer in the firm, and start making a list of every document we have to generate, every permit we need, and every patent and copyright application we need. But first, ask Eggers’s secretary to generate a legal services contract for Mark to sign, and rush messenger it down here. Oh, and get a title search on this building started.”
“I’m on it,” Bobby said, running for the door.
James Rutledge was there with an assistant in twenty minutes, and the assistant had a laser tape measure. Herbie got them started measuring the space, then his cell rang.
“Herb Fisher.”
“This is David Schwartz. I represent Mrs. Friedrich, to whom you made an offer on her building.”
“Yes, Mr. Schwartz, and she accepted.”
“I can’t allow her to do that.”
“Why not?”
“This has to be negotiated properly.”
“She wanted six million, I offered her five, and she accepted. What’s improper about that? She used the words, ‘Tell Mark he’s got a deal,’ and wanted to know how fast we could close. I’m ready to close right now. How about you, Mr. Schwartz?”
The man sighed. “I can do it Friday morning at ten.”
“You’re on. I’ve already started the title search. You have our address?”
“Woodman and Weld? Yeah, I know where they are.”
“My office at ten. Goodbye.” Herbie hung up.
James Rutledge walked over. “This is fabulous space,” he said. “I can work wonders with it.”
“You know a builder you trust?”
“Yes, and a good one.”
“Use this phone and hire him right now. I want him to go to work on Saturday morning, and he’s going to need a double crew to get at least part of this place in shape fast.”
“All right.” James got on the phone.
Half an hour later a group of six men walked in, and the apparent leader introduced himself. “I’m Walt Harris,” he said. “Mike Freeman sent me.”
“Good to meet you, Walt. I want you to secure this computer layout, then secure this floor of the building and the main entrance. Can you get it done today?”
“Can we work late?”
“As late as you like.”
“I can have it done by midnight,” Walt said.
“Don’t let me slow you down,” Herbie replied.
They were done at a quarter to midnight. Mark Hayes was still working at his computer, occasionally interrupted by James Rutledge showing him sketches.
Herbie walked over and stood by Mark’s desk. “All right, Mark, nobody can steal you blind now. Here are your new keys and your security system codes.” Herbie handed him a sheet of paper.
“Thanks, Herb.”
“We close on the building at ten Friday morning. I’m going to need you to transfer five million dollars to Woodman and Weld’s trust account the day before.”
“I’ll call my bank in the morning and have it done. Do I have to be there?”
“Yes. My office at ten.” Herbie gave him a card.
“See you then.” Mark went back to work.
“Do you ever sleep?” Herbie asked.
“Sometimes,” Mark replied.
Herbie chuckled to himself, then went outside and started looking for a cab.
16
While Herbie was transforming High Cotton Ideas and Mark Hayes into an actual business, Stone was shopping for groceries. He had received a call at four o’clock from Marla Rocker, telling him that the chaos was moderate, and she would join him at seven.
Stone left delivery instructions for his groceries and took a cab home. By seven, dinner was under way, and a bottle of vodka gimlets and one of martinis were in the freezer, chilling.
It was seven-thirty before Marla scratched at the kitchen door and was let in.
“Good evening,” Stone said. “Would you like a drink?”
“I would kill for a martini,” Marla replied, plopping down on the kitchen sofa.
Stone poured her the martini and himself a Knob Creek and sat down beside her. “Cheers,” he said. “Is the show coming into shape?”
“It is,” she said, “praise God. The structure is intact, and the lines, music, and choreography have been learned by my cast. Now we’re just working on not tripping over the scenery.”
“Congratulations on not having to panic at this juncture,” Stone said, clinking her glass with his.
“Mmmmm,” she said, sipping her martini. “Perfection. Don’t let me drink more than eight of these or I’ll make a fool of myself.”
Stone laughed. “I promise-not one more than eight. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll talk to you from the direction of the stove.”
“What are we having?”
“Osso buco,” Stone said, “with risotto.”
“Doesn’t that take hours?”
“Not in the pressure cooker,” he replied. “The risotto takes half an hour, though-no way to speed it up.”
“It all smells wonderful, and I thank you for not making me dress up to go out to a restaurant.” She pulled up a stool to the stove and watched him add stock to the risotto and stir it in. “Let’s get this out of the way,” she said. “Tell me about your wife.”
“She was murdered by a former and insanely jealous lover,” Stone said.
“I hope he got the chair.”
“They don’t do the chair anymore, it’s the needle nowadays,” Stone said. “But, in any case, he’s still at large, probably in Mexico.”
“That must be hard to take.”
Stone shrugged and added more stock. “I’m not a vengeful person. He’ll be caught, eventually, and will spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“Not the death penalty?”
“I’m opposed to the death penalty.”
“On what grounds?”
“Religious, moral, and economic.”
“I can understand the first two, but economic?”
“The death penalty costs the state several times as much as a prisoner’s serving life without parole, what with appeals. And in prison, they can make him earn his keep, until he’s too old or sick to work.”
“I never thought of that,” she said. “I guess I’m more vengeful than you.”
“I’ll try never to earn your vengeance,” Stone said.
“Smart move. I can be a real bitch.”
