“Good. Now get dressed, and we’ll be on our way. Don’t worry about the letter to the dean; I’ll write that later.”
Herbie found a pair of scissors in a desk drawer, extracted four credit cards from Dink’s wallet, and cut them in half. He produced a plastic bag and put Dink’s money, wallet, and keys into it, then he led the boy downstairs and surrendered him to the two gentlemen from the funny farm.
“Dink,” Herbie said, handing him his card, “in a few weeks, you’re going to be feeling a lot better about yourself, and when that finally happens, give me a call and we’ll talk about your future. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do for you, besides getting you released, just let me know.”
Dink got into the van, and Herbie gave the driver the contents of Dink’s pockets. The van pulled away, and Herbie and the Leahys got back into Herbie’s car.
“That was easy,” Willie said.
“It’s about to get harder,” Herbie replied. “Now, let’s get back to New York, to Little Italy.”
6
Herbie’s Maybach slid to a halt in front of the La Boheme coffeehouse, an institution that, improbably, was the headquarters of a large criminal enterprise. From three or four of the dozen tables inside transactions took place more quickly than if a mainframe computer had been running the numbers. Carlo Contini, heir to the empire of Carmine Dattila, aka Dattila the Hun, sat out his days there doing mental calculations that gave lie to his outward appearance, which was that of an Italian-American gentleman who operated a fruit stand. No fancy suits for Carlo, just a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of baggy gray trousers. When he took his wife out to dinner, a suit appeared, laid out on his bed with an appropriate shirt and tie, and Carlo had no objection to wearing it, but here, at La Boheme, he was camouflaged as one of the layabouts who alternated drinking grappa with playing bocce in the back garden.
Herbie’s appearance at La Boheme caused everyone present to freeze in position, except for a few who inserted a hand into a jacket, just in case. Herbie commanded this sort of attention because, a few years before, distraught over Dattila the Hun’s attempts to have him murdered, he had walked into the place and put two Federal hollow-point. 45 slugs into Dattila’s head. No one had even moved, because the feds had been there a moment before and relieved people of all artillery. Now Herbie was back, and the patrons found this disturbing.
Herbie walked over to Carlo Contini’s table, where he sat with his younger brother and consigliere, Gino, and pulled up a chair. “Hi, Carlo,” Herbie said.
“You want to place a bet, Herbie, there are guys for that,” Carlo said, then feigned ignoring him.
“Nothing like that, Carlo,” Herbie replied. “I’m here on bigger business.”
Carlo regarded him coolly. “A loan? Talk to Gino.”
“No, Carlo, I’m here to settle a large debt.”
“You don’t owe me, Herbie.”
“No, but a young man named Brennan does.”
“Fink?”
“Dink. There’s a difference.”
“So, what are you to do with it?”
“I’m the boy’s representative, and I’m here to settle his debt, as I’ve already mentioned.”
“Kid owes me two hundred and thirty K,” Carlo said, not bothering to consult a ledger. “You good for that?”
“I said ‘settle,’ Carlo, not get rolled.”
“With the vig, it’s two hundred and thirty K,” Carlo said.
“I propose that we settle the entire debt, including the vigorish, for two hundred even,” Herbie replied. He set the cheap plastic briefcase on the table. “It’s right here.”
“It’s two hundred and thirty K,” Carlo said, with conviction.
“Carlo, let me put this in the form of a proposition,” Herbie said. “I give you two hundred K right now, in clean Benjamins, and you agree never to take another bet from the Brennan kid and to forget his name.”
“From what I hear, his old man can afford two hundred and thirty K,” Carlo said.
“Carlo, his old man can buy and sell you before breakfast and not even dent his bank balance, but he’s a serious person, and he’s making you a serious offer. There is an alternative, though.”
“Yeah? What’s the alternative?”
“Use your imagination, Carlo. Imagine the NYPD, the FBI, and the IRS crawling over your life like an army of ants, while Dink’s old man files a civil suit against you that will take ten years and ten million in legal fees to settle. All these things can happen within twenty-four hours.”
Carlo took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m not an unreasonable man,” he said, placing a hand on the briefcase.
Herbie pulled the briefcase a little out of his reach, then produced a one-page document and pushed it across the table. “Sign this, and we’re done,” Herbie said.
“I don’t sign stuff,” Carlo said.
Herbie pulled the briefcase a little farther away.
“What’s it say?” Carlo asked, taking a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He began to read to himself while moving his lips.
“It says that you are accepting two hundred thousand dollars in payment of all gambling or any other debt owed you by Dink Brennan, and that you agree never to accept another bet from him or contact him ever again.”
“You expect me to admit to gambling in writing?”
“It’s the way people like Mr. Brennan do business, Carlo. Since the two of you are not acquainted, Mr. Brennan won’t take your word. Come on, what’s the harm? The paper will reside in his safe and will never see the light of day.” Herbie pushed the case back to where Carlo could reach it but did not let go of the handle.
Carlo sighed and signed the document, and Herbie released the briefcase, which vanished under the table.
“Never see the light of day, unless you violate the terms of the agreement,” Herbie said, standing. “Take care of yourself, Carlo.” Herbie turned and walked out, trailed by the Leahys, one of whom left La Boheme walking backward.
Herbie situated himself in the backseat of the Maybach. “Drop me at the Seagram Building, Willie,” he said, “and put the car back in the garage, if you will.”
“Sure, Herbie,” Willie said. “And by the way, nicely done.”
“Thank you, Willie, and the same to you and Jimmy.” Herbie picked up the rear-seat phone and pressed a speed dial button.
“Woodman and Weld,” Joan said, “Stone Barrington’s office.”
“Hey, Joan.”
“Hey, Herbie, how you doing?”
“Couldn’t be better. Is he available?”
“Sure.” There was a click.
“Herbie?”
“Hey, Stone.”
“How’d it go?”
“It went like this: Dink is now housed in the funny farm, having committed himself and signed a durable power of attorney, naming me, and Carlo Contini is a happy man. I have his signature on a well-worded receipt that will keep him forever away from Dink.”
“Well done,” Stone said.
“Will you convey that to Bill Eggers?”
“No, I think you should convey it to him yourself, and bask in the warmth of his gratitude.”
