The phone rang again. “Fuck it,” Stone said.
“It’s probably more good news,” Eliza said. “I can wait another few seconds.”
Stone grabbed the phone. “What?”
“Well, don’t bite my head off,” Herbie said.
“Jesus, Herbie, do you know what time it is?”
“I’ve got five-forty. You really ought to invest in a watch, Stone.”
“What do you want, Herbie?”
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m taking your advice,” Herbie said. “I took a cab to Jersey, and I’m on a bus, headed south.”
“Great news, Herbie. Good-bye and good luck.”
“Oh, will you tell Uncle Bob good-bye for me?”
“Sure, I will. Good-bye.”
“And say good-bye to that nice D.A., too. You know, if I’d been able to hang around, I would have taken a shot at that. She’s cute!”
“I’ll tell her you said so, Herbie; I’m sure she’ll be devastated to lose the chance. Good-bye.”
“Hey, you think she’ll really be devastated? Maybe I’ll hang around and…”
“Good-bye, Herbie,” Stone said and hung up. He turned back to Eliza. “That was Herbie.”
“I heard. Do you think you’ve seen the last of him?”
“Dear God, I hope so,” Stone said, turning his full attention to her again.
“You know, you went down a bit when you were talking to Herbie, but now…”
Stone made a little thrust.
“You’re back,” she said, helping him.
57
Herbie got off the subway downtown and began looking for a place to have breakfast. He passed a newsstand and picked up a
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.”
“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.
