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 front 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
“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
“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
“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.”
