“All right, all right, you introduced us. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I get a referral fee, don’t I?”
“Don’t press me, Stone; you’ll get something when the sale closes and Wight’s bill is paid.”
“Your word is good enough for me, Bill.”
“Which one of your clients was in jail?”
“One Herbert Fisher, who stupidly got into an altercation with a cop during a traffic stop.”
“You’re handling that kind of crap?”
“He paid me a very nice retainer to do all his legal work. He’s buying a penthouse apartment on Park Avenue as we speak.”
“Maybe you should introduce him to us,” Eggers said.
“Believe me, Bill, you don’t want to know him, and I don’t want anybody to know that I know him.”
“Oh, that kind of client.”
“You remember when I represented that guy who shot Carmine Dattila, aka Dattila the Hun, in a coffeehouse in Little Italy?”
“Sure. You were famous for a day.”
“Herbie Fisher was that guy.”
“You’re right. We don’t want to know him, but since you mentioned it, how did you get him off?”
“I made a case to the DA for self-defense, which was helped by the fact that a NYPD/FBI task force had just disarmed everybody in the coffeehouse and had Dattila under electronic and visual surveillance.”
“I should have thought that would have clinched the case against your client.”
“Sure, but it would have made both the NYPD and the FBI look like asses.”
“You’re a lucky son of a bitch, you know that?”
“Sometimes.”
“You want to play tennis at the Racquet Club tomorrow, with Jim Hackett and me?”
“Sure, what time?”
“Six o’clock.”
“See you then.”
“I’ll leave your name at the door.” Eggers hung up, and so did Stone.
Joan buzzed him immediately. “Herbie Fisher called while you were on the phone and said he bought the apartment and he wants to close tomorrow.”
“Get him back for me, please.” Stone waited until she buzzed, then picked up. “Herbie?”
“Yeah, Stone. I got the apartment.”
“How much did you pay?”
“Three and a half million dollars, and I got it furnished. They wanted five and a half, but I’m a good negotiator. I want to close tomorrow.”