Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

When he heard her return, Stone buzzed Joan. “Please get me Tony Levy—try his cell.” He sat staring at the wall, trying to figure out what to do.

“Levy’s on one,” Joan said.

Stone picked up the phone. “You bailed out Herbie for two hundred and fifty grand?” he said.

“Take it easy, Stone,” Levy said soothingly.

“Easy? Twenty-five grand is easy. A quarter of a million is very, very hard.”

“Judge Simpson got sick in court, and Judge Kaplan came in and subbed for him. You know what she’s like: I was lucky to get Herbie bail at all. We’re lucky she didn’t order him executed.”

“Kaplan came in?” Stone said. Tony was right. Kaplan wasn’t just a hanging judge; she was a draw-’em-and-quarter-’em judge. “Did you explain to Herbie how important it is for him to adhere to the terms of his bail?”

“Don’t worry, I scared the shit out of him,” Levy said. “He’s not going to run.”

“If he does, I’m going to let you pick up half the bail,” Stone said.

“In your fucking dreams,” Levy replied evenly. “I did the best I could for him. You and Johnnie Cochran together couldn’t have done better with Kaplan. Where’s my money?”

“It’ll be there at lunchtime,” Stone said.

Joan laid a fresh copy of the News on Stone’s desk.

“I see you’ve been talking to the press,” Stone said, flipping from the page-one lead to the rest of the story inside.

“You don’t see your name anywhere, do you?” Levy asked. “Let me have my little moment in the sun, Stone. It’s all a little shyster like me can hope for. After all, we can’t all do dirty work for Woodman and Weld.”

“This has nothing to do with the firm,” Ston

e said. “I told you, I was doing a favor for Bob Cantor.”

“Yeah, sure, Stone. And I’ll be representing the Bush girls the next time they get busted for ordering cosmopolitans at the college cafeteria. Don’t worry, buddy, I’m not going to embarrass you or blackmail you. But you’d better have some more work for me soon, or I might weaken.” He hung up, laughing maniacally.

Stone walked into P. J. Clarke’s, waded through the lunchtime bar crowd, and found Dino at a good table in the back room. “Good day, Lieutenant,” Stone said.

“Sit down,” Dino replied, “and shut up.”

“What is it with you today?” Stone asked. “Why can’t I talk anymore?”

“Because I already know everything you’re going to say,” Dino replied, sinking half a draft beer and waving at the waiter. “Two bacon cheeseburgers, medium, and two bowls of chili,” he said, “and bring Clarence Darrow, here, a beer.” The waiter vanished.

“About last night . . .” Stone began.

“I already know about last night,” Dino said. “Everybody who can read at the sixth-grade level knows about it.” He tapped his copy of the News, resting on the table.

“I do have a few questions,” Stone said.

“And I’ll answer them for you. One: The girl got away from my people across the roof. She apparently has the agility of a cat burglar, which is more than I can say for your boy, Herbie. Two: The four suits who got there first work for a foreign intelligence service, and their country of origin shall remain nameless. Three: They and the cops got there so fast because they were waiting on the landing below, laying for one or both of the people in the apartment. Four: No, I don’t know where the photographs are that Herbie took. Any other questions?”

Stone shook his head. “Thank God Herbie kept my name out of it.”

“Yeah? What makes you think that? He was spilling his guts in the patrol car, up the front steps of the precinct, and into an interview room faster than anybody could write it down, and you were the star of his story.” Dino swept a hand expressively across the table, nearly spilling his beer. “Above-the-title billing!”

The waiter set their food before them.

“I’m going to throw up,” Stone said.

“Well, do it in your hat, pal. I’m eating, here.”