“Have a nice evening, fellas,” Stone said as he got into a cab.
12
Stone was working his way through his mid-morning when Joan buzzed. “Bernard Finger on one.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Stone Barrington.”
“It’s Bernie Finger, Stone! Didn’t your girl tell you?”
“You’d better hope she’s not still on the line, Bernie, because if she heard you refer to her as my girl, she’d do terrible things to you.”
“Whatever,” Finger said. “You free for lunch?”
“To what end?”
“I thought we’d have a little chat and see if we can sort this thing out.”
“All right.”
“Twelve-thirty at the Four Seasons grill room?”
“All right.”
“And Stone, they require a tie and jacket.”
Stone was going to skewer him with an acid remark for that, but Finger had already hung up.
Bernard Finger, Stone was surprised to see, had claim to a well-placed plot in the hottest power-lunch real estate in the United States of America. While being escorted to the table, Stone did a mini sweep of the room and turned up half a dozen business moguls, plus Barbara Walters; Morton Janklow, the literary agent and attorney; and Henry Kissinger. And that was just a mini sweep.
Finger didn’t bother to rise to greet him, a sign that he considered his guest inferior in status, but offered a hand attached to a wrist wearing a gold Rolex with many diamonds in its bezel. So, Bernie was left-handed. “How you doin’, Stone?” he asked, as if he didn’t really care.
Stone shook the hand by grabbing the fingers, preventing a grip. “Just fine, thanks.” He sat down.
“I’ve already ordered,” Finger said. “Important meeting. What’ll you have?”
“A small salad and the Dover sole,” Stone said to the waiter. “And a glass of sauvignon blanc.”
“You know,” Finger said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, giving Stone a close view of thousands of dollars of hair plugs embedded in his scalp, “I hear around town you’re a fairly smart guy. How’d you let yourself get involved in this ridiculous thing?”
“Oh, well, let’s see,” Stone said, screwing up his face for thought and staring at the ceiling. “Egregious violence perpetrated in a public place upon an innocent by a man with deep pockets. That clears my bar for case acceptance.” He looked at Finger and smiled. “I’ll bet it clears your bar, too, Bernie.”
“But Stone, didn’t you consider who you’re suing?”
“Bernie, it’s not like Carmine Dattila is the archbishop of New York; he’s a cheap hood-all right, an expensive hood-who makes his way in the world by preying on those weaker than he. He’s a piece of dog shit in the gutter, Bernie, and I have to wonder what kind of lawyer would represent him in a public courtroom.”
Finger went all pink, but his response was cut off by a tray of a dozen fat oysters set before him. He ate four of them, emptying them from the shell into his mouth, before he managed a reply. “All right, let’s just stay away from personal abuse here.”
“Stop insulting my intelligence, and I’ll stop insulting your client list.”
Finger ate four more oysters. “Look, let’s cut to the chase; I want to make a proposal!”
Stone dug into his salad. “So, propose.”
“What we’ve got here is your stubborn client and my stubborn client. Carmine is never, repeat never, going to cough up a thin dime of his own money to buy your client off.”
“That’s okay,” Stone said. “When I win in court, and I will, I’ll just attach everything connected with him-lock, stock and coffeehouse. I’m sure I can wring a nice piece of change out of his visible assets.”
“You think Carmine has assets? Jesus, Stone, not even his fucking pinkie ring is in his own name; even his clothes, for legal purposes, are borrowed. You’re talking about drilling a dry well, and that’s going to cost you a lot of time, and time, as any lawyer knows, is money.”