Fresh Disasters (Stone Barrington 13)
“That doesn’t sound like the boy’s style.”
“Who cares about his style? He stayed one night with a girlfriend, then she kicked him out. He says he has nowhere else to go, said you weren’t talking to him, either.”
“That’s kind of true,” Cantor said. “Kind of true is as close as he ever gets to the truth. Let me know if you hear from him, will you? I promised his mother on her deathbed I’d look after him.”
“I hope I don’t, but if I do, I will. Any idea when the Post will publish?”
“Could be as early as tomorrow,” Cantor replied. “Henry will have to clear it up the ladder, but he’s hot to trot. Bye-bye.” He punched off the cell phone and drove home happily with the ten thousand in his briefcase.
17
Joan brought in the Post just before lunch. “Story, but no pics,” she said, handing the paper to Stone, opened at Page Six.
Stone read the piece:
ATTORNEY NESTLES WITH MISTRESS IN LOVE NEST,
BUT DEED TO NEST IN WRONG NAME
Ace lawyer Bernard Finger has been shacking up in a Park Avenue penthouse with his honey, Marilyn the Masseuse, for weeks, unbeknownst to his wife. (Note to Missus: New York is NOT a no-fault divorce state, so go for it!) The lovely Marilyn thinks the lovely nest is hers, but somehow the deed got registered in Bernie’s name. Wonder how that happened?
“Cute,” Stone said, “but why no photos?”
“I expect they’re afraid of a suit from ol’ Bernie,” Joan replied.
“They need have no fear with those pictures in their possession. No, something else is going on here.”
At the Post, Henry Stead was sitting at his desk when he spotted the process server, a short, plump man in a wash-and-wear suit. Henry waved at him cheerfully. “Over here, Arnie! I’ll accept service!”
Arnie waddled over to the desk and ignored Henry’s outstretched hand, holding the summons close to his chest. “How come you’re so anxious to get sued?” he asked suspiciously.
“Arnie, you of all people are in a position to know that we get sued all the time.”
“Well, yeah, but I’ve never seen anybody here look so happy about it.”
“It breaks up the day, Arnie. Gimme the summons.”
Arnie handed it over with some reluctance. “This goes against my experience of these things,” he said. “Ordinarily I have to chase people around if they know what I’m doing.”
“Gimme the clipboard, Arnie,” Henry said, extending a hand.
Arnie handed over a clipboard holding a sheet of paper with space for a dozen signatures. “Sign on line six,” he said.
Henry signed with a flourish. “That’s it, Arnie; your work is done. I’m sure that up in heaven an angel just got his wings.” He picked up a little bell on his desk and tinkled it. A copy boy sprinted toward him. “False alarm, Terry,” Henry said. “That was a heavenly bell.”
Terry came to a screeching halt. “Don’t pitch me no balks,” he said sullenly, turning away.
“That was an oxymoron, Terry,” Henry called after him.
With a last, untrusting glance, A
rnie turned and trudged toward the elevators.
Henry ripped open the envelope and read the document. “Bingo!!!” he yelled, and everybody in the room turned and stared at him as he sprinted toward his boss’s office. He ran into the room without knocking, startling a man who had just taken a big bite of a corned beef and chopped liver sandwich on rye with Russian dressing. “Bernie Finger came through like a champ!” Henry yelled, holding up the summons so his boss could read it without getting chopped liver on it.
The editor made a monumental effort to swallow, but required a slug of celery tonic to choke down the mass. He wiped his mouth with two napkins. “Okay,” he said, when he was finally able to speak, “run the pictures. In color.”
Henry skipped back to his desk, happy in his work.