Lucid Intervals

“Yeesss?” she drawled.

“Can you give me the dates on which Whitestone was seen in the Seagram Building?” he asked.

“One moment,” she said. He heard high heels on a marble floor, then a door closing. “To the best of my recollection, one of the dates was near the end of last month. The other was a couple of weeks before, but that’s the best I can do.”

“Thank you. Have you, in the light of day, remembered anything else at all that might help me?”

“I’m afraid not. See you in the early evening.” She hung up.

Stone walked back to the sofa and sat down. “Both sightings were last month: one near the end of the month, one a couple of weeks earlier. The client couldn’t be more specific.”

“Anything about personal habits?” Cantor asked.

“Women, fine restaurants, and fine arts, especially the opera.”

“We’re not going to have to go to the opera, are we?” Willie Leahy asked.

“You are, unless the Seagram tapes pan out,” Stone said.

Willie made a disgruntled noise.

“I like the opera,” Peter said.

Stone was surprised that he liked something his brother didn’t. “Okay, you can volunteer for the opera house.”

Cantor was looking at the photograph. “If a guy wants to get lost, he has to do one of two things: he has to go somewhere nobody would think to look for him, or he has to change his appearance, or both.”

“He’s not a Nazi war criminal,” Stone said. “It’s unlikely that he would have a network of supporters; he’d have to disappear on his own. Of course, he probably had time to set up an identity, and he probably was acquainted with people who could supply documents.”

“What country are we talking about, Stone?” Cantor asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because I want to know fucking everything you can tell me and because it might matter.”

“Britain.”

“Then he’d lose his accent for starters. A Brit accent is too easy to remember.”

Peter Leahy was looking at the photo. “He might have lost some hair, too. He’s got kind of a high forehead, and the hair in front of his sideburns is thin.”

“He’s had twelve years to go gray, too,” Willie said. “And most guys gain some weight in early middle age.”

Cantor spoke up. “British guys love their tailors; I’ll bet he’s still wearing Savile Row suits but not from whoever made his clothes in the old days. That’s one of the things the tracers would check first. Let’s find out what English tailors are working in town.”

“Good idea,” Stone said, “and I’m sure you’ll have some others. But right now the Seagram Building security tapes are our best bet.”

“I agree,” Bob said, standing up. The Leahys stood up with him.

“Let’s talk in the morning,” Stone said. “Things will come to you in your sleep.”

The three men filed out, and Joan appeared at the door. “Herbie Fisher is here to see you,” she said, then raised a hand to stop his response. “He knows you’re here, because he just saw his uncle Bob come out of your office, and he’s paid for your time in advance.”

Stone sighed. “All right, send him in, but interrupt me after five minutes. Make up a meeting or something.” He sat down and awaited his fate.

6

Herbie Fisher walked into Stone’s office wearing a surprisingly good suit. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “Thanks for taking my case.” ingly good suit. “Hey, Stone,” he said. “Thanks for taking

“What case?” Stone asked.

“My case,” Herbie said plaintively. “I told you last night.”

“You told me somebody was trying to kill you.”

“Right,” Herbie said. “That’s my case.”

“Herbie,” Stone said with as much patience as he could muster. “You are an attorney, are you not?” Herbie had gotten some sort of degree from an Internet diploma mill and had actually passed the bar exam-or, more likely, had paid someone to take it for him.

“Yeah, sure,” Herbie said, “I’m a bona fide lawyer.”

“Well, you’re a member of the bar,” Stone said. He had seen evidence of the fact in a list of those passing the exam in a legal newspaper. “And as such, you should know that people trying to kill you is not a legal case.”

“Sure, it is,” Herbie replied, with the confidence of a newly minted pseudo-attorney.

“How is it a case?” Stone asked. “Are you suing somebody? Is somebody suing you?”

“Not yet,” Herbie said, failing to choose an option. “But I’ll sue, if I can find out who’s trying to kill me.”

“Well, Herbie, you let me know when you find out, and I’ll sue them for you.”

“Great!” Herbie said, as if his prayers had been answered.

“Anything else?” Stone asked, looking at his watch.

“That’s a nice watch,” Herbie said. “What kind is it?”

“It’s a Cartier,” Stone said.

Herbie produced a small notebook and took a pen from his pocket. “How do you spell that?”

“T-H-A-T.”

“No, that Cardeay name.”

Stone spelled it for him.

“Where did you buy it?”

“From Cartier,” Stone replied. “They have a big store on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street.”

Herbie wrote that down, too.

“Is that an English suit you’re wearing?” Stone asked.

“Yeah, do you like it?” Herbie replied.

“It’s very becoming. Who made it for you?”

“An English tailor.”

“What’s his name?”

“Sam Leung,” Herbie replied.

“Leung is a Chinese name,” Stone pointed out.

“Yeah, but he makes English suits. He makes any kind of suit you want.”

Stone jotted down the name. “Where is he?”

“Lex and about Sixty-fourth, upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “Anything else?” Why the hell hadn’t Joan interrupted him?

“Gee, I don’t know. Why don’t we just talk?”

“Talk about what?” Stone asked, intrigued by this turn in the conversation.

“I don’t know,” Herbie said, shrugging. “What do lawyers and clients talk about?”

“Legal problems,” Stone said.

“Like wills?”

“Sometimes.” Stone looked at his watch again.

“You gotta be somewhere?”

“I have another meeting,” Stone said.

“With who?”

“With a client.” Stone’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Yes?”

“You said to interrupt you after five minutes.”

“It’s been at least half an hour,” Stone replied.

“No, it just seems that way when you’re with Herbie.”

“You have a point. Send him right in as soon as he arrives.”

“Herbie?”

“No, my other client.”

“Oh, that client,” Joan said, then hung up.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Herbie,” Stone said, looking at his watch again.

“Why? What did you do?”

This was turning into an Abbott & Costello routine. “Another client is due here right now, and I have to see him.”

“Can’t I stay until he arrives?” Herbie asked.

“No, he wouldn’t like that. It’s a client confidentiality thing.”

“Can’t I just wait outside until he’s gone?”

“I’m afraid not, Herbie. Good day.”

“Good day,” Herbie repeated. “I like that-‘Good day.’ ”

“Good day,” Stone said again. “It means you’re leaving.”

“Oh, okay,” Herbie said, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

Stone stood up and offered his hand. “Good day. I’ll see you when you have a legal problem to discuss.”

Herbie shook his hand. “Good day, Stone.”

“Good day and good-bye,” Stone said. He pointed at the door. “That’s the way out.”

“Won’t I run into your client if I go out that way? That would be a breach of confidentiality, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll just have to risk it,” Stone said. “Joan!” he shouted. “Show Mr. Fisher out!”

Joan emerged from her office. “This way, Mr. Fisher,” she said, and Herbie followed her to the door like a puppy.

Stone picked up the phone and dialed Bob Cantor.

“Cantor.”

“Bob,” he said, “do you have some special technique for getting rid of your nephew?”

“I just tell him to get the fuck out,” Cantor replied.