“Well, yes, they would have,” Stone said. “Do I have to explain to you that there are friends and employees of Carmine Dattila out there who would still like to squash you like a bug, even though the contract on your head may have expired with Dattila? And that you should go back to your aunt’s in East Hampton or any other place you like and lie very low for as long as possible, and that you should never again go near a bookie or a loan shark or Little Italy? Did I explain that to you?”

“I think you just did,” Herbie said.

“Then get your ass into a cab,” Stone said, clapping Herbie on the back. “And don’t ever, ever call me again.”

“Wait a minute,” Herbie said. “What about my civil action against Dattila? We could go for his estate.”

“Estate? You think Dattila had an estate? Like on paper? If he did, the IRS would get there first, believe me, and you’d find yourself in small claims court.”

“Oh,” Herbie replied.

“Get lost, Herbie.” Stone ran down the steps, waving at a taxi, and he did not look back.

58

Stone got out of the cab and ran up the stairs into the house, avoiding the office door. Eliza was upstairs, still in bed, waiting.

Before he could get into the elevator, he heard Joan’s voice calling to him over the phone’s intercom.

“Stone,” she said, “there’s a client here to see you. I think you’re going to want to take this meeting.”

“I’ll be back as soon as humanly possible,” he said to Eliza.

“Sooner than that,” she said.

Stone sighed and started down the stairs. If Herbie had beat him here, well, there was a gun in his office safe. He walked into his office and found Bernice Finger sitting on his leather sofa.

“Why, Mrs. Finger,” he said, extending his hand. “How nice to see you.” It really was very nice to see her; she had obviously come to her senses. He sat down next to her. “How can I help you?”

“Well,” she began, then stopped. “First, I have something to give you,” she said, opening her handbag.

Stone watched her, baffled, as she came up with a gold-plated .38 Detective Special with a snub-nosed barrel.

“Could you do something with this, please?” she asked, pointing it at him, as if to shoot.

Stone grabbed the weapon. “Bernice,” he said, “please don’t tell me you…” He flipped open the cylinder of the gun and found it fully loaded. Two of the cartridges had been fired. “Oh, no,” he said, half to himself.

“I shot them both,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Oh, no,” he said, this time aloud.

“But I missed,” she said. “I scared the shit out of them, though.” She smiled.