Stone grabbed the envelope containing the summons and got out of the car. He turned and rapped on the window with his signet ring, and Dino pressed the button. “What does Dattila look like?”

“Oh, I forgot,” Dino said, reaching into an inside pocket and coming up with a photograph. “That’s him in the middle,” he said, “except he’s thirty years older.”

Stone looked at the shot of half a dozen men in double-breasted suits, looking tough for the camera. The man in the middle was small, balding, and he wasn’t bothering to look tough. It made him look toughest of all. “Okay,” he said, pocketing the photo.

He walked across the street and into the La Boheme coffeehouse. As he closed the door, the room—half full of men, no women—went silent. Stone looked around and spotted at a large table at the rear of the room Carmine Dattila, older, grayer, balder and heavier than in his photograph. He started toward the table.

A large young man got up from a front table and impeded Stone’s progress. “Something we can do for you?” he asked, pleasantly enough.

“I have business with Mr. Dattila,” Stone said. “My name is Barrington.”

“Come again?”

“Barrington.” Stone spelled it for him.

The man quickly frisked Stone, and, feeling the empty holster, unbuttoned his jacket and had a look at it. “Where is what was in there?” the man asked.

“In my car,” Stone replied. “I didn’t feel the need to come armed when visiting with Mr. Dattila.”

“Wait here,” the man said, pointing at the floor, as if Stone didn’t know where it was. He walked back to the rear table, spoke for a moment with Dattila, then returned. “What is your business with Mr. Dattila?” he asked.

“I’m an attorney; I want to speak with Mr. Dattila on behalf of a client, Mr. Herbert Fisher.”

The man walked to the rear, imparted this information, then returned. “Mr. Dattila don’t know you or your client.”

“Please tell Mr. Dattila it could save him a great deal of money if he talks to me.”

The man returned to the rear, spoke to Dattila, then came back. “Follow me,” he said. He led the way to the rear, then stopped at the table. “Mr. Dattila,” he said, “this is Mr. Barrington.” He stepped a yard away but kept his eyes on Stone.

Carmine Dattila gazed up at Stone through small eyes under bushy eyebrows. He reached into his shirt pocket, produced a stopwatch, punched it and laid it on the table. “You got thirty seconds,” he said.

“Oh, I won’t need that long.” Stone reached inside the envelope in his hand, drew out the summons and handed it to Dattila. “You’ve been served.” He turned to go.

“And how is this supposed to save me money?” Dattila asked, looking baffled.