Fresh Disasters by Stuart Woods Page A

“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.”
    Stone’s Dover sole arrived and was expertly boned by the captain and placed before him. He took a bite and savored the flavor and the texture. “Speak, Bernie.”
    “How’s about this. I’ve got a nice little personal-injury suit in my firm right now—my newest associate is handling it—and it’s going to settle for half a million, maybe six hundred thousand, before very long. How about I toss you the case; you settle it, take your cut and give Mr. Fisher whatever you think he’ll take, then pocket the rest. It’s quick, clean, and requires no outlay for my client or even, for that matter, his knowledge. Your client makes out, you make out, my client doesn’t get mad and I make it up on the next case!”
    Stone took another bite of the sole, chewed, swallowed, then took a sip of his wine. “Bernie, I do not possess the mathematical skills to count the number of ways that that is unethical, immoral, illegal and just a terrible idea. If you’re so afraid of your client that you won’t or can’t persuade him to do the right thing, then just write me a check for, say, half a million on your firm’s account, and make it back from Dattila in fees. Then everybody’s happy, unless Dattila figures out what you did, but you’re too smart to let that happen.”
    Finger downed his last four oysters, stood up and threw down his napkin. “All right, you son of a bitch, I tried. Now I’m going to show you how law is practiced.”
    “Is that what you were doing last night, with the two gorillas? Practicing law? Oh, by the way, did they ever find their car?”
    Finger went pink again. “You’ll see,” he said, and turned to leave.
    “And Bernie…”
    “Yeah?”
    “If you try and stick me with the check, I’ll embarrass you before the whole room.”
    Finger turned and did his very best impression of a man, in high dudgeon, storming out of a restaurant. Half the eyes in the place followed him, then swiveled back to Stone, who was calmly enjoying his Dover sole.

13
    S tone had been sipping bourbon at Elaine’s for ten minutes when Celia Cox swept into the place. She was wearing a long wool coat, which was open at the front, to reveal a short silk dress that displayed an acre of cleavage and miles of leg. The sound of heads swiveling and eyeballs snapping could be heard in the sudden silence, which lasted for about a second and a half before the hubbub resumed.
    Stone rose to greet her, but not far enough. She was wearing four-inch heels, which made her tall enough to play in the NBA game on the TV. He stood on his tiptoes, kissed her on the cheek and took her coat.
    “Where’s the ladies’?” she asked.
    Stone pointed to the rear door. “Turn right there, then it’s the second door on your left.”
    “Be right back.”
    Stone sat down to applause from a bunch of guys a couple of tables down. He tried not to blush.
    Dino walked in and took his usual seat. “So, where’s the broad?”
    “In the ladies’,” Stone said. “Remember, you get one drink, then you vanish in a puff of smoke.” He was looking forward to this introduction.
    “Sure, sure.” Dino’s Scotch arrived. He took a sip and spat.
    “It’s the