“I sprinted down the block, ignoring the intense pain from my ankle, went into a subway station, jumped the turnstile and here I am! Can I put the nightshirt on again?”

“No. Go get your clothes on and give the nightshirt to Helene, in the kitchen. You’re leaving here immediately.”

“But where am I going to go?” Herbie wailed.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t care where you go?”

Herbie turned to leave the room.

“Wait a minute,” Stone said.

“Huh?”

“Put on the nightshirt to save Joan’s modesty. Joan, get me Bernie Finger.”

Joan picked up the phone on Stone’s desk and dialed. “He’s on the line,” she said.

Stone picked up the phone. “Bernie? Let’s do the depositions today. Three o’clock at your place?”

“I thought your client was unavailable,” Finger said.

“He’s just become available,” Stone replied. “Didn’t your client tell you that Herbie made good his escape from the attic where Carmine had him imprisoned and beaten?”

“Of course he didn’t tell me any such thing.”

“All right, three o’clock at your office. Tell Sam I’ll pick up the accounting while I’m there.”

“I’m under strict instructions from my attorney not to discuss that with you.”

“Just give him the message.” Stone hung up and pointed at Herbie. “Does he have any clothes at all?” he asked Joan.

“Helene should have them washed and ironed by now.”

“Herbie, get dressed; we have a three-o’clock appointment.”

Herbie looked at the clock on Stone’s desk. “Can I watch the soaps until then?”

“Please, but do it in the kitchen. And give Helene that nightshirt and tell her to disinfect it.”

“Sure, Stone,” Herbie said happily, as he padded off to the kitchen.

“Is he driving Helene crazy?” Stone asked Joan.

“No, she thinks he’s sweet, too.”

“You’re both crazy or hormonal or something.”

“Careful, you’re treading a thin line, on one side of which is the kind of sexism that could result in a lawsuit.” She went back to her office.

Stone’s phone rang, and Dino’s cell number came up on the caller ID screen. Stone answered. “Morning, Dino.”

“Good morning. What was that thing the other night about bad cops?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Two bozos with badges were tailing Celia until I rousted them. I didn’t get any names or badge numbers.”

“Next time I.D. them, and I’ll put the fear of God into them.”

“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”

“So, is Celia safe from her ex-boyfriend?”

“For the moment. I stashed her in the Connecticut house.”

“That should do it. Those downtown artsy-fartsy types can’t breathe in Connecticut; the air isn’t dirty enough.”

“I hope you’re right; I don’t want to have to move her to Maine.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“See you then.” Stone hung up and began making a list of questions for Carmine Dattila.

Stone and Herbie got off the elevator at Bernie Finger’s office. Herbie elbowed him.

“Stop that,” Stone said.

“Look over there,” Herbie said, nodding.

Stone looked. Two large men were occupying a sofa meant for four; they were the two who had dragged Herbie from Elaine’s the night all this had started. He walked past them to the reception desk, gave his name and was directed to the conference room.

“Are they the guys who held you in the attic?” Stone asked.

“Yeah,” Herbie replied, tugging at Stone’s sleeve and nodding again. Carmine Dattila was getting off the elevator. “And that’s the guy who told them to kill me slow.”

“You wait here,” Stone said. “I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

“Are you kidding? With those two guys? They’ll kill me while you’re gone.”

“Just a minute,” Stone said. He went to the reception desk. “I’m here for two depositions, and I need a private room where one of the witnesses can wait.”

“First door on your right,” the woman said. “That’s an empty office.”

Stone walked back toward Herbie, noting that the two large men were deep in conversation with Carmine Dattila and ignoring them.

He escorted Herbie to the empty office. “You wait in this room, and don’t leave for anything,” he said.

“But what if I have to go to the john?”

“You’re just going to have to hold it, unless you want to have another conversation with Tweedledum and Tweedledee out there.”

“Their names are Cheech and Gus,” Herbie replied. “I forget which is which.”

“Do you want to die, Herbie?”

“No.”

“Then don’t leave this office until I come for you.”

“Aw, okay.”

“If you’re gone when I come back, your lawsuit will be dismissed, and Cheech and Gus will find you and kill you slow.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Herbie said testily.

“There’s a TV; you can watch the soap operas.”

“Yeah, great!”

Stone left and went back to the conference room. Bernard Finger, Carmine Dattila and a court stenographer were waiting for him. “Good morning,” he said to the assembled group, then took a seat.

“Are you ready to begin?” Finger asked.

“Yes.” He turned to the stenographer. “Please swear the witness.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Finger said.

“Swear him, and if you haven’t already explained to him that the laws of perjury apply, please do so now.”

“He understands.”

The stenographer produced a bible and swore in Dattila.

Stone elicited his name and address and made sure the stenographer got it down right. “What is your occupation, Mr. Dattila?”

“I manage a coffee shop.”

“Do you also own the coffee shop?”

“No.”

“Do you own the building in which the coffee shop operates?”

“No.”

“Do you own a corporation that owns these properties or do you own them through a third party?”

“Objection,” Finger said. “Mr. Dattila declines to answer on the grounds of possible self-incrimination.” He turned to the stenographer. “In the future, I’ll just say ‘Fifth’ when objecting on those grounds.”

“It’s not a crime to own a building or a coffee shop, Mr. Dattila.”

“The objection stands.”

“Mr. Dattila, do you also directly or through other parties operate a gambling enterprise?”

“Fifth!” Finger said. “You surprise me, Stone.”

“Mr. Dattila, does anyone owe you money?”

Dattila looked at Finger.

“You may answer,” Finger said.

“Maybe.”

“Where do you keep the record of who owes you money?” Stone asked.

Dattila silently tapped his head with a forefinger.

“Let the record show that the witness tapped his forehead. Do you have a written record of those who owe you money?”

“No,” Dattila replied.

“How much money does Herbert Fisher owe you?”

“Who?”

“Herbert Fisher, the plaintiff in this lawsuit. How much does he owe you?”

“Fifth!” Finger said.

“That was a little slow, Mr. Finger. This is material information, and you can’t object to it.”

“I’m not sure,” Dattila said.

“Does the figure twenty-four thousand dollars ring a bell?”

“Could be, maybe.”

“What means have you employed to collect Mr. Fisher’s debt?”

“I might have had a friend ask him, you know, nice.”

“Does nice include having him dragged out of a restaurant and beaten on the sidewalk?”

“Objection,” Finger said. “Irrelevant.”

“It’s perfectly relevant, as it’s part of the basis of our suit.”

“Maybe somebody insisted a little,” Dattila said, “without my personal knowledge.”

“Mr. Dattila, after repeated, unsuccessful attempts to collect the debt from Mr. Fisher, what steps did you take?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Did you order two of your employees, namely Cheech and Gus, who are sitting outside in the reception room, to kidnap and torture Mr. Fisher?”

“Me?” Dattila looked shocked.

“Answer the question, Mr. Dattila.”