Lucid Intervals (2010)

Stone said. “Send it back to him.”
    “Stone, this is how it works,” Joan said, as if to a child. “I get money, I deposit it in your bank account, I send a check to the IRS for the taxes, I pay off the bank loan, I write checks to everyone we owe, and I mail them immediately. How do you expect me to get the money back?”
    “Stop payment on the checks.”
    “You want me to stop payment on a check to the IRS? They’ll come and get you.”
    “Well, stop the others, then.”
    “The bank has already debited your account to pay off the loan. I can’t stop that, either. And those two payments took most of the money.”
    Stone put his face in his hands and tried not to sob.
    “I don’t understand,” Joan said. “All you have to do now is represent Fisher.”
    “No, you don’t understand,” Stone said. “You’ve sold my soul to the Devil.”
    “No, I’ve just paid your bills with money you earned or are going to earn.”
    “I dread to think of what I’m going to have to do to earn it,” Stone said.
    “Well, just chip away at the retainer with little jobs for Herbie.”
    “A little job for Herbie has a way of becoming a minefield.”
    “Well, then, tread carefully,” Joan said. She turned and flounced back down the hallway to her office. Then she stopped and came back. “I forgot to tell you that that woman was back yesterday.”
    “What woman?”
    “The one who stands across the street with that big man and just stares at the house. She’s been there for three of the past five days.”
    “Dolce,” Stone said tonelessly.
    “Eduardo Bianchi’s daughter?”
    “What, didn’t you know that?”
    “I’ve never seen her before,” Joan replied. “I thought she was locked in a rubber room in her father’s house. What is it with you and that woman, anyway?”
    “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Stone said wearily.
    “Try me.”
    “All right, Dolce and I once had a . . . thing.”
    “A thing?”
    “We were very, very briefly married.”
    “You? Married?” she began laughing.
    “It’s not funny.”
    “It’s funnier than you know. I can’t imagine such a thing.”
    “Neither can I,” Stone replied. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Until she started shooting at me.”
    “ That’s who shot you that time, right before I came to work for you?”
    “That’s who shot me.”
    “It was just a flesh wound, right?”
    “It hurt a lot.”
    “And after that, the old man locked her up?”
    “If he hadn’t, the District Attorney would have locked her up in a much less welcoming place. I think Eduardo may have bought himself a judge to keep her out of the slammer. Come to think of it, he may have already owned a judge or two.”
    “How does one own a judge?” Joan asked.
    “Don’t be naïve. One buys a judge. With money.”
    “Oh. I didn’t know that sort of thing still goes on.”
    “It has never stopped. Only the price has changed.”
    “I’ve still got that gun you gave me in my desk drawer,” Joan said. “If she crosses to this side of the street, I’m going to shoot her.”
    “Joan, do not shoot her unless she shows you a gun. Then shoot her. I’ll get you off, I promise.”
    “Well!” Joan said, then flounced off again.
    “Get me Bob Cantor!” Stone shouted after her. He had found, over the years, that one got more respect if someone else placed one’s phone calls.
    Seconds later his phone buzzed. “Cantor on line one,” Joan said.
    Stone picked up the instrument. “Morning, Bob,” he said.
    “To the rest of the world, it’s afternoon,” Bob replied.
    “Oh, sorry. I had a late breakfast meeting.”
    “I’ll bet you did,” Bob said. “What’s up?”
    “Work,” Stone said. “How soon can you round up Willie and Peter Leahy and get to my office?”
    “Hang on.” Bob put him on hold, and then he came back. “Half an hour. Willie and Peter are here now.”
    “Half an hour is good,” Stone said.
    “How long is this going to take?”
    “It depends on how lucky we get,” Stone said.
    “Oh, one of those.”
    “Yeah, one of those,” Stone said. “See you in half an hour.”

5
    B ob Cantor and the Leahy brothers arranged themselves in chairs around the coffee table in Stone’s office. Cantor had been a detective in the 19th Precinct squad when Stone had been on the force; the Leahys were of a later vintage, but Bob trusted them, so Stone did, too.
    “What we’ve got here . . .” Stone began, then stopped. “No,