Worst Fears Realized

compartment.”
    “I can do that,” Berman said.
    “Thanks, Bob, I owe you one.”
    “Only one?”
    “All right, a couple of dozen.”
    “That’s more like it. Good luck on staying alive.” Berman hung up.
    That done, he called the Klemm office in Washington, Connecticut, and got the numbers of the local utilities and the phone company. By the time Bill Eggers rang the doorbell, he’d arranged for water and electricity, and he had phone numbers for the house.
    Bill Eggers came in, followed by Joan Robertson, who had earlier offered to help with Stone’s secretarialwork. She greeted him cheerfully, as if he had not nearly gotten her involved in his current dangerous mess.
    “Why don’t we order lunch now, and then we can close while they’re preparing it?” Stone suggested. “Joan, will you join us?”
    “Thanks, but I have a lunch date; my mother is in town.”
    They found a menu, and Stone and Eggers ordered, then they got down to business. Eggers handed Stone a series of documents, Stone signed them, and Joan notarized them. The whole business took three-quarters of an hour. Finally, Eggers handed Stone a completed document. “Here’s your deed; you want us to file it for you?”
    “Please, and put it in your safety deposit box for the time being,” Stone replied.
    “Congratulations, you now own a house in the country. I’ll get the completed documents and the check to the seller this afternoon.”
    The doorbell rang, and a waiter wheeled in a cart bearing their lunch.
    “I must run,” Joan said. “I’ll deliver the documents to the seller’s law firm on the way to lunch, if you like.”
    “Thank you, Joan,” Stone said, “and when all this is over, I’ll take you up on your offer of help.”
    She left, and Stone and Eggers sat down to lunch. “I want her, Bill,” Stone said.
    “Don’t you have enough women?”
    “I want her for a secretary; I’m giving you fair warning.”

    “Then you’ll have to make her an offer she can’t refuse.”
    “I’ll do that. By the way, I hear you have a client who makes offers like that, from time to time.”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “You never told me you represented Eduardo Bianchi.”
    Eggers stopped buttering his bread. “And where did you hear that?”
    “From the horse’s mouth.”
    “Which horse?”
    “Bianchi, himself.”
    “Youknow Bianchi?”
    “I know lots of people.”
    “You know Bianchi,personally? ”
    “I had dinner with him the night before last.” Stone was enjoying this.
    “Bianchi doesn’t go out since his wife died.”
    “I had dinner at his home.”
    “Let’s get this straight; we donot represent Eduardo Bianchi; we represent his charitable foundation.”
    “Ah, that keeps the hands clean, does it?”
    “It’s perfectly legal. We do it pro bono.”
    “Let me get this straight,” Stone said, slipping the needle in a little deeper. “You represent a Mafia chieftainpro bono ?”
    “It’s not only legal, it’s downrightnoble. ”
    Stone laughed aloud.
    “And how did you come to be acquainted with Bianchi?” Eggers asked.
    “Why? Have you never met him?”
    “Many times, since he came to us about the foundation. Well, hesort of came to us. I got a call from somebody who’d gotten a call from somebody who’d gotten a call. Apparently, Bianchi is very sensitive about being rebuffed because of his family’s reputation. He always feels out situations before presenting himself. Saves embarrassment on both sides, I guess.”
    “Yes, he does seem to be a cautious fellow.”
    “Finally, he came into the office, and we set up the foundation for him, with his daughter as its president. Tell you the truth, I was very impressed with him. With his daughter, too,” Eggers said, wiggling his eyebrows.
    “Yes, she’s quite something, isn’t she?”
    “We’ve got a couple of associates down at the firm who would do Mob hits on the side just to sniff her underwear.”
    “She comes into the office a lot?”
    “The foundation’s offices are one floor up from us. We got them the space.”
    “And what sort of giving does the foundation do?”
    Eggers put down his fork. “This goes no further, right?”
    “Right.”
    “I mean, Bianchi is a bear about discretion, and he’s not the sort of guy you want to cross.”
    “I will be the soul of discretion.”
    “They do arts grants. He’s supporting a dozen young painters. Also, the foundation owns his art collection, and they lend to