Free Fresh Disasters by Stuart Woods Page B

Barrington.”
    “Who?”
    “Another lawyer.”
    “Never heard of him, but let me know if you want him photographed doing the nasty.” Cantor slid out of the booth, offered a quick handshake and was on his way.
     
    B ack in his car, Cantor hit another speed-dial number.
    “Stone Barrington.”
    “The deed is done,” Cantor said.
    “Which deed?”
    “All the deeds. And the rag paid so well that I’m not even going to charge you expenses.”
    “You’re such a nice man,” Stone said.
    “Well, we all know that. Listen, I haven’t heard from my nephew for a couple of days, and that’s unusual. He normally calls every day, wanting money.”
    “Oh,” Stone said, “he called me and said he was being chased by some of his bookie’s leg breakers and needed to go to ground somewhere. I suggested a homeless shelter.”
    “That doesn’t sound like the boy’s style.”
    “Who cares about his style? He stayed one night with a girlfriend, then she kicked him out. He says he has nowhere else to go, said you weren’t talking to him, either.”
    “That’s kind of true,” Cantor said. “Kind of true is as close as he ever gets to the truth. Let me know if you hear from him, will you? I promised his mother on her deathbed I’d look after him.”
    “I hope I don’t, but if I do, I will. Any idea when the Post will publish?”
    “Could be as early as tomorrow,” Cantor replied. “Henry will have to clear it up the ladder, but he’s hot to trot. Bye-bye.” He punched off the cell phone and drove home happily with the ten thousand in his briefcase.

17
    J oan brought in the Post just before lunch. “Story, but no pics,” she said, handing the paper to Stone, opened at Page Six.
    Stone read the piece:
    ATTORNEY NESTLES WITH MISTRESS IN LOVE NEST,
BUT DEED TO NEST IN WRONG NAME
    Ace lawyer Bernard Finger has been shacking up in a Park Avenue penthouse with his honey, Marilyn the Masseuse, for weeks, unbeknownst to his wife. (Note to Missus: New York is NOT a no-fault divorce state, so go for it!) The lovely Marilyn thinks the lovely nest is hers, but somehow the deed got registered in Bernie’s name. Wonder how that happened?
    “Cute,” Stone said, “but why no photos?”
    “I expect they’re afraid of a suit from ol’ Bernie,” Joan replied.
    “They need have no fear with those pictures in their possession. No, something else is going on here.”
     
    A t the Post , Henry Stead was sitting at his desk when he spotted the process server, a short, plump man in a wash-and-wear suit. Henry waved at him cheerfully. “Over here, Arnie! I’ll accept service!”
    Arnie waddled over to the desk and ignored Henry’s outstretched hand, holding the summons close to his chest. “How come you’re so anxious to get sued?” he asked suspiciously.
    “Arnie, you of all people are in a position to know that we get sued all the time.”
    “Well, yeah, but I’ve never seen anybody here look so happy about it.”
    “It breaks up the day, Arnie. Gimme the summons.”
    Arnie handed it over with some reluctance. “This goes against my experience of these things,” he said. “Ordinarily I have to chase people around if they know what I’m doing.”
    “Gimme the clipboard, Arnie,” Henry said, extending a hand.
    Arnie handed over a clipboard holding a sheet of paper with space for a dozen signatures. “Sign on line six,” he said.
    Henry signed with a flourish. “That’s it, Arnie; your work is done. I’m sure that up in heaven an angel just got his wings.” He picked up a little bell on his desk and tinkled it. A copy boy sprinted toward him. “False alarm, Terry,” Henry said. “That was a heavenly bell.”
    Terry came to a screeching halt. “Don’t pitch me no balks,” he said sullenly, turning away.
    “That was an oxymoron, Terry,” Henry called after him.
    With a last, untrusting glance, Arnie turned and trudged toward the elevators.
    Henry ripped open the envelope and read the document.