"Forster and Abelstein," a bright voice said in her ear. "How may we help you?"
"Marilyn Stone," she said. "For Mr. Forster."
Her throat was suddenly dry. It made her voice low and husky. There was a snatch of electronic music and then the boomy acoustic of a large office.
"Forster," a deep voice said.
"David, it's Marilyn Stone."
There was dead silence for a second. In that second, she knew Sheryl had done it right.
"Are we being overheard?" Forster asked quietly.
"No, I'm fine," Marilyn said, brightness in her voice. Hobie rested the hook on the counter, the steel glittering chest high, eighteen inches in front of her eyes.
"You need the police for this," Forster said.
"No, it's just about a trustees' meeting. What's the soonest we can do?"
"Your friend Sheryl told me what you want," Forster said. "But there are problems. Our staff people can't handle this sort of stuff. We're not equipped for it. We're not that sort of law firm. I'll have to find you a private detective."
"Tomorrow morning would be good for us," she said back. "There's an element of urgency, I'm afraid."
"Let me call the police for you," Forster said.
"No, David, next week is really too late. We need to move fast, if we can."
"But I don't know where to look. We've never used private detectives."
"Hold on a moment, David." She covered the mouthpiece with the heel of her hand and glanced up at Hobie. "If you want it tomorrow, it's got to be at their offices."
Hobie shook his head. "It has to be here, on my turf."
She took her hand away. "David, what about the day after tomorrow? It really needs to be here, I'm afraid. It's a delicate negotiation."
"You really don't want the police? You absolutely sure about that?"
"Well, there are complications. You know how things can be sometimes, sort of delicate?"
"OK, but I'm going to have to find somebody suitable. It could take me some time. I'll have to ask around for recommendations."
"That's great, David," she said.
"OK," Forster said again. "If you're sure you're sure, I'll get on it right away. But I'm really not clear exactly what you're hoping to achieve."
"Yes, I agree," she said. "You know we've always hated the way Dad set it up. Outside interference can change things, can't it?"
"Two in the afternoon," Forster said. "Day after tomorrow. I don't know who it'll be, but I'll get you someone good. Will that be OK?"
"Day after tomorrow, two in the afternoon," she repeated. She recited the address. "That's great. Thanks, David."
Her hand was shaking and the phone rattled in the cradle as she hung it up.
"You didn't ask for the trust deeds," Hobie said.
She shrugged nervously.
"There was no need. It's a formality. It would have made him suspicious."
There was silence. Then Hobie nodded.
"OK," he said. "Day after tomorrow. Two in the afternoon."
"We need clothes," she said. "It's supposed to be a business meeting. We can't be dressed like this."
Hobie smiled. "I like you dressed like that. Both of you. But I guess old Chester here can borrow my suit back for the meeting. You'll stay as you are."
She nodded, vaguely. She was too drained to push it.
"Back in the bathroom," Hobie said. "You can come out again day after tomorrow, two o'clock. Behave yourselves and you'll eat twice a day."
They walked silently ahead of Tony. He closed the bathroom door on them and walked back through the dark office and rejoined Hobie in the reception area.
"Day after tomorrow is way too late," he said. "For God's sake, Hawaii is going to know today. Tomorrow, at the very latest, right?"
Hobie nodded. The ball was dropping through the glare of the lights. The outfielder was leaping. The fence was looming.
"Yes, it's going to be tight, isn't it?" he said.
"It's going to be crazy tight. You should just get the hell out."
"I can't, Tony. I've given my word on the deal, so I need that stock. But it'll be OK. Don't you worry about it. Day after tomorrow at two-thirty, the stock will be mine, it'll be registered by three, it'll be sold on by five, we'll be out of here by suppertime. Day after tomorrow, it'll all be over."
"But it's crazy. Involving a lawyer? We can't let a lawyer in here."
Hobie stared at him.
"A lawyer," he repeated slowly. "You know what the basis of justice is?"
"What?"
"Fairness," Hobie said. "Fairness and equality. They bring a lawyer, we should bring a lawyer, too, shouldn't we? Keep things fair?"
"Christ, Hobie, we can't have two lawyers in here."
"We can," Hobie said. "In fact, I think we should."
He walked around the reception counter and sat down where Marilyn had sat. The leather was still warm from her body. He took the Yellow Pages from a cubbyhole and opened it up. Picked up the phone and hit nine for a line. Then he used the tip of the hook in seven precise little motions to dial the number.
"Spencer Gutman," a bright voice said in his ear. "How may we help you?"
SHERYL WAS ON her back on a bed, with an IV needle taped into a vein in her left hand. The IV was a square polyethylene bag hanging off a curled steel stand behind her. The bag contained liquid, and she could feel the pressure as it seeped down into her hand. She could feel it pushing her blood pressure higher than usual. There was hissing in her temples, and she could feel the pulses behind her ears. The liquid in the bag was clear, like thick water, but it was doing the job. Her face had stopped hurting. The pain had just faded away, leaving her feeling calm and sleepy. She had almost called out to the nurse that she could manage without the painkiller now, because the pain had gone away anyhow, but then she caught herself and realized it was the drug that was taking it away, and it would come right back if the IV stopped. She tried to giggle at her confusion, but her breathing was too slow to get much of a sound out. So she just smiled to herself and closed her eyes and swam down into the warm depths of the bed.
Then there was a sound somewhere in front of her. She opened her eyes and saw the ceiling. It was white and illuminated from above. She swiveled her gaze toward her feet. It was a big effort. There were two people standing at the end of the bed. A man, and a woman. They were looking at her. They were dressed in uniforms. Short-sleeved blue shirts, long dark pants, big comfortable shoes for walking. Their shirts were all covered in badges. Bright embroidered badges and metal signs and plates. They had belts, all loaded down with equipment. There were nightsticks and radios and handcuffs. Revolvers with big wooden handles were strapped into holsters. They were police officers. Both of them were old. Quite short. Quite broad. The heavy loaded belts made them ungainly.
They were looking at her, patiently. She tried to giggle again. They were looking at the patient, patiently. The man was balding. The illuminated ceiling was reflected in his shiny forehead. The woman had a tight perm, dyed orange, like a carrot. She was older than he was. She must have been fifty. She was a mother. Sheryl could tell that. She was gazing down with a kind expression, like a mother would.
"Can we sit down?" the woman asked.
Sheryl nodded. The thick liquid was buzzing in her temples, and it was confusing her. The woman scraped a chair across the floor and sat down on Sheryl's right, away from the IV stand. The man sat directly behind her. The woman leaned toward the bed, and the man leaned the other way, so his head was visible in a line behind hers. They were close, and it was a struggle to focus on their faces.
"I'm Officer O'Hallinan," the woman said.
Sheryl nodded again. The name suited her. The gingery hair, the heavy face, the heavy body, she needed an Irish name. And a lot of New York cops were Irish. Sheryl knew that. Sometimes it was like a family trade. One generation would follow the other.
"I'm Officer Sark," the man said, from behind her.
He was pale. He had the sort of pale white skin that looks papery. He had shaved, but there was gray shadow showing. His eyes were deep set, but kindly. They were in a web of lines. He was an uncle. Sheryl was sure of that. He had nephews and nieces who liked him.
"We want you to tell us what happened," the woman called O'Hallinan said.
Sheryl closed her eyes. She couldn't really remember what happened. She knew she had stepped in through Marilyn's door. She remembered the smell of rug shampoo. She remembered thinking that was a mistake. Maybe the client would wonder what needed covering up. Then she was suddenly on her back on the hallway floor with agony exploding from her nose.
"Can you tell us what happened?" the man called Sark asked.
"I walked into a door," she whispered. Then she nodded, like she was confirming it to them. It was important. Marilyn had told her no police. Not yet.
"Which door?"
She didn't know which door. Marilyn hadn't told her. It was something they hadn't talked about. Which door? She panicked.
"Office door," she said.
"Is your office here in the city?" O'Hallinan asked.
Sheryl made no reply. She just stared blankly into the woman's kindly face.