Josh Hook arrived, and Herbie introduced him to Stone.
“I’ve heard about you from Mike Freeman,” Hook said.
“Mike is a good man,” Stone replied. “You’ll enjoy working with him.”
“He says the same about you,” Hook replied.
Stone took his leave.
“So,” Josh said, settling into a chair, “what have you been up to, Herb?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” Herbie said.
DINK SAT
on his bed and looked around his new quarters. It was a room of about nine by twelve, furnished with a bed and a chair. There was a small bathroom with a shower, but no closet and no chest of drawers. They were unnecessary, since its occupants had no clothes. There was no TV, either, and the overhead light was controlled by the staff.
Dink had recovered from the shock of what Herb Fisher had said to him, and now he was angry. He got up and walked around the room, looking for something of interest. There was nothing. Well above his head was a single window, of about one by two feet, covered with a heavy wire mesh that let little sunlight through.
He sat back down on the bed, since the single chair looked very uncomfortable. He reflected on what he had going for him, and it wasn’t much. He knew he was not going to be beaten up or raped, and that was a start. He took a few deep breaths and tried to relax.
He had more assets on the outside, of course, but at the moment, he had no access to that world. There were clothes out there and money, and he was going to need those things.
The door opened and the two men who had escorted him to the room stepped inside.
“Medication time,” one of them said, holding up a small paper cup and a cup of water.
“What kind of medication?” Dink asked.
“Just something to relax you,” the man said.
“I’m perfectly relaxed,” Dink said. “Please tell the doctor I don’t need to be medicated. Tell him I’ll be cooperative.”
“I’ll be sure and mention that to him,” the man said, “but right now, you have to take your medication.”
“I really don’t—”
“You want us to help you get it down?” the man said. Apparently, the other one never spoke.
“All right,” Dink said, “I’ll take it.”
“That’s a good boy,” the man said, handing him both cups.
Dink looked at the large pill inside. He swallowed it, and chased it with the water.
“Good boy!” the man said. “Everything’s going to be fine now. The doctor will be here in a few minutes.” They left.
Dink immediately put to work a skill that had served him well in the past. He went into the bathroom, stuck a finger down his throat, and vomited the pill into the toilet.
“Fuck you all,” he said aloud, then he went and sat down on the bed again.
The door opened, and a middle-aged man in a white coat carrying a clipboard came into the room. “Good afternoon,” he said, “I’m Dr. Morton.”
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Dink replied.
The doctor pulled up the chair and sat down. “Now, let’s have a little orientation,” he said. “Oh, are you feeling the medication yet?”
“I’m feeling relaxed,” Dink replied.
“Good. Now first of all, you are no longer a patient in the facility where you’ve been living and were treated. It was deemed by the
people who were working with you that you were pretending to cooperate, just so that you could get out.”
Dink nodded. “I’m afraid that’s true,” he said. “But I want you to know that I understand that I’m not a well person, and I want to do everything I can to get well.”
“That’s a good attitude, if you’re not lying,” the doctor said. “The first thing that you’re going to have to learn is to be scrupulously honest with the people who treat you. They all have a great deal of experience with being lied to, so do yourself a favor and don’t lie to them.”
“Do you mind if I lie down, Doctor?” Dink asked.
“Yes, I mind, I’m not through yet. When I’m through, you can lie down if you want to.”
“All right.” Dink decided to be polite but not to try to sell this guy anything, just appear to go along. Only going along could get him the things he needed to get out of there, and he had no intention of spending one more day there than necessary.
STONE SAT
on his kitchen sofa and waited for Marla to appear from across the garden. It was to be their first evening together since her show had opened, and she seemed to prefer dining at his house to going out.
She rapped on the garden door and let herself in. He rose to greet her and got a kiss on the corner of his mouth for his effort.
“What can I get you to drink?” he asked.
“I think I’ll try some of your bourbon.”
Stone poured two Knob Creeks, and they sat down on the sofa. “So, is the show finally wrinkle-free?”
“There will always be ironing to do, but I had to make myself stop going to performances. I think we’re in for a good run. The advance ticket sales were light, but that’s picked up a lot since the reviews came in.”
“You look more relaxed,” Stone said.
“Relieved is more like it. Also, there’s always a letdown after a
show opens and there’s nothing else for me to do.” She took a sip of her bourbon. “This is good,” she said.
“Were you going to say something else?”
“Well …”
This is where she
’
s going to tell me there
’
s another man
, he thought.
“I have something of a problem.”
“Can I help?”
“I need some advice, that’s all.”
“Advice is what I do, mostly.”
“There’s this man.”
“Uh-oh. I was afraid of that.”
“No, I’m not dumping you.”
“Now
I
’
m
relieved.”
“I had a few dates with this guy a while back. It was nothing serious—at least, not to me.”
“But he took it seriously?”
“He seemed to. Then I started rehearsals for the show, and I used that as an excuse not to accept any more dates with him. Then, without my knowledge, he sought out our producer and invested some money in the show, apparently so he could attend some rehearsals and see me.”
“Sounds like it was a good investment. He should be pleased.”
“Yes, but now that the show has opened, he’s started a new campaign to see me. Flowers and gifts arrive, and the gifts were embarrassingly expensive, so I sent them back to him. I also wrote him a tactful letter explaining that, while I thought he was a nice fellow, I didn’t want to see him anymore.”
“That would have been my first piece of advice,” Stone said. “How did he take it?”
“Badly,” she said. “He called this afternoon and was very angry. How could I string him along? I didn’t. I finally said I wasn’t listening anymore, and not to call me anymore, then I hung up—right after he threatened me.”
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
“He said that I would soon learn that women don’t get away with ill-treating him, that I would regret it.”
“All right,” Stone said, “it’s time for your attorney to write the next letter.”
“I don’t have an attorney.”
“You do now,” Stone said. He picked up a pad and got out his pen. “What’s his name?”
“Ed Abney.”
“What does he do?”
“He has a publicity agency, specializing in Broadway and off-Broadway shows and theater people. He seems to be pretty successful.”
“What’s the name of the agency?”
“Bright Lights, Ink. He has offices on Eighth Avenue—I don’t know the number.”
“I’ll get the address and have a letter hand-delivered tomorrow morning.”
“What are you going to say in the letter?”
“That Ms. Marla Rocker would not like to see him or hear from him again, and that any further advances or gifts from him would be unwelcome, and that any further communication must be through your attorney.”
“And what if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we go to a TRO, a temporary restraining order.”
“Will that work?”
“If he ignores it I’ll haul him in front of a judge, and if he continues after that, he could end up in jail.”
“What’s to keep him from killing me?”
Stone put down his pad and turned toward her. “What reason do you have to think that he might become violent?”
“I didn’t tell you about this, but he was at our opening party, at Sardi’s. I saw him across the room with a woman who looked familiar, and when I went to the ladies’ she followed me. She told me that I should be careful with him, because he has a history of violence with women. I asked if that was the case, why was she seeing him? She said because she was afraid not to, and that she was leaving town, moving away from New York to get away from him, and she wasn’t telling anybody where.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Annette Redfield. She’s an actress. I looked her up and it seems that she has been working regularly for the past ten years or so, in supporting roles on and off Broadway. I suppose that’s why she looked familiar.”
Stone got up. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He walked down the hall to his office, then into Joan’s office, where he found a copy of that afternoon’s
New York Post
. He went back to the kitchen and leafed through the paper until he found the article he was looking for, then handed it to her.
ACTRESS FOUND DEAD
A popular supporting actress on Broadway was found late last night by a neighbor, dead on the kitchen floor of her
apartment. Annette Redfield, 38, had been strangled, according to police sources, and it appeared that she had been trying to defend herself with a kitchen knife.
“Don’t read any more,” Stone said, taking the paper from her.
Marla’s face had drained of color. She took a pull on her drink and sat back on the sofa. “Now what? Am I going to have to leave town?”
“No,” Stone said, “and I’m going to see that he doesn’t bother you again. Do I have your permission to do that?”
“Whatever it takes,” Marla said, “short of killing him.”
“Don’t worry,” Stone said, “nobody is going to die.”
Marla sighed. “Someone already has.”
HERBIE STOOD
in a gymnasium that smelled of fresh paint and listened to Josh Hook, who was standing on a mat, teaching a self-defense class.
“Welcome to Strategic Defense,” Josh said. “You’ll begin your training here by taking a class that is incorrectly named. This is not a class in defensive measures, it is a class in offensive tactics. If, in protecting your client, you find yourself in a defensive posture, it is already too late to defuse the situation quickly. If you do this, or this, or this”—he assumed the postures of boxing, karate, and judo—“you are wasting time. All you’re doing is getting yourself into a fight, and while you are fighting, your client is unprotected—at least, by you.”
He took a large student by the wrist and led him in front of the class. “Assume a fighting position, any kind of fighting position,” he said to the young man, who turned his left side toward Josh and made two fists. Josh kicked him hard in the left shin. The victim
grabbed his shin and hopped around on one foot, swearing. Josh kicked him in the ass, and he fell down.
“I did what women are taught to do in anti-rape classes,” Josh said. “I kicked him in the shin, and his response was to grab where it hurt and put all his weight on his other foot, making it easy for me to kick him to the ground. I could have pushed him with one finger, and he’d have gone down, but he has a big ass, and it was an inviting target.” That got a laugh from his audience. “Now he’s on the ground and at a disadvantage. If he looks like he wants to continue fighting, then I can kick him in the balls and put the thought right out of his head.” Josh helped the young man up. “I know that hurt, and I’m sorry, but I had to make a point. Get yourself an ice bag from the little freezer over there and apply it to your shin. It’ll stop hurting in a minute.” The young man limped away and did as he was told.
“My point is, when confronted with a threat, don’t wait, take action. Don’t tell him to get out of your way, don’t push him, don’t yell at him. Put him on the ground in a suitably painful way so that he won’t want to get up and take you on. By the time he’s decided he’s mad enough to fight, your client will be in the car and on his way, and so will you, and you won’t be the one in pain.
“That’s how to deal with a physical threat. The threat of a man with a weapon—a knife or a baseball bat, say—requires even quicker action. You have to act before he assumes an offensive posture, like holding the knife in front of him or backswinging the bat. A very good technique is a straight punch to the nose with either hand, while he’s still thinking about what he’s going to do to you. Don’t make your punch short—that might not stop him. Punch right through his head to a point six inches behind him. You’ll knock him on his ass, it will hurt him like hell, and he’ll be
confronted with the sight of his own blood all over his shirt, which is very disturbing to almost anybody. And he will be afraid of you, giving you time to get your client into the building. By the way, when encountering that kind of opposition on the way into a building, always leave the building by another exit because the man you humiliated might be waiting outside for you, and you don’t want an angry man with a knife or a baseball bat waiting for you because next time, he’ll be ready to use his weapon.”
“What happens if he has a gun in his hand?” somebody asked.
“Not now, in a few minutes,” Josh said. “Other weak points.” Josh took Herbie by the wrist and led him forward. “Don’t worry, Herb, I’m not going to hurt you. This time.” Another laugh. “The knee is a very good place to kick a man, especially if he’s larger than you are.” He aimed a kick at Herbie’s knee, but stopped short of contact. “The only problem with the knee is, if you really connect, you may do serious damage, requiring a trip to the ER, surgery, physical therapy, and a personal injury lawsuit. But that’s what your client’s liability insurance is for. Also, you should have your own liability insurance, which is cheap as long as you don’t list your occupation on the application as ‘bodyguard.’” Another laugh.