Inside the heavy glass-and-iron doors of the apartment building, a doorman sat at an antique desk. Behind him was a bank of security monitors. He was built like a linebacker, and there was an obvious silent alarm built into the top of his desk, an inch or so from his hand. He could hardly have expected any trouble from a fat man in a tuxedo and a nondescript fellow in a cheap brown suit. "Yes?" he asked them through the intercom when they approached the door.
Jay Ackroyd made a gun out of his right hand, pointed at the doorman through the glass, and said, "Here's looking at you, kid." The man disappeared with a pop of in-rushing air.
Hiram rocked lightly on the balls of his feet, glanced around nervously. "Where did you-" he began.
"The main stacks of the New York Public Library" Jay said. "He looked like he needed to get caught up on his reading." He took out his wallet, removed a credit card, and opened the door in the blink of an eye. "Never leave home without it," he told Hiram as he slipped the card back into his wallet. They went into the lobby.
Latham lived in the penthouse, just as Hiram had expected. Jay pressed the button fbr the roof.
The embossed bronze plate above the doorbell said ST. JOHN LATHAM. Jay pressed it, and they waited in nervous silence by the elevator. He wasn't home, Hiram thought, of course he wasn't home, he was out somewhere, he was-then the door gave a soft buzz and swung open slowly.
They walked into a small foyer, empty but for a bentwood hat rack and an umbrella stand. The kitchen was to the right, a closet to the left. Ahead was a huge living room with a sunken conversation pit, a wet bar, and a solid wall of floor-to-ceiling glass that opened on a roof garden, a magnificent view of Central Park and the city and stars beyond. A lavish bedroom suite and den both opened off the living room, their doors standing wide. Voices were coming from the den. Hiram walked lightly, small quiet steps, but Jay's heels clicked loudly on the gleaming parquet floor as they crossed the room.
"That's fine. Yes. Yes, at all costs. Phone in when you have news." The man touched a button; the speakerphone disconnected. The only light in the room came from a brass banker's lamp with a green glass shade. Latham sat with a stack of maps under his left hand, his right hand working the keyboard of an IBM PC. He wore the vest and trousers of a gray chalk-stripe Armani suit, a perfect white shirt with the top button undone, and a dark foulard tie, the knot pulled down and to one side. He did not look up when they entered. "Do I know you?"
"My name is Worchester," Hiram said. "Hiram Worchester. My associate is Jay Ackroyd, a licensed private investigator-"
"Who earlier today illegally detained a client of Latham, Strauss, violating his constitutional rights and causing him untold psychological distress, not to mention disorientation, damage to his good name, and fear for his life and safety," Latham said. He still did not look up from the keypad. The screen displayed a grid of some sort. "An error in judgment that is going to cost Mr. Ackroyd a considerable sum of money, and probably his license." He finished his entry, stored it, and wiped the grid off the screen. Only then did he deign to swivel his high-backed chair to look at them. "If you're here to propose a settlement, I'm certainly willing to listen."
"A settlement?" Hiram was aghast. "You're suggesting we pay money to that unspeakable thug who-"
"I'd caution you aginst slander, Mr. Worchester. You're in sufficient trouble already." The phone rang. Latham didn't bother to pick it up. He reached out, touched the speaker phone button, and announced, "Not now, I have company. Call back in ten minutes." The caller hung up without identifying himself. "Now, Mr. Worchester, what were you about to say?"
"Your client is scum," Hiram said clearly. "Frankly, I'm shocked that a distinguished man like yourself would even consider representing him."
"I'm a little curious about that myself," Jay Ackroyd said. He slouched against the doorway, hands in his pockets. "Usually you've got a little more class than that."
"I seldom involve myself in criminal matters," Latham said, "and I am not, in fact, the attorney of record in this case. But I make it a point to familiarize myself with all our pending litigation, even the most trivial, and Mr. Tulley briefed me on this matter only this afternoon."
"Who are you really working for?" Hiram demanded. Jay Ackroyd groaned. Hiram gave him a dirty look and then went on. "This is extortion, you know it and I know it. I want to know who's behind it, and I want to know now." He crossed the room, leaned over the desk, and stared in the lawyer's face. "I warn you, I'm an ace, and not an inconsiderable one, and I've had a very bad day."
"Are you threatening me, Mr. Worchester?" Latham asked in terms of polite interest.
"I don't feel so well," Ackroyd whined from the doorway. Hiram looked back in annoyance. Ackroyd was clutching his stomach, and his features did have a slight greenish tinge, but maybe that was just the light. "I wouldn't have eaten so much if I'd known I was going to get tear-gassed." He belched. "Where's the john?" he asked with some urgency.
"Through the master bedroom, to the right," Latham told him. Ackroyd bolted for sanctuary, and a moment later they heard the sound of retching. "Charming," Latham said.
Hiram turned back on him. "Never mind about him. Your client and his friends sent a decent, honest man to the hospital today. They broke his arm and two of his ribs, knocked out several of his teeth, and gave him a slight concussion. They also burned his delivery truck and vandalized his place of business. They poisoned my lobsters with gasoline, Mr. Latham."
"Did you see our client commit any of these alleged crimes? No? I thought not. Did Mr.. Ackroyd?"
"Damn it, Latham. I was there this morning, I saw what they were trying to do-"
"Who? "
"Them," Hiram said. "His men. Three of them, they were called, ah, Eye and Cheech and, well, I don't recall the other one's name. Eye was the joker"
" I have no idea who you're referring to," Latham said. "In any case, Mr. Seivers is not a part of any gang."
"Mr. Seivers?" Hiram was momentarily confused.
"I believe he's sometimes known as the Bludgeon. If you're going to persecute the man on account of his appearance, you might at least trouble yourself to learn his real name, which as it happens is Robert Seivers."
Both of them heard the toilet flush. Latham leaned back in his chair. "Your friend is finished. Unless you care to propose a settlement, I believe our business is finished too. As you can see, I'm quite busy."
Jay Ackroyd reentered the room, looking a bit pale, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief:
"Get out," Latham suggested coolly. "Both of you."
"You can't just-" Hiram began.
"Would you prefer I call the police?"
As they waited by the elevator, Hiram glared at Jay in indignation. " A fat lot of good you were," he said.
"You've got a great touch for interrogation, Hiram," Ackroyd said. "I didn't want to spoil your rhythm."
The doors opened and they got inside the elevator. "That got us exactly nowhere," Hiram said, pressing the button for the lobby with rather more gusto than required.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Ackroyd replied. He looked at his watch. "If Loophole's as smart as I think, he's searching his bathroom by now."
Hiram was lost. "Searching his bathroom?"
"Bedroom too. I didn't really expect him to buy my little tummyache," Jay said. "He's got to figure I ran to the john to plant some kind of bug."
"Ah," Hiram said, "so he wastes time searching…"
"I hope not. Hell, I didn't hide it very well. It's on the phone by his bed, how obvious could I get?"
Hiram gaped at him. "You planted a bug, but you want it to be discovered. Why?"
"Gives him something to find," Ackroyd said. "Once he has it, he ought to be satisfied. He thinks we're chumps anyway, and he's got other things on his mind tonight."