Lucid Intervals by Stuart Woods

She was of Dolce’s height and build, but she wore a coat or cape with a hood, which was drawn over her head, leaving her face in shadow.
    Stone stepped behind a tree and stopped. As he watched, she turned toward Third Avenue and began walking. At the corner, she hailed a cab and was driven away. Stone heaved a sigh of relief and walked on to his house, entering through the office.
    Joan sat at her computer, paying bills online. “Morning,” she said. “A client is waiting for you.”
    “Which one?” he asked.
    She waved him away with a hand, as if he were breaking her concentration.
    Stone walked into his office to find Herbie Fisher stretched out on his leather sofa, his shoes off, sound asleep. Stone sat down at his desk and noisily shuffled some papers, but Herbie slept on. Stone made a couple of phone calls, not bothering to keep his voice low, and still Herbie slept. Finally, his patience ran out.
    “Herbie!” he practically shouted.
    Herbie raised his head, looked around, and then sat up and began putting on his shoes.
    “Will there be anything else?” Stone asked.
    “No, I don’t think so,” Herbie said, and then rose, put on his jacket and did up his necktie. Stone noticed that he had a better haircut than customary and that his nails had been manicured.
    “Then I’d better get back to work,” Stone said.
    Herbie was almost to the door when he stopped. “Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot. I’m thinking of buying a house in this neighborhood, and I wanted to ask your opinion.”
    This was disturbing news. “Where in the neighborhood?” he asked.
    “Next door,” Herbie said, pointing to the east.
    The house was larger than Stone’s, and the two back gardens were separated only by a low brick wall. “Not the best choice,” he said.
    “Well, there’s another one available across your back garden, in the next block.”
    Stone knew that house, and it was very nice. “Herbie,” he said, “I’m not sure you’re suited to living in a large house alone. The upkeep and, especially, the taxes are just awful. I think you might feel more at home in a good condo building, maybe a penthouse?” Maybe he would fall off the thing.
    “That’s a thought,” Herbie said.
    “The ladies love a penthouse. Why don’t you ask your agent to show you a few?”
    “How about a co-op building?” Herbie asked.
    Stone shook his head. “Then you’d have to face a board of directors, and they can be very tough on people with new money. They like a long record of high earnings; some of them even demand a high net worth from applicants, as much as fifty million dollars. None of those problems with condos.”
    “That’s very good legal advice, Stone,” Herbie replied, nodding sagely. “I’m glad I retained you.”
    “I’m glad you’re happy with my services, Herbie. That your Maybach waiting outside?”
    “Not yet. It’s a loaner from the dealer, but I’m considering it.”
    “How much?”
    “A little under four hundred grand,” Herbie said. “It’s the short-wheelbase model, not the limo. I don’t want to be too …” He seemed to search for the word.
    “Ostentatious?” Stone offered.
    “I was going to say flashy, but I guess opsenbacious will do.”
    “Yes, you want to keep a low profile,” Stone said. “Why don’t you look at some penthouses today?”
    “Good idea,” Herbie said, turning toward the door while reaching for his cell phone and pressing a speed-dial button. “Hello, Serena? Herbert Fisher here. I’d like to see some penthouses.” He listened for a moment. “High-up ones,” he said. “Meet you outside your office in ten minutes? I’m in the Maybach.” He snapped the phone shut. “See you, Stone.”
    “Be sure and look at a lot of apartments,” Stone said. “You really want to know what’s out there before you decide. And you might ask to see apartments that are already nicely decorated.” Stone dreaded to think what sort of decor Herbie might wind up