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“What if our boy is in class?” Willie asked.
“My guess,” Herbie said, “is that our boy didn’t make it to class this morning, or on many other days. Let’s go.” He hopped out of the car and walked over to a van parked close by, which bore the name Winwood Farm on its door. He rapped on the passenger window, and it slid down. Two men in green hospital garb sat inside.
“Are you Mr. Fisher?” one of them asked.
“That’s right,” Herbie replied. “We’re going upstairs to speak with the young man. Give me your cell number.” Herbie tapped it into his iPhone. “I’ll call if we need you,” he said. “Did you bring a straitjacket, as requested?”
“In the back,” the driver said.
“I’ll also let you know if we’ll need it.” The window slid back up.
Herbie led the Leahys into the dorm and looked up Dink Brennan in the directory, then they took the elevator to the fourth floor and found the boy’s suite. Herbie knocked on the door and got no answer. He tried the door, but it was locked. “Anybody know how to get this open without breaking it down?”
Willie produced a credit-card-sized sheet of plastic and, in a flash, had the door open. They walked into the sitting room, which looked as though a hurricane had swept through it.
“Ugh,” Jimmy Leahy said, uttering his first sound of the morning.
Herbie opened the bedroom door and walked in. Both beds were disheveled, and one contained a large lump. Herbie drew back the sheet. “Hey, Dink?” he yelled, close to the young man’s ear.
“Huh?” the boy said, lifting his head from the pillow. “Yeah? Who are you guys?” He sat up. “Oh, I get it; you’re from Carlo. Tell him I’ll have his money in a few days.”
“Get on your feet, Dink,” Herbie said, and the boy obediently got out of bed and stood there, awkwardly.
“Have a seat at your desk,” Herbie said. Dink did so. Herbie produced two documents and a pen. “Sign these.”
“What are they?”
Herbie slapped him smartly on the back of the head. “Questions later. Sign them.”
Dink signed his name.
“Willie, Jimmy, witness, please, in the spaces provided.”
The Leahys did so while Dink looked nervously at Herbie.
Herbie tucked the documents into his pocket, walked over to a leather club chair, swept it free of dirty clothes, and sat down.
“If you’re not from Carlo, who are you?” Dink asked.
“We’re not from Carlo,” he said. “We’re the good guys. The bad guys come later, if you and I don’t have a satisfactory conversation.”
“I don’t get it,” Dink said, now fully awake.
“I’m your new attorney,” Herbie said. “Don’t worry, your father is paying.”
“Paying for what?”
“For my getting you out of this terrible fix you’re in.”
Dink shook his head. “I’m not in any kind of fix. All I have to do is pay the bookie.”
“How much do you owe him?” Herbie asked.
“I don’t know, exactly,” Dink said, “but I can handle it.”
“How will you handle it, Dink? Are you dealing drugs?”
“Of course not,” Dink replied.
