"But that's the point, Mr. Hill. NET claims they have no phone lines to the building, but I memorized a number on the reception-desk phone. It works. And they have all utilities-water, sewer, et cetera, but there is no record of any connections being made by the utility companies."
"How," asked Walter Weld Hill, "is this possible?"
"By bribery, I would assume."
"And who," went on Hill, "would have the money to bribe someone in this state?"
"LCN does, I guess."
"Give me that number," said Walter Weld Hill crisply.
When he had the number transcribed on a rag-paper notepad, Walter Weld Hill hung up and dialed the number directly. A low male voice answered on the first ring.
"LCN. We make money the old-fashioned way."
Walter Weld Hill blinked. He had heard that catch phrase before. At the moment, he could not place it, however.
"Please connect me with your most rarefied executive," he said firmly. "This is Mr. Hill of Hill Associates calling."
"Do you want our pharmaceuticals division, entertainment, loans, fencing, or waste disposal?"
"What on earth sort of firm are you running over there?"
"A successful one," said the strange voice. It sounded bored.
"I see. And who is in charge?"
"We don't use names, buddy. Company policy."
"Very well, since you seem determined to make my life difficult, please inform whoever is in charge of your rather diversified enterprise that the owner of the complex you are currently illegally inhabiting is about to call his law firm, Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone."
There was a pause. "Just a sec. I'll connect you with the CM."
"That is GM, you ninny." Walter Weld Hill smiled dryly as he listened to a procession of beeps and boops as the call was rerouted through the building that officially had no working telephone system. Mentioning his law firm invariably produced the desired result.
A moment later a gruff, raspy voice demanded, "Yeah. Whatcha want?"
"Er, I asked to speak with the individual in charge of LCN. "
"That's me talkin'. What's this about lawyers?"
"You are occupying my building."
"This crummy joint?"
"It is a superior structure," Walter Weld Hill said stiffly.
"If you ask me, it looks like it was made outta old sunglasses," the gruff voice snorted. "You ever see these windows? Dark. I never seen windows so dark. It's miracle we can see outta them. The only reason I took it was because it was empty and I didn't have time to evict anyone."
"Thank you for your opinion," Hill said aridly. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
"Call me Cadillac. Everybody does."
"Quaint name. Well, Mr. Cadillac, I am afraid you have really stepped in it. Illegal occupation of a commercial dwelling is a felony in this state."
"No kiddin ?" The voice sounded surprised, like an intelligent ape discovering that a banana was peelable. "I got arrested for a felony once. They charged me with riot. I was only playin' Johnny on the Pony with a couple of guys who owed somebody a few bucks. On account of all the broken bones, the cops called it riot. Isn't that a riot?"
"I am not amused."
"Don't be. I wasn't makin' no jokes. So what's on your mind?"
"Since we seem so free with my building, I believe you owe me, in the very least, rent money."
"Rent! For this crummy place? I got news for you, bud. This place had no lights, no phones, and no water. I hadda hook em up myself. And believe me, it cost plenty. I figure you owe me for getting your joint together so good."
"Why don't we have my lawyers discuss the particulars with your lawyers, my good man?" suggested Walter Weld Hill.
"Lawyers? I ain't got no lawyers."
"Why am I not surprised?" said Walter Weld Hill with a dry-as-toast sigh.
"I guess we can't do business, can we? I mean, who are your lawyers gonna talk to if I ain't got lawyers of my own? My mailman?"
"Why don't I simply visit the premises with my lawyers?"
"How many you got?"
"I believe the firm of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone is staffed by nearly a dozen trial attorneys and other functionaries."
"Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone!" exploded the gruff' voice. "They sound like fuggin' jewelers. You sure they're lawyers?"
"They happen to be the most eminent in the state," Hill said sourly, thinking: This man is a positive vulgarian.
"Okay, tell you what. I can see you're serious about this. Get your lawyers. Bring 'em over. All of them. Every last one. I'll get my people together and we'll do a sit-down. How's that sound?"
"Tiresome," said Walter Weld Hill, who had never before encountered a business person who did not turn to jelly at the names of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone, Attorneys-at-Law. It appeared he would have to go through with it. In person.
"I shall be over within the hour," he promised.
"Great. I can hardly wait. Just ask for Cadillac. I'm the CM."
"I believe that is GM."
"Not here, it ain't. "
As Walter Weld Hill hung up, he pinched the bridge of his nose once more. This was such a comedown for the man who introduced the Palladian Arch to Boston.
Walter Weld Hill's white Lincoln arrived a fashionable seven minutes after the assorted vehicles of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone had pulled into the parking area of the Manet Building, situated in the crook of a tentacular tributary of the Neponset River.
Sol Greenglass, senior partner, bustled up, his hand-tooled leather briefcase passing from hand to hand excitedly.
"We're ready, Mr. Hill," said Sol Greenglass, who, because he was not a Brahmin, was not allowed to invoke Walter Weld Hill's Christian name.
"Very well," said Walter Weld Hill, shading his eyes as he looked up at the gleaming silvery-blue mirrored-glass face of the Manet Building. He frowned. "Does this remind you of sunglasses?"
Sol Greenglass looked up. "A little. So what?"
Walter Weld Hill frowned like an undertaker. "Nothing. We had best get about this."
The other lawyers formed a train behind Walter Weld Hill as he strode toward the aluminum-framed foyer entrance.
Two paces behind, Sol Greenglass was almost literally rubbing his hands together with anticipation.
"When they see us sail in like this, en masse, they're going to positively plotz," he chortled. "I love it when they plotz."
"Yes," said Walter Weld Hill vaguely. He had no idea what "plotz" meant. It was one of those vulgar Jewish words. He took pains to remain unacquainted with them, just as he scrupulously excluded the forces of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone from his social circle.
They passed into a rather garish lobby. At a curved desk a male security guard had his face buried in a racing paper. He pointedly ignored them.
The directory looked like the menu in a seedy diner, white plastic letters mounted on a tacky aquamarine board. Some of the letters were actually askew.
Walter Weld Hill read down the department listings.
There were no names. But between "Consiglieri" and "Debt Collection"-odd listings, those-was an odder listing: "Boss."
"How droll," said Walter Weld Hill, noting that the "Boss" held sway on the fifth floor.
They crowded into the spacious elevator together. It was filled with Muzak of a kind Walter Weld Hill, for all his varied social experience, had never encountered.
"My word. It sounds like opera."
"I think it's The Barber of Seville," said Sid Korngold.
"Eh?"
"Rossini," supplied Abe Bluestone.
"At least their taste is not entirely bankrupt," muttered Walter Weld Hill, wincing at his own use of a particularly painful word.
The elevator stopped, dinged, and let them off on the fifth floor.
Briefcases swinging, jaws jutting forward, the law office of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone marched in lockstep behind their client as they negotiated the stainless-steel maze of corridors.