Standup Guy (15 page)

Stone watched Hank take a deep breath.

“You put me into that car, and they drove away. Before I could say anything I was on the floor with somebody’s foot on my neck. We drove for, I don’t know, twenty minutes, half an hour. I was disoriented, I don’t know where we went.

“Then we were in a garage, and Onofrio was there. I was blindfolded, my hands tied behind my back, and stuffed into the trunk of a car. We drove for a long time, first stop and start, then obviously on the open road, probably an interstate. I made myself as comfortable as I could and dozed for a while.

“The trunk opened, and I was hustled into the house, untied, and the blindfold came off. There were groceries brought from the car, and I was told to cook.”

“What were the sleeping arrangements?” Stone asked.

“I know you saw the double bed—that’s where we slept. I know the guy well, I knew what he wanted, and I decided to give it to him. It made life more bearable, if it wasn’t hostile all the
time. If I hadn’t give in to him, I would have been tied up and blindfolded again, and I didn’t want that.”

“Did anyone else visit the house?”

“No, there were just the two of us. He got some phone calls, and I talked to you twice.”

“What did you do with your time?”

“There was a TV, with a satellite dish, and some magazines. We fucked a lot.”

Stone winced. “Were you ever left alone there?”

“Not until today. I thought about running, but I had no idea where we were. I don’t know
now
, come to that. I never saw a soul, not even on the lake. It was starting to get late in the day, and I didn’t want to try the woods or the road in the dark. I thought he’d be back any minute.”

“You’re in the lower left-hand corner of Connecticut,” Dino said.

At the store in New Fairfield, Stone and Dino got out of the car and went to Sparks. “Buono is gone,” he said. “He probably saw your vehicles before we got here, then took off.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You could issue an APB on the silver Mercedes,” Dino said. “But Buono is either halfway to New York by now, or to someplace else.”

“Okay,” Sparks said. “You got the girl?”

“We’ll take her back with us,” Stone said.

“I wouldn’t let her go home without a police detail on her.”

“We’ll go to my place,” Stone said.

Everyone was quiet on the drive back to the city. Dino sat up front, and Stone and Hank were in the backseat. She put her head
on his shoulder and seemed to sleep, so he didn’t question her further.

As they approached Stone’s house, Dino asked, “Do you want some cops here?”

“I don’t think so,” Stone replied. “He’ll probably think we have them anyway, and he can’t get into the house.”

Hank stirred. “Where are we?”

“Almost to my house,” Stone said. “You’re staying with me.”

“I need some clothes,” Hank said. “All I’ve got is what I’m wearing. He had bathrobes in the house, so I was able to wash things.”

“You’re about Joan’s size,” Stone said. “Taller, but she’ll have something you can wear.”

“All right.”

“Dino, you want to come in? Helene can fix us some dinner.”

“Nah, I’d better get home to Viv.”

Dino’s driver had a look around before Stone and Hank got out of the car. Stone opened the door to a darkened house and closed the door behind them. Then he tripped over something soft and fell. Hank found a light switch, and Stone was sitting on the floor in the foyer, next to two fat leaf bags.

“What’s that?” Hank asked.

“Five million dollars,” Stone replied.

“Onofrio seemed to be expecting seven or eight.”

“Five million was all I was willing to pay for you.”

Then they began to laugh.

John Fratelli was dressing for dinner when his cell phone rang.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Stone Barrington.”

“How’d it go?”

“We got the girl back. Buono got lucky—he went to the grocery store and saw the police there and took off.”

“Did he hurt her?”

“No, not so’s you’d notice.”

“I’m glad of that.”

“I appreciate the tip-off about the cabin. It made all the difference.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You sound different since you got to wherever you are,” Stone said.

“I
am
different: new name, new house, new girl.”

“What more could any man ask for?”

“You’re right about that. Call me if Bats acts up again. I’ll help if I can.”

“Thanks.” They hung up.

Fratelli met Hillary downstairs, and the Bentley was waiting for them. They drove to Café L’Europe for dinner, and the valet drove the car away. Fratelli thought to himself:
You’d better not scratch it.

They were seated immediately, and Fratelli ordered them martinis. After looking at the menus and chatting quietly, they ordered, and Fratelli cleared his throat.

Hillary looked at him askance.

“There are some things I have to tell you about me.”

“I had a feeling something like that was coming,” she said. “Shoot.”

“I told you some lies about my background—in fact, everything I told you was a lie.”

“You didn’t tell me much, and I had the feeling I shouldn’t ask.”

“I grew up in Brooklyn. My father worked as a shoemaker for a place that made custom shoes. He paid the rent, put food on the table, gave me an allowance. My last year in high school I . . . fell among thieves.”

“Did they steal from you?”

“No, together we stole from others—financial institutions. We made some money, I bought some clothes and a car. We did about two jobs a year. Nobody ever got hurt. I was the driver, I never went inside, never carried a weapon. Then, when I was in my mid-twenties, something went wrong inside. I heard shooting. I wanted to drive away, but I was a standup guy, and I didn’t. I sat
there and waited until my three partners stumbled out of the bank. Two of them had been shot by a guard.

“I drove them to a doctor we knew, then left the car on the street and went home. That night, the police came. The partner who didn’t get shot told the police everything. The two wounded partners died in the doctor’s office. I went to prison. My tattletale partner walked, as we say.

“I served twenty-five years. Inside, I met a man named Eduardo Buono, who was from Brooklyn, too, but he was smarter than I, better educated, better read. We made a bargain: I protected him from . . . assaults by other prisoners, he gave me what amounted to a university education. We both got jobs in the library, and I spent most of my time reading.”

“What did you read?”

“Everything. I started with the Harvard Classics—that’s supposed to give you a liberal education. I read the Durants’
Civilization
. I read other histories, especially American history, and biographies. Pretty soon I was educating myself.

“I never applied for parole because of Eddie, who needed me to survive in there. Then he died, and I completed my sentence and went free.”

“So you have no . . . what is it they say—debt to society?”

“None.”

“So where did the money come from?”

“From Eddie. He was inside because he had masterminded the robbery of a cash transfer business at JFK airport. They stole fifteen million dollars. Half went to Eddie, half to his crew. All the crew spent money and got noticed. When they started getting arrested, Eddie knew he was next. He hid his money and went to
prison. He thought he could buy a pardon, but that didn’t work. Before he died he told me where the money was, and the statute of limitations on the robbery had expired. When I got out, I collected it and left New York. Came here, changed my name, invested the money offshore, bought an apartment, and met you.” Fratelli shrugged. “I think that brings us up to date.”

“Well,” she said, “that was a much more interesting story than I had anticipated.”

“I’m sorry I deceived you.”

“I’m glad you did,” she said. “I would have been put off. But now I’ve gotten to know you, and I’m glad you told me.”

“I would understand if you didn’t want to see me again.”

She took his big hand in hers. “That, my dear, is not the case.”

“I would be grateful if you would keep this in confidence. I wouldn’t want Winston and Elizabeth to know.”

“Of course. You’re a good man, Jack, and I’m terribly, terribly fond of you. You’re an honest man, too. Do you know how I know?”

“How?”

“You don’t cheat at golf. Almost everyone else I know does, but not you.”

Fratelli laughed.

“May I know your real name?”

“Jack Coulter is my real name. I have a birth certificate, a passport, and a driver’s license to prove it. I was born John Fratelli.”

“That’s a pretty name, it’s a pity you can’t use it.” Then she frowned. “Why can’t you use it?”

“Because there are a few people who know that I’m out, and they believe I have Eddie’s money.”

“And you don’t want to meet them again?”

“That is correct.”

“You don’t see any old friends?”

“The only friends I have are Winston, Elizabeth, and you.”

“And we will always be your friends,” she said, squeezing his hand.

Dinner arrived, and Jack tasted the wine and approved.

Hillary raised her glass. “To a bright future,” she said.

He raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

The following morning, as Jack was having breakfast in bed and reading the papers, he was finishing the
Palm Beach Post
and he was suddenly riveted by a small display ad.

JOHN FRATELLI

I know who and where you are.

You would be wise to contact me

before I find it necessary

to collapse your world.

• • •

There was a name, Harry Moss, and a phone number.

Stone was at his desk when Dino called.

“Thanks for the road trip,” he said. “How’s our victim?”

“Better than I would have thought,” Stone said. “She insisted on going to work this morning—after going home to change clothes.”

“Well, it’s unlikely that we’re going to hear from Buono again.”

“You think so?”

“Pretty soon he’ll find out he’s a federal fugitive, and that should scare the shit out of him.”

“How’d he get to be a federal fugitive?”

“Kidnapping is a federal crime, and I turned the case over to the FBI, since Hank is no longer at risk.”

“And how will Buono know he’s a federal fugitive?”

“He’ll see it on TV tonight, along with an interview with an FBI agent, or somebody he knows will see it.”

“You do good work,” Stone said. “Was Viv mad at you for keeping her up last night?”

“Yes, and now she wants to come along when I see you, so she’ll know where I am.”

“Okay by me.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“See you later.”

They hung up.

Joan came to his door. “What’s in the two huge bags upstairs?” she asked. “They were delivered late yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t open them.”

“Five million dollars,” Stone replied.

“Ooh! May I have it, please?”

“No.”

“I said ‘please.’”

“Politeness will not get you everywhere. That reminds me, I have to get rid of that money.” He phoned Mike Freeman.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mike.”

“I’m still waiting for the phone call from your broker.”

“He won’t be making the call, I have the money here. Can you have it picked up and delivered to my bank in a secure fashion?”

“Security is what we’re all about.”

“Have your men see Joan when they arrive. She knows where it is. There are two bags, instead of one, and please have your men get a receipt from my banker. They may have to wait a bit while he counts it.”

“Those bankers! They don’t trust anybody, do they?”

“They certainly don’t.”

“Are you ready to tell me what this is all about? I’ll buy dinner.”

“Sure. Where?”

“I’m feeling flush, how about at Daniel?”

“Great.”

“Eight?”

“Fine, see you then.”

• • •

Jack Coulter found a Palm Beach area telephone book in a desk drawer in his suite and looked up the name. He was listed: Harry M. Moss. Coulter had remembered the name that went with that face. The address was on Ocean Drive in Delray Beach, a little south of Palm Beach. Pretty tony neighborhood for a retired FBI agent. Moss must have come into money: certainly, he wanted to come into more.

Jack called Manny Millman, the bookie, and while the number rang, he became John Fratelli again, in accent and attitude.

“Yeah?”

“Manny? It’s John Fratelli.”

“Hey, there. Everything okay?”

“Almost. I’d like somebody investigated without him knowing. Anybody you know can handle that?”

“Sure. I’ve got an ex–Miami cop who bets with me. What do you need?”

“Got a pencil?”

“Always.”

“Name is Harry Moss.” He gave Manny the address and phone number, and his own number. “Retired FBI. I want to know everything there is to know about him. Everything. I’ll pay ten grand for a very thorough investigation. He’s got three, maybe
four days. Have him call me at this number when he’s ready to report. If you’ll pay him, you can deduct twelve grand from my next payment, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What’s your man’s name?”

“Willard Crowder, black guy, first-rate human being.”

“Then go!”

“You got it, pal. I’ll call him right now.”

“Thanks, Manny.”

“You okay, Johnny?”

“Never better—Vegas is sensational!” He hung up.

Manny called the number, and Willard Crowder answered on the second ring.

“Yeah, Manny, I know, I’m overdue. I’m good for it.”

“Don’t sound so grumpy, Will, this is a good-news call.”

“Good news I could use.”

“How’d you like me to scrub your tab of, let’s see . . .”

“Six and a half large.”

“Right, and I’ll throw in another two grand in cash.”

“Who do I have to assassinate?”

“Not a soul. All you have to do is pretend to be a private eye.”

“Manny, I
am
a private eye, remember? I’ve got a plastic badge and everything. What do you need?”

“There’s a guy up in Delray Beach named Harry Moss. Write this down.” Manny gave him everything he had. “He’s a retired FBI guy. A friend of mine wants to know everything there is to know about him.”

“Everything? Like what?”

“Everything you can find out by the end of the week. Think of it as an employment investigation. My friend especially wants to know the dirt.”

“I’m gonna need expenses.”

“I think my friend will spring for another grand.”

“Okay, I’m on it.”

“Call me when you’re done. I’ll give you my friend’s number.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Don’t ask.” Manny hung up.

• • •

Crowder hoisted himself out of bed and looked around. Good thing the woman was coming in this afternoon. He picked up the beer bottles and treated himself to his first shave and shower in three days, ignoring the thirst that lived at the back of his throat.

That done, he stuck a couple of days’ clothes into a duffel and ripped the plastic wrap off a dry-cleaned suit. He left the woman’s money under the pepper mill on the kitchen counter, and filled his pockets with the usual crap. He hesitated when he came to the 9mm and decided to go with his old snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Airweight revolver that he had worn on his ankle for years as a backup piece. He Velcroed it in place, put on a necktie, grabbed a straw fedora and his duffel, then went down to his car, a 1968 Mercedes convertible that made him look classy to the women. On his way up U.S. 1, he ran it through a car wash, which felt almost as good as his shower.

After that, since he had hocked his laptop, he stopped in a
computer café and rented himself an hour of running down his target on Google and Facebook. He was amused that Harry Moss had what had to be a fifteen-year-old photograph posted, along with a plea to hear from eligible ladies. That done, he drove to Delray and found the elderly beachfront apartment building that was home to Mr. Moss.

Question: how did the guy buy this place and handle the property taxes on an FBI pension? A trip to the courthouse solved that riddle. Then he looked for the nearest coffee shop that a sixty-one-year-old guy would have breakfast at every day. He found just the right place, went in, sat at the counter, and ordered a big breakfast. An attractive black woman in a neat uniform took his order, then succumbed to his charms and started talking.

“You a cop?” she asked.

“You’re smart—ex-FBI, retired a couple years ago. I’m Will, Madge.” Her name was on a plastic tag pinned to her yellow uniform.

“Hey. I got another regular customer used to be FBI. Maybe you know him?”

“Name?”

“Harry Moss.”

“Sure I knew him a little: not too tall, balding, early sixties?”

“He’s not balding anymore, he’s bald.”

And in forty-five minutes, between eggs and bacon and the occasional other customers’ needs, he got a lot. He left a big tip.

“You come back, now, hear?”

“I hear ya. You want to have dinner one of these nights?”

She handed him a card. “Call me and find out.”

• • •

Crowder hung around the apartment building long enough to see Moss leave the building. He followed from way back and watched the man park at a shopping center and go into a Publix market. He left with half a basket of what Crowder thought was probably frozen dinners.

Crowder didn’t wait for him to go out in the evening; he could make that up later. He drove home, found his apartment clean and neat, then sat down and wrote out his report. He hung his suit in the closet and fell into his reclining chair in his shirt and shorts with a large bourbon. Tiger Woods was playing in California, and he was looking good.

• • •

Harry Moss walked into the diner at five o’clock for his usual slice of key lime pie and coffee. “Hey, Madge,” he said, climbing onto a stool.

“Hey, Harry,” Madge said. She put the pie and coffee on the counter without being asked. “Friend of yours came in here this morning.”

“Friend?” Who would that be?

“Well, he said he knew you a little from the FBI days. Name of Will. Black dude.”

Moss paused with the first bite of pie nearly to his mouth, then he put down the fork. “I only ever knew two or three black agents, and none of ’em was Will.”

Madge shrugged. “I guess he got the wrong guy, then. He described you like he knew you, though.”

Moss made a second attempt to eat the first bite of his pie, but his mouth tasted funny, and he put it down again. “Madge, you been talking about me to somebody?”

“Nah, he brought you up,” she lied.

“What’d he ask you?”

“He wanted to know if you lived around here, said he wanted to look you up.” She was getting into the swing of her lie, now, to see if she could get a rise out of Harry. She did.

Moss’s face was turning red. “What did you tell him?”

“Just that I knew you. I told him I don’t know where you live.”

“You sure you didn’t tell him that?”

“Now that I think of it, I don’t know where you live.”

“What was he driving?”

“An old Mercedes convertible, real old. He parked it across the street.”

“What color?”

“Kind of off-white.”

“Describe him.”

“Big black dude, six-two, on the heavy side. Sharp dresser.”

Moss tried again with the pie and got down a bite. Who the hell was this guy?