Standup Guy (5 page)

Stone polished off his Dover sole and took another sip of the Far Niente Chardonnay. “That was a delicious lunch, Bill,” he said to the managing partner of Woodman & Weld. “I dreamed about it at my desk this morning.” They were having lunch at Eggers’s regular table in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons, which was downstairs in the Seagram Building, where the Woodman & Weld offices were located on four floors.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Eggers said.

“And I’m still enjoying the wine.”

“Coffee?”

“Thank you, no, it keeps me awake in the afternoon.”

Eggers chuckled. “I believe you had something of a wake-up call this morning,”

“I believe you have remarkable contacts in federal law enforcement.”

“Why are you being investigated by the Department of the Treasury?”

“Something about an ancient hundred-dollar bill,” Stone said, “going back to the sixties.”

“A
stolen
hundred-dollar bill, I’m told.”

“Possibly. I didn’t ask it about its criminal record.”

“Stone, you haven’t developed a sideline in money laundering, have you?”

“Accepting cash for payment of services is not a sideline,” Stone said. “Those funds have been duly recorded in my books and will, in due course, be disclosed on my tax return.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

“I believe I just explained that.”

“I thought you had given up representing felonious clients when you became a partner of Woodman & Weld.”

“Bill, if we gave up representing felonious clients, how would anybody at Woodman & Weld make a living?”

“You seem to have a low opinion of us.”

“Certainly not! I have only the highest regard for my law firm and my partners.”

“But you think our clients are felons?”

“Do you doubt that some of them are? Not that they ask us to represent them in such cases, but after all, that used to be what I spent a good part of my time doing for the firm, before I became a partner.”

“Where do you find these people?”

“They seem to find me,” Stone said. “This one got into my office by saying that Eduardo had recommended me.”

“Eduardo Bianci is sending you criminal cases?”

“Turned out it was a different Eduardo, and it wasn’t exactly a case. Not yet, anyway. The person in question merely wanted some advice, for which he paid me in cash.”

“I hope you haven’t explained to him how to open an offshore bank account, et cetera, et cetera.”

“No, I have not.”

“I’m relieved to hear that, because—”

“Actually, I recommended a safe-deposit box in a respectable bank.”

“That’s still advising a client on how to hide his income.”

“I suggested a safe-deposit box as a security measure, not a means of tax evasion. If he had asked me for tax advice I would have been obliged to advise him to list all his income on his return.”

“Do you think he will do that?”

“I have no reason to think he won’t, but as I say, he didn’t ask me for that sort of advice.”

“You’re bandying words. You do realize this could come back to bite you on the ass?”

“The feds have already had a free snap at my ass and missed by a mile. And, to answer your next question, I told them nothing but the truth.”

“But not the whole truth.”

“I had not taken an oath to tell them that, but I did not tell them anything that could be characterized as a breach of attorney-client confidentiality. I told them what I believe you, yourself, would have, in the circumstances.”

“Those circumstances are extremely unlikely to arise in my practice of the law.”

“Oh, really? Have you seen this morning’s
Wall Street Journal
? A front-page story reported that a prominent banker client of yours, who shall remain nameless for purposes of this conversation, has agreed to pay the Justice Department a settlement of one-point-three billion dollars, in order to avoid criminal prosecution for mortgage fraud. Did you not negotiate that settlement?”

Eggers looked uncomfortable. “The man is not a felon, he made a business mistake.”

“Now who’s bandying words? There, but for one-point-three billion dollars, goes a felon.”

“The difference is, my client is a banker—yours is a bank robber.”

“I beg to differ: in my client’s case, no bank was robbed, and when the non–bank robbery took place, he was tucked away in a cell at Sing Sing, made safe from prosecution by an earlier, ah, ‘business mistake.’ Your client, on the other hand, packaged thousands of mortgages, many of which he had good reason to believe had been obtained by fraudulent means, and sold them to unsuspecting investors, who then lost a great deal of money. By comparison, my client is an upstanding citizen, never mind that he is traveling about the country with a piece of luggage large enough to hold several million dollars of what was, long ago, someone else’s money.”

“He’s traveling with millions of dollars in cash?”

“I didn’t say that. I said he had luggage large enough to accommodate that much. I have no evidence of what he packed into it.” Stone polished off his wine. “However, assuming, for the purposes of discussion, that what you suggested is true, how is that
different from your client’s secreting large sums in offshore bank accounts?”

Eggers threw up his hands. “You’re right,” he said. “We should, both of us, surrender our law licenses.”

“You first,” Stone replied.

The president of the United States finished his scrambled eggs and sausages and started on his coffee. He could eat sausages for breakfast because the first lady was in New York. The phone on the breakfast table rang, and he answered it immediately, but not before reaching for a toothpick.

“This is the president of the United States speaking,” he said. “If you have dialed this number in error, please hang up and try again.”

“This is the first lady of the United States speaking, and I did not dial this number in error. You’re eating sausages, aren’t you?”

“Strictly speaking, no.”

“You mean you have already finished eating the sausages?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any clear recollection of anything I might have eaten at an earlier time. My mind is crowded with details of foreign and domestic policy.”

“If you didn’t have sausages, why are you using that toothpick?”

Will spat out a bit of gristle. “Excuse me, are we on Skype?”

“No, but if I didn’t already know you well enough not to need it, I’d order Skype immediately. Why are you not in the middle of a prep session for our live appearance on
60 Minutes
tonight, instead of luxuriating in sausages?”

“Because it’s Sunday morning, and—”

“Aha! Got you!”

“Oh, all right, I was eating sausages, but they were chicken and apple.”

“But you hate anything but pork sausages.”

“That’s why I had only two of them. I’m sure it will make you feel better to know they were awful.”

“That does make me feel a little better.”

“I’m not in the middle of a prep session for
60 Minutes
because I intend to refer all questions to you, so I don’t need to prepare.”

“But that wouldn’t be a joint interview, which is what they’re paying for.”

“May I remind you that the president does not accept payment for television interviews? If I did, we’d be doing this on Faux News.”

“
That
would be a very short interview.”

“Not if they paid me enough.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you are really not doing any prep for this interview?”

“Not so’s you’d notice it. But on the other hand, neither are you.”

“Well, I’m in New York, and I don’t have all the support facilities that you have in the White House.”

“Would you like me to scramble a team of preppers and chopper them up there? I can do that, you know, I’m the president, and
as one of my predecessors once said, ‘If the president does it, it’s not illegal.’”

“And look what happened to him.”

“You have a point.”

“I think it would be more fun just to wing it.”

“So do I, that’s why I’m not prepping.”

“You have to watch out for Lesley Stahl, though, she’s sneaky.”

“I well know it.”

“She comes on all sweet and charming, then suddenly she’s asking about your Swiss bank account, and somehow, she knows your balance.”

“I am fortunate in not having a Swiss bank account, so Ms. Stahl can do her worst.”

“God, I hope not.”

“I hope not, too. What time can I expect you?”

“Why? Would I be interrupting something if I got there unexpectedly early?”

“I just want time to lower the girls from the bedroom window and kick the champagne bottles under the bed.”

“Just a typical Sunday morning when the wife’s away, huh?”

“I have to run now, the Chris Matthews show is about to start, and he’s having that hot Katty Kay on. You know what a British accent does to me.”

“Yes, I do. Isn’t she one of the girls you have to lower out the window?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“See you in a couple of hours.”

“Bye.”

They both hung up.

Sunday morning, and Stone’s phone was ringing. He opened an eye and glanced at the clock. Nearly ten. “Hello?”

“It’s Holly.”

“Well, spymaster, long time. What’s up with you?” He pressed the remote and the bed sat him up.

“At the moment, I’m hungry. Buy me brunch?”

“How soon can you be here?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“I’ll order now. Hurry!”

But Holly had hung up.

Stone buzzed the kitchen and got Helene, then he ordered eggs Benedict, asparagus, freshly squeezed orange juice, and his usual, Medaglia d’Oro Italian coffee, made strong. He got out of bed, went to the dumbwaiter, and retrieved the Sunday
New York Times
, which weighed almost more than he could lift. He got back in bed and began reading the front page. No mention of Kate’s fund-raiser. How long could this last?

• • •

Nineteen minutes later, Holly walked into the room, undressing as she came. “I’ve still got my key,” she said. “Hope that’s okay.” She dived into bed and kissed him.

“It’s more than okay.”

“The
Times
is going to have to wait,” she said, climbing on top of him and kissing him wetly.

“We can always read the
Times
,” Stone said. “We can’t always do this.”

She eased him inside her. “It’s the nation’s fault,” she said, then sucked in a breath.

“That’s it,” Stone replied, sucking in his own breath as he went deep. “Blame the country for your absences.”

They both stopped talking and concentrated on the activity at hand. They both went off at exactly the same time as the bell on the dumbwaiter.

“I’ll play waitress,” Holly said, hopping off him and running for the tray.

Stone put her bed up to match his, and they dug in.

“Helene makes the most heavenly hollandaise sauce,” Holly said. “I’d ask her for the recipe, but I don’t intend to cook ever again. We have a very decent restaurant at the New York station, you know.” Holly was CIA station chief in New York. “You must come to lunch sometime.”

“Well, I do have the security clearance for it,” Stone replied. “Someday when neither Mike Freeman nor Bill Eggers is inviting me to his table at the Four Seasons, I’ll take you up on it. Do they serve Dover sole?”

“On occasion,” Holly said. “I never make requests, because I’d get blamed for ordering expensive food. It’s more like comfort food.”

“Dover sole is comfort food for me.”

“Yeah, but you’re a multi-zillionaire these days.”

“Not my fault,” Stone said. “I didn’t lift a finger to earn a penny of it.”

“What’s it like being that rich?”

“It’s a combination of a joy and a heavy burden. I’m Peter’s trustee, too, so I have to spend quite a bit of time husbanding money and getting it to reproduce.”

“What have you bought that you didn’t already have?”

“Let’s see. A car . . .”

“What kind of car?”

“I’ll show you later. And a house.”

“Where?”

Stone pointed to his right.

“How far?”

“Less than a stone’s throw.”

“You mean the house next door?”

“Right. Joan found out the people were selling. She had a look at it, found it newly renovated and decorated, and suggested I buy it and turn it into staff quarters.”

“Which means Joan is living next door?”

“Right. And Helene, and Frederic.”

“Who the hell is Frederic?”

“The butler.”

“You have a butler? Ye gods!”

“He was a gift, actually.”

“Somebody
gave
you a butler?”

“My French friend, Marcel duBois. For a year. After that, Fred and I negotiate, if we’re both happy. He’s a wonder, and he and Helene have formed an attachment and are sharing an apartment. Then there’s Joan’s apartment and a very nice guest duplex. Plus, we broke through the wall and enlarged the garage and the wine cellar.”

“So that’s all you bought?”

“Well, there is the new jet.”

Holly howled with laughter. “I knew it. I knew you’d go nuts!”

“I didn’t go nuts. I would have ordered the airplane anyway. It’s a new model from Cessna, a Citation M2, and a nice step up from the Mustang—faster, better range, a little larger. I gave the Mustang to Peter.”

“When do you take delivery?”

“End of September. I have to go to school for two weeks. Say, I get two training slots. You want to spend two weeks in Wichita with me, learning to fly it?” Holly already had an airplane of her own and a couple of thousand hours.

“God knows, I’ve got vacation time coming. Give me the dates and I’ll see what I can do. What girl could resist two weeks in Wichita?”

“I warn you, it’s going to be hard work. The simulator isn’t an airplane, it’s more like a computer game, I’m told.”

“It would be a vacation for me.”

Stone got up and put the tray back on the dumbwaiter and sent it downstairs, then he jumped back into bed. “This is a vacation for me,” he said, burying his face in her lap.

“Happy vacation,” she said, lying back.