Standup Guy

by Stuart Woods

  “Very nice indeed,” Fratelli replied, adding a small wink for emphasis.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Carnagy said, smiling.

  “Hillary,” Fratelli said, “would you teach me to play golf?”

  She laughed. “If I tried to do that, we’d hate each other in no time. What you need is a golf pro. Ask the concierge at the Breakers to set up some lessons for you at their course. Then, after you feel comfortable with the way you’re hitting the ball, we’ll play together.”

  “Playing with you is a worthy goal.”

  They chatted on through their excellent dinner; Winston and Elizabeth hardly got a word in, except to give Fratelli the name of Winston’s local tailor.

  • • •

  That night, having delivered Hillary to her door, Fratelli got into bed and reflected on his circumstances. He had traveled to a state he had never before visited, dressed in the sort of clothes he had never worn; he had bought an apartment in the kind of hotel he had seen only from the outside; he had an offshore bank account and a substantial weekly income from his investment with the loan shark. Thinking about that brought him up short.

  Manny Millman was the only person from his past who knew he was in Florida, though he knew not where and under what circumstances. Manny and his deliveryman, whom he had met at the Burger King, were the only people who had laid eyes on him and who thus might become a problem for him. But neither knew he was in Palm Beach, so they should not be difficult to avoid. He would have to stay away from the tracks, though, and other places where he might run into them.

  He had good friends in the Carnagys, and Winston had become his model for speech and behavior in this new world. And Hillary Foote showed much promise as a pleasing companion.

  He needed more social gifts, though, and golf might be one of them. He would have to look into tennis, too. He had been athletic in high school, playing football and basketball. It would be interesting to see how the athletic gift would translate into more sociable sports.

  • • •

  Harry Moss got in line at the Burger King off I-95 and had a look around. The place was only a couple of miles from where he lived, in Delray Beach, and this was his third day running having lunch here, hoping for sight of Johnny Fratelli.

  He had used everything at his disposal—the Internet, a search of Florida phone books for the name, he had even tried Facebook—but no Johnny Fratelli had turned up. His only hope had been the Burger King. Who knew? Maybe Fratelli was addicted to the double bacon cheeseburger. He ate his own cheeseburger and searched the restaurant over and over. He saw one man of the right size, but he was Hispanic.

  • • •

  John Fratelli presented himself at the Breakers golf club and was introduced to a kid of about twenty-two, who was supposed to teach him golf. What could a kid of that age teach anybody?

  Quite a lot, as it turned out. The boy had a beautiful, liquid swing, and by the end of their first hour together, he had Fratelli hitting his irons nicely. He asked for another lesson after lunch, then got himself a sandwich in the clubhouse.

  He liked the atmosphere; the players, mostly men, chatted amiably with one another, and he picked up snippets of golf lore as he listened.

  During his second lesson, they started on the woods, and Fratelli found the driver challenging. Still, he had a good teacher.

  When they were done, the boy—Terry—complimented him on his swing. “You know,” Terry said, “most of the people I instruct have played the game for a while, and I have to straighten out their bad habits. You don’t have any bad habits, and you’re a natural athlete, with a natural swing. If we can do two hours a day together, I’ll have you playing pretty good duffer golf in a couple of weeks.”

  “I’ve got the time, Terry, schedule me now.”

  “Tomorrow morning we’ll play nine holes and start to work on club selection and strategy.”

  “I place myself in your hands,” Fratelli said.

  • • •

  Alvin Griggs walked into the clubhouse at Hialeah and asked for Manny Millman. He was directed to a man dressed in a seersucker suit and a golf shirt, with a large pair of binoculars, sitting at a table with a good view of the track, eating a club sandwich. He walked over and, uninvited, sat down.

  “Hi, Manny,” Griggs said.

  “We know each other?” Manny replied, wariness in his voice.

  “No, and if we have a successful conversation, we are unlikely to meet again.”

  “You’re a cop.”

  “Federal,” Griggs said, “My name is Al Griggs, but I won’t flash a badge. It wouldn’t be good for your reputation in this setting.”

  “I appreciate the courtesy,” Manny said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I want to have a chat with John Fratelli.”

  Manny was stunned to hear that name again, but he did a good job of screwing up his face and seeming ignorant. “Fratelli? I knew a guy by that name in the joint, but that was a long time ago. Last time I heard anything about him, he was dead.”

  Griggs smiled. “Nice try, Manny,” he said. “But you’re not a good enough actor.” Griggs had no idea if Manny knew anything, but he had decided to treat him as if he did and was holding out.

  “I got no reason to hold out on you, Mr. Griggs,” Manny said.

  Griggs reached into a pocket and pulled out a page he had printed from the Internet, in color. “This is a series 1966 hundred-dollar bill,” he said. “Note the red seal. Seen anything like that lately?”

  Manny took a close look at the page, then shook his head. “It’s just a C-note,” he said. “I see them all the time.”

  “Yes, but not with the red seal.” Griggs produced a business card and slid it across the table. “If you come across a note like this, and especially if you see Johnny Fratelli again, I’d like to hear about it. There could be a substantial reward in it for you.”

  “Mr. Griggs, I think you’re chasing a dead guy, but if I see any money like that, I’ll give you a call.”

  Griggs thanked him and left.

  • • •

  Manny sat and watched him go. This Fratelli thing was beginning to be annoying. He got out his cell phone and called his bookkeeper.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Manny.”

  “Hey, Manny.”

  “You remember I gave you a million a short while ago?”

  “A fella remembers a thing like that.”

  “How did you distribute it?”

  “I shipped all of it to the Singapore bank.”

  “Did you retain any of the money I gave you?”

  “A payout on a long shot came across my desk, twenty grand. I may have used some of it for that.”

  “But the rest went to Singapore?”

  “It did, and I can prove it if I have to. Go online and look at the bank statement. You’ll see the deposit.”

  “I’ll do that. What was the name of the big winner?”

  “Hang on a sec, I’ll see.” He came back after a pause. “Howard Silver. He’s a regular at Hialeah.”

  “Thanks.” So there was twenty grand in hot hundreds floating around out there, and Howard Silver, whom he knew by sight, had it.

  23

  John Fratelli awoke the following morning, and something was nagging at him in the back of his mind. It came to him: IRS. He showered and dressed and had his first shave of the day, then he called New York on his throwaway cell phone.

  “Woodman & Weld, Mr. Barrington’s office.”

  “Good morning, this is John Fratelli. May I speak to Mr. Barrington, please?”

  “One moment, I’ll see if he’s free.”

  “Stone Barrington.”

  “Mr. Barrington, it’s John Fratelli. How are you?”

  “Mr. Fratelli, I’m fine. You sound different.�
��

  “Perhaps so. I have a legal question for you, a hypothetical one: how would a person recently out of sight for many years avoid having the Internal Revenue Service made aware of his presence?”

  “Does this hypothetical person have a Social Security number or has he filed returns in the past?”

  “He has never had an SSN, nor has he ever filed.”

  “Then he should not apply for one, unless he seeks employment, in which case he might want to give some thought to a new identity.”

  “I see. What else should he avoid?”

  “Any sort of transaction requiring a Social Security number: opening a bank account, for instance, or applying for a loan, opening a department store or gas credit card. All sorts of businesses these days require a Social Security number. Of course, he could decline to divulge that number, because it’s technically private information. That might work with opening a bank account, but not when applying for credit. A lender would deny his application.”

  “What about income?”

  “Everyone is required to file an annual tax return, Mr. Fratelli, listing income from any source.”

  “And if one doesn’t file?”

  “Then they would have no reason to come after him, unless someone had reported his status to them. If this person had, for instance, not filed a tax return during his, ah, absence from society, the IRS would have no knowledge of him. Once he filed, though, they would know him forever.”

  “Then perhaps he should avoid coming to the attention of the IRS.”

  “That would be my advice, hypothetically.”

  “Thank you. I’ll send payment for your services.”

  “Please, no more hundred-dollar bills.”

  “You object to cash?”

  “I object to out-of-date cash. I had a visit from the Secret Service after I deposited those hundreds. They’re series 1966 and out of circulation. You can tell by the red seal on the bills.”

  “What did you tell the Secret Service?”

  “Substantially nothing: attorney-client confidentiality.”

  “That was the right thing to do. I’ll send you a cashier’s check.”

  “Mr. Fratelli, please don’t bother. You’ve more than compensated me for my time already. By the way, you should know that the Secret Service are not the only people interested in your existence and whereabouts. I had a visit from a retired police detective named Sean Donnelly, who investigated a crime committed at JFK airport some years ago.”

  “But you told him nothing?”

  “Correct. You should also know that, shortly after visiting me, Donnelly was shot while leaving P.J. Clarke’s in the wee hours of the morning.”

  “Killed?”

  “No, just winged. He’ll be up and around soon, and as far as I know, he remains interested in your whereabouts.”

  “Any word on who shot Donnelly?”

  “No, but my assumption is it’s probably whoever ventilated your suitcase. If I were you I would find a way to exchange your funds for new funds.”

  “I have already done so.”

  “Have you spent any more of the hundred-dollar bills?”

  “Yes, I’ve paid my living expenses, but I’ve made an investment which brings me a weekly return, so I won’t be needing to do that anymore.”

  “How much of a return, out of curiosity?” Barrington asked.

  “Five percent a week.”

  “Did you say a week?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you have loaned to . . . a lender. How much?”

  “One very large bill.”

  Barrington made a sucking sound through his teeth. “Mr. Fratelli, this is not good. Those hundred-dollar bills will not go unnoticed by the organization employing your lender, and I fear that you may have more to fear from them than from the IRS.”

  “That’s good advice, but I believe things are under control. I’ve settled in a comfortable spot, and they are not aware of my location or my new name.”

  “Yes, I noticed the postmark on your card. You’ll want to watch that sort of thing.”

  “You’re quite right, I was careless, and I won’t be again. Thank you for your advice, Mr. Barrington.”

  “Did you take my advice on acquiring a throwaway cell phone?”

  “Yes, I did. I’m speaking on it.”

  “You might want to give me that number, in case I hear from any of your old acquaintances. Somebody has already fired a shotgun at my front door.”

  “I’m extremely sorry to hear that. Here’s my number.” Fratelli dictated it to him.

  “I won’t call unless I fear that you are in jeopardy.”

  “Thank you, and goodbye.”

  “Goodbye and good luck.”

  Both men hung up

  Fratelli thought about this for a few minutes, then he took up his throwaway cell phone and called Manny Millman.

  “This is Manny.”

  “This is John Fratelli.”

  “Hey, Johnny, how’s it going?”

  “I’m getting feedback about some certain C-notes.”

  “Ah, yes, I’ve heard something about that.”

  “How did you dispose of the cash I gave you?”

  “It was shipped to an offshore bank account the day after you gave it to me.”

  “All of it? Don’t lie to me, Manny.”

  “Apparently, twenty thousand of it was paid to a punter who had a long shot come in. I just heard, and I’m going to recover whatever he has left and send it out of the country.”

  “A very good idea,” Fratelli said.

  “But at least some of it is floating around out there. And, Johnny, I had a visit from a Secret Service guy.”

  “Asking about the C-notes?”

  “Asking about you. I told him I thought you were dead.”

  “Stick with that story,” Fratelli said.

  “I will, and, Johnny, your request is being honored to transfer your weekly vigorish from offshore account to offshore account.”

  “Very good.”

  “How can I get in touch with you, Johnny, if anything else should come up?”

  “You can’t. I’ve left the state and made myself at home elsewhere.”

  “You’re sure there’s not a number?”

  “Okay, I’ll give you a throwaway cell phone.” He dictated the number. “Memorize that, Manny, then burn it.”

  “Johnny, like I told you before, I’m grateful to you for your help when I was in the joint with you. I won’t rat you out.”

  “Thank you, Manny.” Fratelli hung up.

  Manny got up from his table and started walking the Hialeah clubhouse, looking for Howard Silver.

  24

  Howard Silver stood at the hundred-dollar window at Hialeah and took one last look at the odds board. He was about to turn back to the window when he found himself abruptly pushed out of line.

  “Come with me, Howard,” Manny Millman said, taking a firm grip of Silver’s elbow and propelling him toward a door marked “Employees Only.”

  “What the hell, Manny? I don’t owe you anything.”

  “I know, Howard, and I’m grateful for your business.” Manny opened a door and shoved him into a conference room. “Have a seat,” Manny said. “We’re going to have a little conference.”

  “What’s the beef, Manny? I don’t understand.”

  “Howard, when your long shot came in, we gave you twenty grand in hundreds, that correct?”

  “Well, yeah, that’s how much I won.”

  “I’m sorry, but through an administrative oversight you were given the wrong hundred-dollar bills.”

  “No,” Howard said, shaking his head vehemently, “the ones you gave me are working just fine, everywhere I go.”

  “How much hav
e you spent, Howard?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “All right, let’s do it this way: how much you got left?”

  Howard made a little involuntary jerking motion that moved his left arm across his chest. “I’ll go home and count it and let you know,” he said.

  Manny removed Howard’s arm from its frozen position, stuck his hand into Howard’s inside pocket and came out with a thick bundle of bills, bound by a rubber band. “Looks like ten grand here,” he said. “Give me the rest.”

  “Manny, I won it fair and square,” Howard protested.

  “I know you did, Howard, and I’m going to replace your money with other money that won’t get you killed.”

  “What do you mean, get me killed?”

  Manny put a finger to Howard’s head, pulled an imaginary trigger, and said, “Bang. Like that, killed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain it to you. A long time ago some money was stolen. In hundred-dollar bills.” He picked one from the stack and held it up. “Like this one. See the red stamp?”

  “Yes.”

  “They don’t put that on hundreds anymore. They look different nowadays.”

  Howard picked up the note and held it up to the light. “Looks okay to me.”

  “Well, Howard, I know it doesn’t have the word ‘stolen’ stamped on it, but believe me, it is. Empty your pockets, Howard. All of them.”

  Howard began pulling a handkerchief, a comb, some car keys, and a wallet from his pockets, then he produced a money clip holding a thick wad of hundreds.

  “Is that all of it, Howard?”

  Howard nodded.

  “None of it at home?”

  Howard shook his head.

  “Did you deposit any of it in your bank account?”

  “Of course not, my wife sees the statements.”

  “I want to know every single place you left one of these hundreds,” Manny said, shoving a legal pad from the table in front of him toward Howard and placing his pen on it. “Start from where the nice man gave you the twenty grand, and go from there.” Manny picked up the bound wad of hundreds and began expertly counting them. His fingers were a blur.

  Howard began to make a list.