Standup Guy

by Stuart Woods

  At the end of this encounter, Stone asked, “Do you always get up so early?”

  “Seven is early?”

  “It is around here.”

  “I’m usually at work by eight, eight-thirty at the latest.”

  “What would you like for breakfast?”

  “What’s available?”

  “Almost anything you can imagine, in the breakfast line.”

  “Two eggs, over easy, sausages, toast, orange juice, and strong black coffee sweetened with a carcinogen.”

  Stone called down to the kitchen and ordered for both of them, then retrieved the Times and the Daily News from the dumbwaiter. He raised the head and foot of the bed sufficiently to cradle them while they read and ate. “Tell me,” he said, when they were comfortable, “do you have any remaining friends in common with Mr. Buono?”

  “If you knew his friends, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

  “I was wondering if there’s anyone you know who might be aware of any possible connection between Onofrio and Eduardo Buono.”

  “Nope. I should think your best bet for that sort of genealogy would be their respective police files. And I believe you have entrée, do you not?”

  “I do, and a very good suggestion that is.”

  At eight o’clock, Hank rolled out of bed and into a shower, and fifteen minutes later, she presented herself, dressed and packed. “That was my kind of evening,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. “Do you think we might repeat it in the not-too-distant future? I’m assuming you are not the sort of man who easily becomes violent and subsequently forms obsessive attachments to unwilling women.”

  “You assume correctly, and I’d love to.”

  “You have my number—in more ways than one,” she said. She kissed him on the lips and fled the premises.

  • • •

  After Stone had finished the crossword, he called Dino.

  “Good afternoon,” Dino said.

  “It’s nine in the morning.”

  “That’s afternoon to someone who has to get up as early as I do.”

  “Dino, in your present position, nobody is going to keep a time card on you. Go in later, like a gentleman.”

  “I like to be in the office before things happen, not after. It’s good for my in-house reputation.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Consider it granted, if I feel like doing it.”

  “I’d like you to run a couple of names for me: Eduardo Buono and Onofrio Buono, who has the charming sobriquet of ‘Bats.’”

  “What is it you want to know about them?”

  “Are they related? If so, how? Were they close? Ever pull any jobs together? Like that.”

  “I wouldn’t dirty my hands with that,” Dino said. “I’ll have somebody get back to you.”

  “Many thanks.”

  They hung up.

  • • •

  Stone was at his desk, mid-morning, when his phone buzzed.

  “A detective Donatello for you on line one.”

  “This is Stone Barrington, Detective.”

  “Good morning. The chief asked me to get back to you with some info on the Buonos.”

  “Thank you for calling. What did you learn?”

  “Mostly what I already knew. Eddie is the uncle of Bats. The kid was a teenager when Eddie went away for the JFK heist, and he idolized his uncle. About a year before Eddie died in Sing Sing, Bats started visiting him every week, and a confidential informant told us the kid was bugging his uncle about what he did with the money from the heist. This attention apparently annoyed Eddie, and about a month before he died, when he was a patient in the infirmary, he cut the kid off, had him removed from his list of approved visitors. The kid made a scene on his next visit and got booted into the street for his trouble. Anything else you need?”

  “Thanks, no, but I have a tidbit for you, if you don’t already have it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Bats now has a high-end chop shop—Porsches and Mercedeses—in Red Hook. And he makes a practice of driving his merchandise before he chops it.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Donatello said. “I and the department thank you. I’ll be sure the chief hears about it, too.”

  Stone hung up happy, having both learned something to his benefit and done his duty as a citizen.

  • • •

  Jack Coulter, née John Fratelli, was lunching at a table at the Breakers beach club with Hillary Foote when he saw a familiar face. He did not like familiar faces, especially since this one seemed to be looking for someone.

  He riffled through his recent memories—this face seemed a recent memory—in search of a locale in which to place the face, and finally it came to him. Burger King. On the day that he had received an envelope, fat with new hundreds, from Manny Millman’s messenger, he had seen that face a couple of tables away, and it seemed to be interested in him, and its owner seemed, somehow, familiar.

  He cast further back in his memory and attempted to place the face in his pre-prison existence. Ex-something, he decided: ex-cop, ex-FBI, ex-something, he wasn’t sure what. Fratelli’s appearance had changed a great deal since that day at the Burger King: he was slimmer, tanner, and had a mustache and a good deal more hair, gray at the temples. He did not think of himself as recognizable in this setting by someone from his past. Still, he waited until the man’s back was turned, excused himself, and went to the men’s room, stopping to chat with an assistant manager long enough to tell him that he did not believe that man over there was a member of this club. When he came out of the men’s room, he caught sight of the fellow being escorted rapidly toward an exit.

  “What are you looking so thoughtful about, Jack?” Hillary asked.

  He was trying to put a name to that face, but he had not yet succeeded when the question brought him back to the present. “I was thinking about how wonderful you were last night,” he said. He meant it, too. It had been his first night in bed with a woman in more than twenty years, and the experience had more than lived up to his memories.

  “You’re a sweet man in bed,” Hillary said, squeezing his hand.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Fratelli said, and he forgot about the familiar face. “I’m going to do some shopping for a car this afternoon. May I borrow your good eye for beautiful things?”

  “Of course you may,” she said.

  28

  Harry Moss’s ears were burning. He had just been rudely escorted out of the Breakers beach club because he was not a member, and it was embarrassing. After all, he was nicely dressed in a shirt he had actually bought in Palm Beach, white trousers, and what he felt was a very attractive porkpie hat in straw, with a colorful band. In short, he was sure he was indistinguishable from any other sixtyish gentleman at the Breakers.

  Harry had organized his search for Johnny Fratelli around his newfound fantasies about where he would go and what he would buy if he had suddenly come into seven million dollars. He had driven past the Breakers many times and admired it from afar as an unattainable venue for any part of his own life, and the Breakers had just confirmed that judgment by suggesting that he vacate the premises. He climbed into his Toyota Camry and thought about what to do next.

  Harry had already combed the men’s stores—Ralph Lauren, Maus & Hoffman, et cetera, plus the men’s departments of Neiman Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue, and without success. Perhaps this had been a waste of his time, since when he had seen Johnny Fratelli at the Burger King, the man had been wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and baggy Bermuda shorts. And sandals, for Christ’s sake—sandals with socks!

  Clearly, Harry had better taste than Fratelli, so perhaps the Breakers would be a bit of a stretch for an ex-con with seven million dollars and no sense of style. Where else might one look for such a person? What would he buy, besides clothes? He drove
out Okefenokee Drive, where all the car dealerships were. What would a guy who had just been sprung after twenty-two years think was a top-notch ride? He turned into the Cadillac dealership and had a stroll around the place, fending off salespeople as he went. Nah. Cadillacs weren’t big enough anymore.

  He tried the Mercedes dealership, with similar results. Then he had it: Rolls-Royce! A guy with seven million bucks stashed away could afford a Rolls! He continued out Okefenokee until he spotted the dealership. Here, he had no problem fending off salespeople because they either ignored him or looked right through him. His stroll was short, and he was soon back in his Toyota. As he waited at the exit for the traffic to subside enough to let him in, a black Lincoln Town Car turned into the dealership and drove past him, its windows black. Harry made his turn and headed back toward Delray Beach.

  • • •

  Fratelli and Hillary sat in air-conditioned comfort in the rear seat of a Breakers town car and watched the dealership hove into view. As they turned in, they narrowly missed a gray Toyota leaving the lot. The driver stopped outside the showroom and leaped out of the car to open Hillary’s door.

  “We’ll be a few minutes,” Fratelli said to the man, and a salesman was there to open the door to the showroom for them.

  “Yes, sir, ma’am, how may I help you?”

  “A Bentley, perhaps,” Fratelli said.

  “Normally, our sales are by order,” the man said, “but as it happens, we have two new Bentleys on the showroom floor.” He indicated two cars. “A Mulsanne, which is our larger model, and a Flying Spur, which, though still a large car, is more compact.”

  Fratelli had been on the Internet reading, so he was quite familiar with both cars. He and Hillary sat, first in the Mulsanne, then in the Flying Spur, then they got out and walked around both cars, very slowly. The salesman waited at a discreet distance, alert to any sign of a question from either.

  “Well, Hillary, what does your unerring eye tell you?” Fratelli asked.

  “Ummm,” she said, looking critically at both cars. “I think that the white Mulsanne is gorgeous, but I’m not sure that white is the correct color for that car. It’s just a teeny bit much.” She turned her attention to the Flying Spur. “However, I love the soft green of the Flying Spur, and especially the saffron and green leather interior. The equipment list is extensive, too, and it’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars cheaper. Really, why would one need more car than that?”

  “I concur,” Fratelli said. “Will you excuse me while I have a chat with this fellow?” He turned to the salesman. “Why don’t you and I sit down for a moment?”

  “I’ll rest in the Flying Spur,” Hillary said.

  Fratelli had a last look at the car’s window sticker, then sat down at the salesman’s desk, picked up a notepad and a pen, and wrote down a number.

  The salesman looked at it and frowned. “I really don’t think that’s possible, sir. I think . . .” He wrote down a larger number.

  Fratelli made a point of gazing for a long time at the pad before writing down another number. “That’s my final offer,” he said. “Cash. Now.”

  “No trade-in, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Just let me speak to my manager.” He got up and went into a glass-enclosed office, where he exchanged some words with the manager, then he returned. “I’m very sorry, Mr. . . .”

  “Coulter.”

  “Mr. Coulter, but my manager says it can’t be done.”

  “Then I thank you for your time,” Fratelli said, rising and shaking the man’s hand. He went back to the car and helped Hillary out of it. “Shall we go, my dear?”

  They left the showroom and walked toward the town car, where the driver waited, door open. Then there was a voice from behind them.

  “Mr. Coulter?”

  Fratelli turned to find the manager standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “I believe we may be able to do business,” the man said.

  “You understand that my offer is to include all charges. No dealer prep, or anything of the sort. I don’t need a thousand-dollar car wash.”

  “There is sales tax, of course,” the man said.

  “Of course.” Fratelli walked back to the town car and gave the driver a fifty. “We won’t be needing you for the trip back,” he said.

  • • •

  An hour later, having initiated a wire transfer and signed a number of documents, and having been given a tour of the instrument panel by the salesman, Fratelli drove his new Flying Spur out of the dealership. “Shall we go for a spin?” he asked Hillary.

  “Why not, darling,” she replied, sinking back into the soft leather upholstery.

  • • •

  Harry Moss had another idea. He found the offices of the Palm Beach Post and bought a small display ad.

  29

  Now Stone was faced with a problem: he had an itch to go to London for a few days, but on the other hand, he had a very similar itch to stay closer to Hank Cromwell.

  He hadn’t prayed about it, but the phone rang and he got what he considered to be an answer.

  “Good morning,” Hank said.

  “It certainly is,” Stone replied.

  “I haven’t seen your kitchen. Describe it to me, especially the appliances.”

  “Okay, there’s an eight-burner Viking gas stove with two ovens and a grill, a French-door refrigerator of commercial size, large and small microwaves, a large wine cabinet, a pantry, an ice machine, and a dishwasher. There’s also a butler’s pantry with a scullery, another ice maker, another dishwasher, and storage for dishes and silverware, mostly used for dinner parties.”

  “That beats my electric, two-burner stove and half refrigerator,” Hank said. “Why don’t I cook us dinner at your house? Whenever you say.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Fine. I’ll leave work and do some shopping.”

  “I’ve got an account at Grace’s Market,” he said. “Charge the food to me. You’re already providing the skill and labor. I already have the wine.”

  “Is Grace’s a good store?”

  “The best. It’s a cab ride for you, but they’ll deliver to the house, so you won’t have to hump anything.”

  “I’ll be there around five, if we’re going to sit down at eight. You’ll have to vanish while I’m cooking, I don’t need a distraction.”

  “Very good.”

  “Would you like to invite Dino and Viv?”

  “Why not? If you haven’t heard from me in ten minutes, they’re in.”

  “Bye.” She hung up, and Stone called Dino.

  “You and Viv up for dinner here, cooked by Hank?”

  “Can she cook?”

  “She’s making all the right noises.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven, in the study. We’re banished from the kitchen until dinnertime.”

  “You’re on.”

  They both hung up.

  Joan buzzed. “There’s a Mr. Onofrio Buono on line one, says he’d like to make an appointment for some business advice. You know him?”

  “Of him,” Stone said. “Tell him this afternoon. Hang on, make that early afternoon.” He didn’t want Buono and Hank to have sight of each other.

  “Whatever you say.”

  • • •

  Joan buzzed precisely at two o’clock. “Mr. Buono is here.”

  “Just a second.” Stone took a small digital recorder from a drawer, set it on his desk, switched it on, and covered it with a file. “Send him in.”

  Stone rose to greet his guest, who was a solid six-footer in a black suit, white-on-white shirt, and a silver necktie. “Mr. Buono?” he asked, offering his hand.

  “That’s right.” Buono shook his hand and took the chair opposite Stone’s desk.

  “What can I d
o for you?” Stone asked.

  “I’m considering starting a new business,” Buono said.

  “Who recommended me to you?” Stone asked.

  “I read about you somewhere—the Post, I think.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been written about for the Post in a business context.”

  “It was more like a mention, it was complimentary.”

  “I’m sorry, I interrupted you. What sort of business?”

  “You might call it, ah, ‘proceeds recovery.’”

  Stone thought for a moment. “Proceeds of what?”

  “Well, let’s say you had a business, and you suffered a loss.”

  “What sort of loss?”

  “Any kind of loss that cost you.”

  “All right.”

  “Well, I would offer to recover that cost for you, for a reasonable share of what I recovered.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Buono, I’m trying to put what you’ve said in some sort of context, but I’m failing.”

  “All right, let’s say you own a store, and a couple guys come in with guns and empty your cash register and your safe. I would recover that for you.”

  “And how, as a storekeeper, would I know you were in that business and able to perform that service? Would you advertise?”

  “Not exactly. Let’s just say I’d send around sales representatives, and that would make for word of mouth. I would also offer a service preventing that kind of loss, and insurance to get it back.”

  “And if I didn’t hire you or purchase your insurance?”

  “Then when things happen, you’re stuck with your loss.”

  “In certain circles, Mr. Buono, that would be called ‘the protection racket.’”

  “Are you calling me a criminal?”

  “I’m not calling you anything. I’m just pointing out that your description of your proposed business closely resembles a practice that is highly discouraged by the criminal justice system.”

  “I think that the scale is what’s putting you off,” Buono said. “Let me rephrase.”

  “Please.”