Standup Guy

by Stuart Woods

  “One man, once. Onofrio picked me up at my apartment for dinner, and we drove to an Italian restaurant in Red Hook, a little mom-and-pop place. I can’t remember what it was called, except that it was the possessive of a male Italian’s first name—Gino’s, for instance, but not actually. But it was a very common Italian name.”

  “And did he meet someone there?”

  “We had just sat down and ordered wine when a man in a sharp suit came into the place, walked over to our table, and handed Onofrio a plain envelope, rather thick, as if it contained money. He introduced the man as Marty, no last name. The two talked for a minute in a kind of code, not mentioning names or places. The effect was that someone who owed him money had paid him. Onofrio put the envelope into his inside suit pocket, and the man left. He didn’t refer to him again.”

  “Did you have any other impressions of the man?”

  “He was rather handsome, seemed to be Italian, and Onofrio seemed to respect and trust him, as if he were a valued associate.”

  “Yes,” Herbie said, “if you’ve got a few million bucks in cash lying around, you’ve gotta watch out for those valued associates.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Nothing,” Herbie said. “Let’s let the police make the next move. Do you know how to make a conference call?”

  “You enter some sort of code, don’t you?”

  Herbie explained the process. “If you get a call from the police, either Connecticut or New York, ask them to hold and call me. If they come to your home or your place of work, or if they take you or ask you to come to a police station, call me and I’ll meet you there. Tell them you don’t want to answer questions until your attorney arrives, and don’t let them charm or threaten or trick you into talking to them before I arrive or am on the phone.”

  “All right.”

  “If they don’t contact you, then you’re probably in the clear. Go live your life. But I think you’ll hear from them, if only because they’ll want more information.”

  “Should I tell them about Marty?”

  “After I’m on the phone or present. Only then. I’ll introduce the subject.”

  “All right.”

  Herbie walked her to the elevator, shook her hand, then returned to his office and called Stone.

  “What did you think?” Stone asked.

  “I was impressed with her. She told me something she hasn’t told you.”

  “What was that?”

  “I tell you this as a collaborator in representing her, so as to avoid client-attorney confidentiality.”

  “Of course.”

  “She was out to dinner one evening when an associate of Buono’s, who he introduced as ‘Marty,’ brought him an envelope that seemed to hold a lot of money. She said that she thought that Buono respected and liked him and regarded him as a trusted associate. I think that Marty sounds good for the killing, if he knew that Buono was coming into millions in cash. They may even have been collaborating, and Marty wanted it all. I think that Hank would have been killed, too, if you hadn’t just taken her out of the cottage.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can learn about that. What do you think Hank’s future looks like?”

  “I think she’ll get through this without getting arrested and charged—unless there’s something she hasn’t told me.”

  “Well, there is that, isn’t there?”

  “All too often,” Herbie replied.

  47

  Stone called John Fratelli on his throwaway cell phone.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Stone Barrington.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Bats Buono is dead.”

  “Hey, that’s good news! Who offed him?”

  “Somebody arrived at the lake cottage sometime after I left with the girl. He was stabbed repeatedly, and his head was cut off with an ax. His car was rolled into the lake.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. If I was his murderer, I’d put the body in the car before I rolled it into the lake.”

  “That’s a very good point.”

  “Was Bats driving one of his stolen cars?”

  “Very possibly.”

  “Then here’s how it might have gone down: Bats is partners with some guy in the kidnapping for ransom. He calls the guy and tells him you’re bringing the money, to get up to the cabin. The guy arrives and finds Bats, but no money and no girl. He takes this badly, then one of two things happens: either he goes into a rage and stabs Bats and cuts off his head to make ID harder, or more likely, he believes that Bats has gotten paid and released the girl, so he puts a gun to Bats’s head and tells him to cough up. Bats swears he didn’t get paid, and the guy puts one in his head, then he cuts the head off so the cops can’t do a ballistics match on the bullet. Maybe it’s his favorite piece.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that. There’s a suspect. Bats had a close associate named Marty. Ring a bell?”

  “I don’t know any of his associates, but tell you what: I’ll call Bats’s old man, Gino, and ask about Marty, see what I can get from him. Call you back?”

  “Sure.” They both hung up.

  • • •

  Fratelli called Gino Buono.

  “Yeah?”

  “Gino, it’s Johnny Fratelli.”

  “Did you kill him, Johnny?”

  “So you heard.”

  “Some cop from Connecticut called me. Did you, Johnny?”

  “No, Gino, I’m in Vegas. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I didn’t think you did, but I had to ask.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve heard something, though, might be useful.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Did Onofrio have an associate called Marty?”

  “Yeah, Marty Parese. Marty was his right-hand man. They’ve been tight since they were kids.”

  “I heard that Marty and Onofrio might have been in this together and were going to split the money.”

  “Onofrio didn’t tell me nothing, but that makes a lot of sense.”

  “You think Marty would off Onofrio for a few million in cash?”

  Gino was quiet for a moment. “Maybe. Come to think of it, who wouldn’t off him for that much money? I can’t think of anybody I’d trust around that kind of money.”

  “Just a thought. My condolences, Gino, for your loss.”

  “Thanks, Johnny.”

  Fratelli called Stone back. “I spoke to Bats’s old man, Gino.”

  “And?”

  “Gino says the guy is Marty Parese, and he and Bats were tight since they were kids. Gino also thinks Marty is good for the killing, since there were millions involved.”

  “I’ll see that it gets looked into,” Stone said. “Thank you, John.”

  “Anytime. Oh, and I’ll give you two to one that when they find Bats’s head, there’ll be a bullet in it.” They hung up.

  • • •

  Stone called Dino.

  “Hey.”

  “Are your people working the Buono murder with Dan Sparks?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve got a suspect for you.”

  “I accept free gifts.”

  “I didn’t say it was free, it’s going to cost you a couple of dinners.”

  “Okay, one dinner—don’t get greedy.”

  “There’s a guy named Marty Parese, who was Buono’s best friend since childhood.”

  “So, your theory is that the best friend did it? Why not the butler?”

  “It’s not my theory, it’s Gino Buono’s theory—Bats’s father.”

  “Yeah? Are you and Gino best buddies these days?”

  “I didn’t say he told me.”

  “So this is what you lawyers call hearsay?”

  “In case you didn’t know, D
ino, hearsay works when you’re investigating a murder, just not in a courtroom.”

  “You’re just trying to get Hank out of this, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t represent Hank, Herb Fisher does.”

  “I wonder how that happened.”

  “I recommended him, he’s good.”

  “Yeah, he is, I guess.”

  “Somebody I know thinks that Bats and Marty were in the kidnapping together, and that when I agreed to give Bats the money, Marty came running, but when he got to the cottage both Hank and the money were gone. After that, there was a disagreement.”

  “I can imagine,” Dino said.

  “There’s a theory about Bats’s head, too.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “Marty put one into Bats’s head, then remembered he’d used his favorite gun, so he took off the head because he didn’t want anybody to find the bullet.”

  “Great. That explains all the knife wounds in Bats’s back.”

  “Marty didn’t want it to look like a shooting.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Okay, it’s good for a dinner, but it’s not that good, so you’d better order something cheap.”

  “When have you known me to order something cheap?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  They both hung up.

  Dino called the lead detective on the Buono case.

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “You ever heard of a Marty Parese?”

  “Yeah, he and Buono were partners in the chop shop. Allegedly.”

  “There’s a theory—this is about fourth-hand by now—that Parese and Buono were partners in the kidnapping, too, and when Parese got to the lake cottage and found Buono there but without the money or the girl, he put one in his head and cut off the head so we couldn’t make a ballistics match. What do you think?”

  “It does make a weird kind of sense,” the detective said. “I mean, the medical examiner says the knife wounds in Buono’s back were postmortem. We’ll pick up Parese and have a chat with him.”

  “Hey, that’s a good idea,” Dino said. “And Dan Sparks might like to have somebody there when you question him.”

  “Sure, Chief.”

  “Have a good time.” Dino hung up.

  48

  Joan buzzed. “Mike Freeman on one.”

  “Did his people pick up the money?”

  “Half an hour ago.”

  Stone pressed the button. “Hey, Mike.”

  “We have a problem with your money, Stone.”

  Stone’s stomach lurched. “What is it, Mike?”

  “Your bank won’t take it.”

  “That doesn’t sound like my bank, turning down a five-million-dollar deposit.”

  “The manager said he’d call you. Meanwhile, the truck is on its way back to your house, so be prepared to receive it. I’ll be happy to send the truck back to you when you’ve sorted out the problem.”

  “Thanks for the call, Mike.” Stone hung up and buzzed Joan. “The two bags of money are on their way back to us, so be ready to get them inside fast.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “My bank manager is going to call.”

  “He’s on the other line.”

  Stone pressed line two. “This is Stone Barrington.”

  “Mr. Barrington, this is Charles Crockwell, your bank manager.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Crockwell. What’s the problem?”

  “Good morning. The problem is, we can’t accept that kind of unsorted cash deposit.”

  “I don’t understand, you cashed my check, why won’t you take it back?”

  “The problem is, you asked for the sum in tens and twenties, which we were happy to arrange, but then you asked us to unband everything and mix it up.”

  “That’s right, I did.”

  “Well, we’d have to close down the branch and put everybody to work sorting it in order to be able to accept the deposit. I don’t think you realize how difficult that would be.”

  “I thought you folks had machines that did that work.”

  “We have such a machine, but it’s gone back to the manufacturer for repairs. The only place I know that might do that is the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, and their only customers are banks.”

  “Mr. Crockwell, I’m a pretty good customer of your bank, am I not?”

  “Mr. Barrington, you are an extremely good customer, and we value your trust in us, but I’m telling you that what you’re asking is beyond our ability to accomplish at this time, and our counter and sorter won’t be back for another ten days, I’m told.”

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “Well, if you know a couple of dozen people that you would trust with five million dollars in small bills, invite them over and ask them to help you sort it. You could make a sort of party of it.”

  “That’s an amusing suggestion, Mr. Crockwell.”

  “I don’t mean to make light of the situation. I suppose you could call the chairman of the board. He could convene a board meeting, and they could count it, but I should mention that there are a couple of people on that board that I wouldn’t trust with a large sum of loose cash.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Crockwell,” Stone said, and hung up. “Joan!” he screamed.

  Joan came running and entered the office with her trusty .45 in her hand. “What?”

  “You don’t need to be armed.”

  “All right, then, what is it?”

  The doorbell rang.

  “That’s gotta be your cash,” she said, then left the room. She came back a moment later with two men and a steel cart that barely squeezed through the door. “Right over there,” she said, pointing at the sofa. The two men hefted the leaf bags and a cardboard box onto the sofa, Joan inspected the seals, approved and signed a receipt, and the two men left. “Now what?” she asked.

  “What’s in the cardboard box?” Stone asked.

  Joan read the label. “Cash-binding bands.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Stone said.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The bank won’t take the money unless it’s sorted into tens and twenties and banded.”

  “Won’t the bank do it?”

  “They don’t have the people, and their equipment is broken.”

  “Who’s going to do it, then?” she asked.

  “That’s the problem.”

  She looked at the bags. “Let me know when you figure it out,” she said, then went back to her office.

  Stone sat, staring at the bags. Joan buzzed. “Hank is on line one.”

  Stone picked up the phone. “Hi.”

  “You sound a bit disconsolate,” she said. “Something wrong?”

  “The bank won’t take the money back.”

  “The five million?”

  “Yes. It has to be sorted and banded or they won’t take it back. Right now, the two bags are sitting on my office sofa.”

  Hank began to laugh. “You’re the only person I know who could possibly have this problem.”

  “I’m the only person you know with five million dollars in small bills in the house?”

  “I can’t think of another soul. You want to have dinner tonight?”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t sound so enthusiastic about it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Where should I meet you?”

  “Come here for a drink, say seven?”

  “How do I dress?”

  “Let’s keep it in the neighborhood—how about the Four Seasons?”

  “You talked me into it. I’ll see you at seven.” She hung up.

  Joan came into the office holding an offi
ce supply catalog. “Here’s a machine that could solve your problem,” she said, handing him the catalog.

  Stone read the description; the thing would count currency and separate it into piles. “Order one,” he said, handing the catalog back to her.

  She left the room. Five minutes later she was back. “They don’t have it in stock,” she said. “I called the manufacturer, but they closed for business at five o’clock, which was three minutes ago. I got a recording.”

  “Call them tomorrow morning.”

  “Today’s Friday, and Monday is a national holiday.”

  “Oh, shit,” Stone said. “What am I going to do with it?”

  Joan stared at the two bags. “We could put it in the wine cellar,” she said. “It has a lock.”

  “I don’t know where the key is, I never lock it.”

  “Well, I guess you could just leave it there on the sofa. Nobody knows it’s here but Mike Freeman. I guess it’s as safe a place as any, except a vault, and we don’t have one of those, and it won’t fit in any of our safes.”

  “Would you sleep in here, with your .45?”

  “No, I would not.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to sleep in here.”

  “Do you and Hank have a date tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d bet against your sleeping down here. I’m off. You and your five million have a nice weekend.” She left.

  Stone continued to stare at the bags for a while, then he went upstairs.

  49

  Harry Moss sat on his usual stool at his usual sports bar and had his usual Cutty Sark and water. He was trying to watch a golf tournament on TV, but his vision kept blurring.

  When it got a little quieter in the bar, Jerry, the bartender, drifted over. “Hey, Harry,” he said. “Some guy was in here asking questions about you a few days ago.”

  Moss sat up straight. “Was it a black guy?”

  “Yeah, he felt like a cop of one kind or another.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, cops all have something about them that I don’t like.”

  “I was a cop,” Moss said.

  “You were a fed—they have a different thing.”

  “What do feds have?”