Standup Guy (Stone Barrington)

by Stuart Woods

  “Listen to me,” Stone said.

  “No, Mr. Barrington, you listen to me,” Onofrio replied. “You and I are going to do a little swap.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to give me my uncle’s money, and I’m going to give you Hank. All that’s in question here is how much of her you get back, and in what condition. Call me when you’ve got the money ready to move. Since you’re in London, I’ll give you forty-eight hours.” He hung up.

  Stone called Dino back.

  “Yeah?”

  “Dino, we’ve got a big, big problem,” he said.

  33

  Emma was on her cell phone all the way to the dinner party, at a house in Eaton Square, so Stone didn’t have to talk, which was just as well, as he was dumbstruck.

  The dinner party was not small and intimate; there were a good two dozen people there, including a couple Members of Parliament, a government minister, half a dozen tall, impossibly thin young women in very expensive dresses, and some sort of rock star in a spangled dinner jacket. Stone fixed a smile on his face and managed to keep up a line of automated chat as Emma propelled him around the room, introducing him. Fifteen minutes passed before he snagged a waiter and got them drinks.

  He was insanely hungry—probably something to do with his rattled internal clock—and the waiters always seemed to run out of canapés before they got to him. The ex-cop Derek stood by the drawing room door with a glass of ginger ale in his hand, casting a beady eye over whoever entered his line of sight, as if daring them to make a move on Stone or Emma. Supported by an underlayer of recorded pop music, the noise level was off the charts. Stone wanted nothing more than to find a quiet corner, if such existed, and think. A picture of Hank, bound and gagged in a small room somewhere, kept crowding everything else out of his mind.

  “Are you all right?” Emma shouted into his ear.

  “What?”

  “You seem preoccupied.”

  “What?”

  She gave up and entered into a conversation with another woman, conducted mostly in some sort of sign language. Stone spied an ajar door that seemed to lead to a study and made for it. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing deeply. The door was thick enough to bring the noise on the other side down to a tamed roar.

  “You couldn’t stand it either, eh?” a man’s voice said. Deep, with an upper-class drawl.

  Stone jumped, then saw a man in a chair before the fireplace, lit only by a flicker of flame. All the lights in the room were out.

  “Would you like a brandy?” the man asked. “There’s a decanter over there, between the bookcases.”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Stone said. He set down his empty glass, found the decanter, and poured himself a snifter.

  “Join me?” the man asked, indicating the chair opposite where he sat.

  “Thank you,” Stone said, sinking into the leather.

  “Noisy in there, eh?”

  “My ears are still ringing,” Stone said.

  “I’m Alistair Brooke,” the man said. “With an ‘e.’”

  “Stone Barrington.”

  “A Yank, eh?”

  “New York.”

  “What brings you over the water?”

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “Emma?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw you come in together. I’ve a wife somewhere in the drawing room. Are you in business?”

  “The law.”

  “I, as well—barrister.”

  “Ah.”

  “Well said. Have you visited our courts over here?”

  “No. What knowledge I have of them comes from films like Witness for the Prosecution and a number of BBC dramas. They seem to be more elegant than most of our courtrooms in New York.”

  “Perhaps. We’ve been using the same ones for a long time. Do you try cases?”

  “I’ve spent most of my career avoiding the courtroom, whenever possible,” Stone said. “Are you hiding from the noise, too?”

  “The noise and a rather noisy Russian gentleman. Did you notice him?”

  “I’m not sure,” Stone said, but he found the thought of a Russian in the next room disturbing. “Which one was he?”

  “Six foot, closely clipped hair, thick of body and mind.”

  “I’ll try and avoid him,” Stone said.

  “His solicitor has been pestering me to represent him in a criminal case, and I’ve no wish to be involved with him, considering what I’ve heard.”

  “What have you heard?”

  Brooke shrugged. “Thuggery, brutish behavior, foul business practices, the odd murder—that sort of thing.”

  “What’s he charged with?”

  “Conspiracy, financial misdeeds, et cetera.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Yevgeny Majorov. Said to be the son of a Soviet-era KGB general.”

  Stone sat up. “How old is he?”

  “Perhaps late forties.”

  “Does he have a brother?”

  “Did have. It was all over the papers a short while ago. The man landed on a private jet in Moscow, having died en route from somewhere-or-other.”

  “Yes, that news made its way to New York, too.”

  “Did you know the brother?”

  “Not really. He attempted to do some business with me in the States. I resisted the notion.”

  “Oh? How did he take it?”

  “Not well.”

  “I hope the threats weren’t carried out.”

  “Fortunately not.” Stone’s cell phone vibrated on his belt; he ignored it, and it stopped.

  The door opened and Stone looked over his shoulder to see Emma, bearing two plates, enter the room, followed by another woman, also bearing two plates. “I saw you come in here, Stone, and I can’t blame you. Rita and I have brought you two dinner. Hello, Alistair.”

  “Hello, Emma.” Air kisses were exchanged.

  The two women bore the plates to a table across the room and pulled up chairs to it, and the men joined them. Brooke introduced his wife to Stone.

  “Wine is on its way,” Rita said, then the door opened and a waiter entered with a bottle of champagne and four glasses. He set them on the table and left.

  Stone opened the champagne and poured them all a glass.

  “So you two have become acquainted?” Emma asked.

  “We toil in the same vineyard,” Alistair replied. “More or less.”

  Then civilized conversation ensued, the combination of brandy, champagne, and food worked its wonders, and Stone was able to forget about New York and Hank and Yevgeny Majorov for a little while.

  • • •

  An hour later, the four of them made their way out of the large flat, preceded by two men in suits. Alistair nodded at their backs. “Majorov,” he mouthed. They all stopped at the elevator.

  “I’ll walk down,” Stone said, wishing to avoid the Russian. He started down the stairs. Unfortunately, he reached the ground floor at the same time as the elevator, and as its doors opened he found himself fixed in the gaze of Yevgeny Majorov. Neither man averted his gaze.

  “May we drop you?” Emma said to the Brookes.

  “We’re in Ennismore Gardens,” Alistair said. “If it’s not out of your way.”

  Majorov and his companion got into a new-looking Rolls and tooled away. Stone held the cab door open for the Brookes and Emma, then took a jump seat.

  “This is quite a taxi,” Alistair said.

  “Belongs to a friend,” Stone said.

  “Must be an interesting friend.”

  Stone couldn’t argue with that.

  34

  Emma woke Stone the following morning by the simple device of biting him on a nipple. Nature took its course, a couple of times.

  Stone lay, gazing sleepily at the ceiling, while Emma showered. For no particular reason, he checked his iPhone on the bedside table. He had had a phone call, and there was a voice mail.

  “
Stone,” Hank’s voice said. “If you can do something, please do it.” The connection was broken. She had sounded desperate. Stone looked at the bedside clock; it would be the wee hours in New York, so there was no point in calling Dino again. He called his American Express travel agent and asked to change his return ticket to the next flight out of Heathrow. There was one at noon that reached New York at three. He booked it, then called his office number and left a message for Joan to meet him at JFK at three-thirty.

  Stone hung up, got to his feet, and started for the bathroom. Last night’s drinks were hanging on, if not over. Emma came out of the shower as he entered.

  “I’ve got to go back to New York,” he said. “Client emergency.”

  Emma reached for a towel. “When?”

  “Noon plane from Heathrow.”

  “But I’ve got theater tickets for tonight,” she said. “The big new hit play.”

  “I’m so sorry, Emma,” he said, kissing her, “but this one is life or death. It can’t be avoided.”

  “Oh, well,” she said, obviously exasperated. “Shall I send you to the airport in my car?”

  “Throckmorton’s taxi is outside, remember?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Stone showered and shaved and packed, while Emma dressed for work. “Can you come to New York soon?” he asked.

  “I can’t predict just now,” she said. “I’ll call you, though.”

  “I’m sorry I was here for such a short time,” he said, hugging her. “Believe me, I’d rather stay than have to deal with this situation.”

  “I believe you,” she said, kissing him. “Have a good flight.” And she was gone.

  Stone made himself some breakfast and read the papers, then at nine-thirty, he grabbed his luggage and went outside to where Derek, having gone home to sleep, then returned, sat at the wheel of the cab. “Heathrow,” he said.

  “Righto,” Derek replied, and made a quick U-turn past a black BMW parked down the street a few yards. He checked his rearview mirror. “I think we’ve picked up company,” he said.

  “Swell. I hope this tank is sufficiently armored to repel small-arms fire.”

  “The doors have Kevlar inserts, but the glass we ordered hasn’t arrived yet. Anything happens, hit the deck.”

  They made it to Heathrow without an exchange of gunfire, and as they stopped, the BMW drove slowly past them. The driver was the man who had accompanied Yevgeny Majorov to the party the night before.

  Stone thanked Derek, grabbed his luggage, waved off a porter, and ran for check-in. Half an hour later he was through security with his pass and in the VIP lounge. He checked his iPhone address book for John Fratelli’s throwaway cell phone number and called it. The call went straight to voice mail. “Mr. Fratelli,” he said, “a friend of mine has been kidnapped by an acquaintance of yours, a Mr. Onofrio Buono. He wants your money in exchange for her. Call me, and let’s see if you have any ideas.”

  That done, he called Joan at home; she would be up by now.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Stone. I left a message at the office for you to pick me up at JFK at three-thirty.”

  “Can do.”

  “There’s something else: call my broker and tell him I may have to free up five million dollars in cash.”

  “Are you being held hostage by al-Qaeda?”

  “Tell him not to do anything yet, just to figure out how to raise the cash with as little tax damage as possible. If I need it, it’ll be on short notice.”

  “Okay,” Joan said. “I’ll look forward to hearing all about this when I meet you.”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know,” Stone said. “See you at three-thirty.” He hung up and called Dino at home.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “It’s Stone. Any news of Hank?”

  “Not a word, not a peep—our efforts to track down Buono have not succeeded. He probably had a hidey-hole prepared, just in case.”

  “I may have to give him some money,” Stone said.

  “Whose money?”

  “Mine. All right, Arrington’s.” She had willed him a considerable fortune.

  “I think it’s time for me to call the FBI,” Dino said.

  “Not yet,” Stone said. “I’m at Heathrow now. When I get in, I’ll call you. I don’t want to turn this into a whole big thing with a lot of feds screwing it up.”

  “I sympathize with your view, but are you really going to try to handle this by yourself?”

  “With your help, yes. I don’t see how the feds can improve the odds.”

  “Frankly, neither do I,” Dino admitted.

  “Talk to you later.”

  They hung up.

  • • •

  Stone’s flight was boarding when his cell phone vibrated. He stepped out of line and took the call.

  “It’s John Fratelli,” the voice said. “I got your message. How did this happen?”

  “Buono came to see me,” Stone said. “I pretty much told him to go fuck himself, but then I think he—or one of his—saw a woman he knew at my house. They’ve taken her, and he’s demanding your money—as if I had access to it.”

  “If I were handling this,” Fratelli said, “I’d just kill him.”

  “I have every sympathy with that plan,” Stone replied, “but I don’t know where to find the man. The cops raided a chop shop that he owns, and they’re looking for him everywhere as we speak, but so far, no joy.”

  “Let me see what I can do,” Fratelli said. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “I’m in London, boarding a plane for New York right now. I should be within cell phone range by four o’clock, Eastern time.”

  “Right.” Fratelli hung up, and Stone got on the airplane with a sense of deep foreboding.

  35

  John Fratelli sat on the edge of his bed, feeling sick. Everything had been going so well; now this. His first impulse was to fly to New York, find Bats Buono, and beat him to death. Instead, he ordered breakfast from room service, then showered, shaved, and dressed for golf. Breakfast arrived as he cleared the bathroom.

  He ate slowly, thinking hard. Who could he call about this? Who did he know anymore? Everybody was dead, almost. Almost. He knew exactly the right person to call, but not if he was alive. He called information and asked for Gino Buono, Eddie’s brother, Onofrio’s father. There was a number in Queens, and he called it.

  “Hello?” He sounded old and sleepy.

  “Gino?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “This is . . .” He stopped himself, about to say Jack Coulter. “It’s Johnny Fratelli.”

  There was a brief silence as Gino computed the name. “Jesus, Johnny. I heard you were out.”

  “For a while now.”

  “How was Eddie when he went?”

  “Not too bad. You and I should do so well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I went to the funeral, of course.”

  “Of course. I was sorry not to be there, but I was, ah, indisposed at the time.”

  Gino chuckled.

  “How’s Onofrio doing?”

  “He was doing great until a couple days ago. The cops raided his chop shop out in Red Hook.”

  “I didn’t know he had a chop shop. Last I knew he was doing protection.”

  “Times change. He was doing Porsches and Mercedeses only—a great business.”

  “I heard he was looking for me, but I don’t have a number.”

  Gino was suddenly wary. “Looking for you? Why?”

  “He thinks I have Eddie’s money from the heist.”

  “Do you?”

  “About three hundred grand, from a safe-deposit box in a bank. That’s all.”

  “Where’s the rest?”

  “Eddie didn’t tell me about that. I figured he must have gotten a message to you or some other family.”

  “I didn’t hear a fucking word from him.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t haven’t written a letter, given his circumstance
s. When did you last see him?”

  “Easter weekend, a year ago. It was only the third time I saw him while he was up there. We weren’t that close, you know. Eddie was always too elegant for the likes of me.”

  “Onofrio came to see him now and then, he might have told him something.”

  “Then why would the boy want to talk to you?”

  “You tell me. You got a number, Gino?”

  “He’s out of state. Tell you what: give me your number and I’ll give it to him when I speak to him.”

  “When is that gonna be?”

  “Soon. He’ll call.”

  “Okay.” He gave Gino the number. “That’s what you call a throwaway cell number. It’s good for today only, not after that.”

  “I’ll pass it along.”

  “Thanks, Gino. How you holding up?”

  “I’m old, that’s how.”

  “Tell me about it. Bye-bye.”

  Fratelli hung up and looked at his watch. Time to meet Hillary at the golf club. It would be their first round together.

  • • •

  Hillary hit first, about 220 yards, straight down the fairway. Fratelli was next; longer, but it sliced into the long rough.

  “Nice distance,” Hillary said.

  Fratelli laughed. “You’re very kind. My instructor and I are working on the slice, but I’m not there yet.”

  Hillary, with 180 yards to the pin, hit a three wood to about six feet.

  “I’d just like to point out that we’re not playing for money,” Fratelli said. She laughed. He found his ball, and it was resting on a bare patch in the long rough, 160 yards out. He took a club from his bag and hit the ball straight and true to just inside Hillary’s. Then he rejoined her, the club still in his hand.

  “What’s that?” she asked, nodding at the club.

  “An eleven wood,” Fratelli replied. “It’s my secret weapon.”

  “How does your instructor say you’re doing?” she asked, as they got into the cart.

  “He’s says I’m the best middle-aged beginner he’s ever coached.”

  “You don’t have a handicap, yet?”

  “He says I’m playing to about an eighteen.”

  “Not bad for a short-timer,” she said. Then she sank her putt and he took two putts to hole his.