by Stuart Woods
“I’m glad I did. I ordered us both a bacon cheeseburger; I hope it’s as good as the last one.”
“I’m sure it will be,” she said.
They ordered piña coladas, and then lunch came. When they were finished, Stone got serious.
“Barbara, I want to ask you some questions, and I hope you’ll give me straight answers.”
“Okay.”
“First of all, was everything you told me about yourself the other night the truth?”
“Yes, but that’s more than I can say for you.”
“What?”
“Your name isn’t Jack Smithwick, is it?”
Stone reddened. “How did you know?”
“You think I’m so dumb that I can’t tell when a man gives me a false name? Anyway, nobody is named Smithwick.”
“I apologize,” he said.
“Let’s start over.” She held out her hand. “I’m Barbara Tierney.”
Stone took the hand. “My name is Stone Barrington.”
“Stone,” she said. “I like that.”
“It was my mother’s maiden name.”
“It’s nice. Now, why didn’t you tell me your real name from the beginning? I would have liked you a lot better.”
It escaped Stone how she could possibly have liked him better than the first time they met. “If you’ll forgive me, I’ll answer that later, but I will tell you the truth.”
“All right. What do you want to know from me?”
“What do you know about Martin Barone?”
She blinked. “How do you know his name?”
“I got lucky.”
“Stone, you said you’d tell me the truth.”
“I had him investigated, but I didn’t find out much; I need to know more.”
“Why on earth did you have him investigated?”
“I promise, I’ll fill you in, but later.”
“What, exactly, do you want to know?”
“How did you meet him?”
“A girl I know, another actress, introduced us at a party.”
“What sort of party?”
“It was at a bank downtown. We were hired to…just be decorative, I guess, and she had met him at a previous party. He was charming, one thing led to another, and he offered to let me live on the boat. I had been living at a friend’s place, and we were crowding each other.”
“Did you form any impressions about the kind of business he does?”
“Not at first, but over a period of a couple of weeks I heard his end of some telephone conversations.”
“What did you learn?”
“He talked about moving stuff—he didn’t say exactly what, but I think he was talking about money. At first I thought it was drugs, but now I think money.”
“Did he talk about how he moves it?”
“He talked about pickups and deliveries.”
“So he moves cash around?”
She nodded. “I think so; between here and Mexico.”
“Does he keep any sort of schedule?”
“He goes away two or three times a week, but I’m not sure if it’s always to Mexico.”
“Do you think he’s moving money personally, as in his car?”
“The Porsche doesn’t have a lot of room in it,” she said.
“I know; was there ever any talk of anything larger?”
“He mentioned a truck once.”
“Do you know who his boss is?”
“He’s his own boss; it’s his company.”
“But you met him at the Safe Harbor Bank?”
“How did you know which bank? I didn’t tell you.”
“It was more than a lucky guess. Did you meet a man named Ippolito there?”
“Yes, he’s the head of the bank, I think; somebody pointed him out to me at the party. I got him a drink at one point.”
“What was your impression of him?”
“I think his impression of me was that he thought I was a hooker, which annoyed me.”
“Did you notice what kind of relationship Barone had with Ippolito?”
“Marty was doing a lot of major sucking up,” she said.
“I can imagine. Did Marty say anything to you about his relationship with Ippolito?”
“He refers to him as the boss sometimes. Not to me, but on the phone. I’m sure that’s who he’s talking about. My turn for some questions.”
“All right.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No, but I used to be; now I’m a lawyer.”
“What’s your interest in Marty and Ippolito?”
“I think that both of them are mixed up in organized crime.”
She rubbed her forehead. “I was afraid of something like that,” she said. “I was beginning to get this feeling.”
“Where is Marty now?”
“He left this morning for Mexico, or that’s what he said, anyway.”
“Barbara, I think you ought to get off the boat as soon as possible.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” she said, “and I’m about out of money.”
“What about the friend you stayed with before?”
“We didn’t part on such good terms.”
“Have you got a lot of stuff on the boat?”
“Two suitcases and a hanging bag.”
“Tell you what: you go back to the marina, pack up, and I’ll meet you at the restaurant where we met in an hour, okay?”
“But where will I go?”
“You can stay with me, until we figure something out. Don’t worry about money.”
“Okay, let’s do it.”
“One other thing: remember I asked you if you had ever driven a white Mercedes convertible?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t really answer me. Do you know the car?”
“I drove it here today,” she said. “It’s in the parking lot.”
36
Stone arrived at the Marina Del Rey restaurant on time, but there was no sign of Barbara. Arrington’s car was parked near the chandlery, though. When she was fifteen minutes late, Stone began to worry. Then she came up the ramp from the pontoon, struggling with her bags, one of which was on wheels. Stone ran to help her.
When they were in the car, she looked into her handbag. “Damn,” he said, “I’ve still got the keys to the Mercedes; I’ll have to take them back to the boat.”
“Wait,” Stone said, thinking. “Don’t take the keys back; drive the car to the hotel.”
“I can’t just steal the guy’s car,” she said.
“It’s not his car, and don’t worry, he won’t report it stolen.”
“Stone, I don’t want to get into trouble.”
“Believe me, I’m getting you out of trouble.”
“Oh, all right.” She went to the Mercedes, and Stone led the way back to the hotel.
He called the parking valet aside. “Bury the SL500 somewhere,” he said, handing the man a twenty. “We won’t need it for a while.” He gave his room key to Barbara, along with tip money for the bellman. “You go on upstairs; there’s something I have to do.”
“What am I supposed to do in a hotel room?”
“I’ve arranged for you to sign, so do some shopping downstairs, or go out to the pool again, if you like.”
She brightened. “Okay; see you later.”
It wasn’t very far down Sunset to Vinnie’s Deli. Stone parked on a side street facing the boulevard and looked at his watch: just in time, he thought. Ten minutes passed, then an unmarked car pulled up to the deli, and Rick Grant and another man got out and went into the place. Stone raised his binoculars and watched as they stood at the counter, ordering something and watching the counterman buzz two hoods through the door to the back room. Rick and his companion sat at a table and began eating their sandwiches. From down the block, a large white van slowly approached the deli.
It was beautifully coordinated. Rick and the other cop got up from their table, walked behind the counter, and pin
ned the counterman to the wall. The van opened, and a dozen SWAT team members spilled out and into the deli. Rick hit the buzzer under the counter, and the door to the back room opened as SWAT cops oured into the room. A moment later, two paddy wagons arrived on the scene, and a moment after that, the cops started loading arrestees into the wagons; among them was Vinnie Mancuso, Stone’s swimming instructor. The whole thing took less than ten minutes.
When Rick Grant left the restaurant, Stone turned onto Sunset and pulled up in front of the deli, rolling down the opposite window. Grant walked over to the car.
“That seemed to go well,” Stone said.
“Couldn’t have gone better,” Grant replied. “You want to come down and watch while I interrogate Mancuso?”
“Love to. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
“I’m going to stage a lineup for Vinnie’s benefit,” Grant said. “Just to get him worried.”
Stone sat behind a one-way mirror and watched Vinnie Mancuso twitch. He was alone in the interrogation room, and he was nervous. A moment later, Rick Grant and another officer walked into the room and sat down at a table opposite Mancuso. Stone could hear the scraping of their chairs through the speaker in his room. One of the cops offered Mancuso a cigarette.
“No thanks,” the hood said, “I gave them up.”
“I’m glad to see you’re concerned about your health, Vinnie,” Grant said. “I guess you want to live a long life.”
“You bet,” Mancuso replied.
Grant shook his head. “It’s not looking very good for a long life,” he said. “Not for you.”
Mancuso frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Still, it’s not as bad as it used to be,” Grant said. “You don’t have to sit in the gas chamber and hold your breath the way you used to; now you just get the needle. I’m told it’s not unpleasant.”
“Are you insane?” Vinnie asked incredulously. “For a bookmaking rap?”
“Not for that, Vinnie; we’ve got you cold for murder one.”
“You’re nuts. Where’s my lawyer?”
“You called him; I assume he’ll be here soon. I thought you might like a moment before he arrives to consider your position. My witness made you in the lineup, but good.”
“Witness to what?”
“To the murder of Stone Barrington.”
Mancuso looked across the table for a long moment. “Who?”
“The man you dumped in the Catalina channel the other night; a witness on a small boat made both you and your friend, Manny. We’re picking him up now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mancuso said.
“I’m talking about the corpse we pulled off the bottom of the channel this morning, with an anchor shackled to it. My witness watched you and Manny kick Barrington off the sports fisherman Maria at around nine in the evening. He was watching through night binoculars; he saw everything.”
Mancuso’s face began, very slowly, to fall.
“The only question now is, who gets the needle?” Grant said. “You or Manny? Or both?”
Mancuso said nothing, but it was obvious he was thinking hard.
“We got you first, so you get dibs on the deal,” Grant said. “Once we bring Manny in, he’ll get the same offer, if you haven’t taken it.”
“So you want me to nail Manny for you? Is that it?”
“Not just Manny,” Grant said.
Mancuso’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”
“We want the guy who gave the order.”
Mancuso was shaking his head now. “Forget about it,” be said.
“We want Ippolito.”
The name startled Mancuso. “Where did you…” Then he stopped. “I don’t know anybody by that name,” he said.
“Vinnie, your lawyer is going to be here soon, and when he arrives it’s going to be a lot harder to make deal. After all, who’s he working for? You’re not paying his bill.”
Mancuso was sweating now. “Look, I…” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to take the fall for this.”
“Then don’t take the fall,” Grant said soothingly. “Talk to me.”
Mancuso sweated some more but said nothing.
“You know Manny well,” Grant said. “You think he’s going to take the fall for you and Ippolito?”
“Manny’s a standup guy,” Mancuso muttered. “He don’t give nobody up.”
“You really believe that, Vinnie? You really believe that Manny will take the needle for you and Ippolito?” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t think so.”
Mancuso thought about that for a moment, then he looked at Grant and started to speak. Then, at that moment, a man carrying a briefcase walked into the room.
“My name is Larry Klein,” he said. “I represent Vincent Mancuso; what’s going on here?”
“We were just having a chat,” Grant said.
“My client has nothing to say at the moment,” Klein said. “Have you been attempting to interrogate him?”
“Mr. Mancuso knows his rights,” Grant said. “He’s signed a statement to that effect.”
“Well, he’s not saying anything further,” the lawyer said, “and I want him removed to a secure room where I can talk with him without having somebody on the other side of a mirror.”
“Whatever you say, counselor,” Grant said. He turned to the other cop. “Take Mr. Klein and Mr. Mancuso down to Room Three, and leave them alone,” he said.
The cop left with Mancuso and his lawyer. Grant turned toward the mirror and gave a big shrug. A moment later he arrived in Stone’s room.
“Shit,” Stone said. “Another three minutes and he would have caved.”
“Win some, lose some,” Grant said.
“What about Manny? Did you pick him up?”
Grant shook his head. “I’ve got somebody on it, but unless we pick him up before Mancuso’s lawyer can make a phone call, our chances of getting him anytime soon are poor.”
“How long can you hold Mancuso?”
“He’ll have dinner at home tonight. I can’t charge him with your murder.”
“I guess not.”
“His lawyer is going to wonder why, after Mancuso tells him about our conversation.”
“And Ippolito will know within the hour.”
“Probably,” Grant said. “I wonder how the information will affect him. I expect it will confuse and annoy him.”
“I hope so,” Stone said.
37
When Stone arrived back at the Beverly Hills Hotel, he was approached by the parking valet.
“Oh, Mr, Barrington, I thought you said you wouldn’t be needing the SL500 for a while,” the man said.
“That’s right.”
“Well, your friend Miss Tierney left in it about ten minutes ago.”
“She left?” Stone asked incredulously.
“That’s right.”
Stone went into the hotel, baffled, and went to his suite. Barbara’s things were still there, and there was a single note on the bedside table.
Dear Stone,
I left my makeup kit on Marty’s boat, so I’ve gone to pick it up. I might do some window shopping, too, but I’ll be back later this afternoon.
Barbara
“Oh, Jesus,” Stone groaned. He ran down the stairs and ordered his car.
The parking valet looked baffled when he brought it. “Mr. Barrington, if you’re only going to be a couple of minutes, we can keep your car here up front,” the man said.
“Sorry about that,” Stone said, slamming the door and yanking the car into gear. He drove to Marina Del Rey as quickly as he could, worried that Martin Barone might have turned up and caught Barbara in the act of moving out. He wasn’t sure of what story she’d tell under pressure, and the last thing he wanted was to put this girl in any danger. When he arrived, Arrington’s car was parked outside the chandlery.
He parked and walked quickly down the pontoons toward where Paloma was berthed.
She seemed deserted. He looked around for unwelcome visitors, then jumped aboard. The cabin door was locked, and he couldn’t see Barbara inside. He got off the boat in a hurry and started back toward his car; then, a couple of pontoons away, he saw something that gave him pleasure. A large crane on a barge was being maneuvered between the pontoons. He walked down the main pontoon and found a spot where he could watch the salvage operation from a distance. It took the divers a few minutes to get lifting straps under Maria’s hull, and then the crane went to work. Slowly, the sports fisherman broke the water and was raised to pontoon level. The divers stripped off their wetsuits and got pumps going to empty her of water. It would take quite a while, Stone reflected with satisfaction. He hoped her interior was thoroughly ruined.
He walked back toward the parking lot, and as he came back up the ramp he stopped in his tracks. Arrington’s car was gone. He climbed back on his old perch on the ice machine and looked up and down the street, but he could not see the car. He hopped down in time to see a Porsche turn into the parking lot and take the space that Arrington’s Mercedes had vacated.
A slickly handsome man in a pinstriped suit got out, locked the car, and walked down the ramp to the pontoon. Stone watched as he made his way toward where Paloma was berthed. This, he decided, was Martin Barone, and he was definitely not in Mexico. Barone disappeared among the boats, then, as Stone was about to leave, he suddenly reappeared, running.
Stone got into his car and pulled down the sun visor. Barone, in a great hurry, ran to the intersection and looked up and down the street, obviously looking for Barbara. He came back talking to himself, looking very unhappy indeed. He stood in the parking lot, deep in thought, for a minute, then got into the Porsche and drove out of the car park.
What the hell, Stone thought, let’s see where he goes. Staying at least a block back, he followed the sports car into the canyons of downtown Los Angeles. I know where he’s going, Stone thought, and he was right. Barone turned into the garage at the headquarters building for the Safe Harbor Bank. Stone wished he could follow him up to Ippolito’s offices and listen to him explain that his girlfriend had run off with Arrington Calder’s Mercedes. He would enjoy that conversation.
Stone sat in his car, waiting, for some forty minutes, then, suddenly, the Porsche emerged from the garage and turned east. Stone followed the car to Beverly Hills and watched as it turned into the gates of a house on Beverly Drive. He made a note of the address, then drove back to his hotel.
