Standup Guy (11 page)

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.

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 do 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.”

“Let’s say you offer a service that transports large amounts of cash from banks in one country to banks in other countries. We’re talking millions, here.”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay, one day some guys with big guns and a forklift roll into
your office, tie everybody up, and load a couple crates containing, say, fifteen million dollars, onto a truck and drive away.”

“That sounds an awful lot like the robbery of my store,” Stone pointed out. “Without the insurance provision.”

“Well, it’s the insurance provision that makes it illegal, right?”

“In a manner of speaking. And how do you get the fifteen million back?”

“Well, first of all, half of that money is recovered by the cops from several of the participants in the robbery. It’s the other half we’re talking about, and I don’t recover that. You do. And I pay a reasonable fee.”

“Well, Mr. Buono, it begins to seem as though we’re no longer talking hypothetically, that you’re referring to an actual event.”

“That’s a possibility,” Buono said.

“Well, if I were in a position to recover half of fifteen million dollars, why would I need you?”

Buono spread his hands and smiled. “To stay alive,” he said.

“Ah,” Stone said, “I perceive that you might be the person who recently fired a shotgun at my front door. Or, if not the person, then persons in your employ.”

Buono gave an affirmative shrug.

“I’m sorry, could you restate that?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly the person or the persons?”

“Either. Both.”

“May I ask why you think I might be in a position to recover this money for you?”

“Because the guy who has it is your client, and he came to you for advice. Guy name of Fratelli.”

“Well, Mr. Buono, as a matter of attorney-client confidentiality, I can neither confirm nor deny the name of a client.”

“Sure you can,” Buono said. “You just need to be motivated.”

“And you feel that marring the paint on my front door is a motivation?”

“Oh, it gets worse. Next time, the shotgun could be aimed at your face.”

“Okay, Mr. Buono, you’ve put your case. It’s time I put mine.”

“Please,” Buono said.

“I’ve already covered the part about attorney-client confidentiality, so I won’t bore you further with that.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Now let me tell you the part about this.” Stone took his badge wallet, put it on the desk and opened it. “This will tell you that I’m a retired police detective. Had you heard that from the
Post
?”

“Sounds familiar. Why should I give a shit?”

“That fact should tell you that I have friendly acquaintances in the NYPD, one of whom is the chief of detectives. Did that occur to you?”

“Again, why should I give a shit?”

“Suppose I tell you that, if I felt inclined, I could have your chop shop in Red Hook raided and all your personnel arrested before you can get back there? And, of course, you arrested in the stolen car you’re driving.”

Buono’s previously mock-friendly face was suddenly devoid of expression. “How the fuck . . . ?”

“Mr. Buono, you have already invested me with amazing powers of perception regarding criminal activities. Why would I not know about yours?” Stone sighed. “Now it’s time for you to go.”
He reached under the file folder and switched off the recorder. “And let me add this: if I ever again see or hear from you or any of your . . . employees, I will create such a shitstorm as to blow you and your business off the face of the earth. And if I get a chance, I’ll blow your head off while I’m doing it. Do we understand each other?”

Buono continued to stare at him, but now his jaw had dropped.

“The door is over there,” Stone said, pointing.

Buono got up and left without another word.