Текст книги "Standup Guy"

Автор книги: Stuart Woods

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

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 office 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?”

“Pressed suits, white shirts, boring ties, clean shaves.”

“Like me.”

“Yeah, like you, except I’ve never seen you in a suit.”

“And this guy wasn’t federal, you think?”

“Nah, city cop, state cop, probably.”

“What did he ask you about?”

“He mentioned knowing you, and then he just poked around a little: you know, how’s Harry doing? What’s he up to? Where’s he hang? Like that.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Practically nothing.”

“Come on, Jerry, what’d you tell him?”

“Nothing, really. He seemed to know a lot already. What’s it about, do you think? You schtupping somebody’s wife?”

“I wish,” Moss said. His cell phone went off, and he dug it out of his pocket. “Harry Moss.”

“No kidding, the Harry Moss?”

The guy had a New York accent. “I’m the only one I know. Who’s this?”

“The Harry Moss who puts strange ads in the Palm Beach paper?”

“You saw that, did you? You calling from Palm Beach?”

“I’m calling from Vegas. Even way out here we get the Palm Beach papers.”

“You got some information for me?”

“What’s it worth to you?”

“Depends on what you’re selling.”

“How about this: I know somebody who was sitting out on the beach at Delray a few years back, late at night, and these two people came along, and they were having an argument of some sort.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Patience, Harry, I’m getting there.”

“All right, go on. What were they arguing about?”

“Seems the woman was real upset with her husband about his gambling habit. Seems the guy was a degenerate gambler. You know anybody like that?”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m getting there, Harry. Then this woman did something that really surprised the witness.”

“What?”

“She reached into her handbag, pulled out a gun, and shot her husband in the head.”

Moss didn’t know what to say.

“You’re going all silent on me, Harry.”

“This was not the subject of my ad. How’d you know I placed the ad, anyway?”

“In a minute, Harry. Next, the woman took a handkerchief out of her husband’s pocket, wiped the gun down, put his fingerprints on it, and dropped it next to his body. Then she walked away very quietly and returned to the building where she and her husband lived.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you ought to have the true facts. There are other people who might like to have the facts, too.”

“So what? She’s dead. Nobody can touch her now.”

“Maybe not, but they could touch you. I hear the husband has relatives who thought they might have some of his estate coming.”

“Good luck to them with that.”

“But, Harry, if the police knew what really happened, there’d be an investigation. And if they talked to the witness and found that the woman murdered her husband, then, under Florida law, she couldn’t have legally inherited her husband’s money or property, since she caused her husband’s death. And—think about this, Harry—you wouldn’t have been able to inherit from her. Everything would go to his relatives.”

“What do you want?”

“That’s a pretty nice apartment you inherited, isn’t it, Harry? Worth what? A couple of million? More when the real estate market recovers.”

“You want my apartment?”

“No, Harry, but remember, it’s the husband’s apartment, and his relatives would sure be interested, I’ll bet.”

“Why would you do something like that?”

“Why would you run an ad in the Palm Beach paper?”

“You’re Fratelli, aren’t you?”

“Is that what you think, Harry? Tell me, are you sitting in the sports bar, having a Cutty Sark and water? That’s where you could be found any evening, isn’t it? Or in your apartment later, fast asleep. And the service elevator isn’t manned at night, is it? And all those elderly retirees are asleep, just like you.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You bet your sweet ass. I’m in a position to shut your life down, Harry. This time next year, you wouldn’t be sitting in the sports bar drinking scotch, you’d be sitting on a curb somewhere, drinking muscatel from a bottle.”

“Listen to me, Fratelli.”

“You listen to me, Harry. First of all, that name never passes your lips again, for any reason, you got me?”

“All right.”

“And another thing—even if you sell the apartment and get your money out of it, I can always find you, and believe me, I could snap your neck like a twig. You getting the message?”

Moss was sweating now. “I understand.”

“From now on, then, it’s live and let live?”

“Live and let live,” Moss said, mopping his face. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“Thank you, Harry. Never disturb me again. You won’t like the consequences.”

The man hung up. Moss went to his recent calls and found it. Private number.

“Jerry,” he said, “give me another Cutty Sark and water.”

“Sure thing, Harry. You feeling okay? You’re looking kind of pale.”

“Just give me the drink,” Moss said.

50

Stone’s bell rang a couple of minutes after seven, as he was walking down the stairs. He turned off the alarm and opened the front door.

“Hi,” Hank said. “I’m thirsty. Can a girl get a drink here?”

“Very possibly,” Stone replied. “Come right in.” He closed the door behind her and set the alarm again.

“You always do that?” she asked.

“Just a habit,” he said. “Only one button to push, ARM.”

“Better safe than sorry,” she said.

“You read that somewhere.” He led her into the study. “What would you like?”

“A very dry vodka martini, please.”

He shoveled some ice into a glass and filled it with water, and while it chilled, speared a couple of anchovy-stuffed olives with a long toothpick. He emptied the ice and water from the glass, dropped the olives into it, and poured the martini from a premixed bottle in the freezer. He handed it to her, then he filled an old-fashioned glass with ice, filled it again with Knob Creek, and raised his glass. “To the resumption of your normal existence,” he said.

“God, I’ll drink to that!” She took a big sip from her martini. “That is breathtaking!”

“Are you settling down yet after your ordeal?”

“I am. I’m going back to work on Monday.”

“Tuesday. Monday’s a holiday.”

“Right, so I get another day off. What will I do with myself?”

“Hang around here, why don’t you? We can . . .”

“Fuck our brains out all weekend?”

“Good idea!” He opened the desk drawer, took out a key, and handed it to her. “You can come and go as you please.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll need a change of clothes.”

Stone smiled. “As far as I’m concerned, you won’t need clothes at all.”

“A naked weekend,” she said, smiling. “I like it.”

“We can cook for each other.”

“You cook?”

“Not as well as you, but I dabble.”

“I suppose I’ll have to put clothes on to go up to Grace’s Market.”

“Yes, unless you want a ride home in a police car.”

“On my way, I’ll pick up something more casual. I haven’t been shopping for way too long.”

“As you wish.”

They settled into the sofa and sipped their drinks.

“How have your spent your time off?” Stone asked.

“Mostly just vegging and watching old movies on TV.”

“What did you watch?”

“Singin’ in the Rain, Gone with the Wind, The Best Years of Our Lives.”

“All favorites of mine, too. My son is a moviemaker. Did I tell you?”

“No. What’s he done?”

“A little independent called Autumn Kill that cost nothing to make and earned sixty-something million, worldwide.”

“Wow, he must be very good.”

“He certainly is. He has a deal at Centurion Studios, and he’s out there now, completing his second film.”

They nattered on for an hour and had a second drink.

• • •

Dino was working late when he got a phone call from the lead detective on the Bats Buono murder. “What’s happening, kid? Any luck on nabbing Marty Parese?”

“’Fraid not, Chief. Apparently, he took a powder when we raided the chop shop. Nobody will admit laying eyes on him. We’re running down some leads, though.”

“Anything new on the girl? Hank?”

“Not a thing. Her only involvement is as a victim, far as I can tell.”

“Okay, keep me posted.” Dino hung up and called Stone.

• • •

“Excuse me,” Stone said to Hank, picking up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hiya, pal.”

“Hey, Dino.”

“Just wanted to give you an update. We haven’t been able to find Marty Parese. He blew after the raid on the chop shop.”

“Oh, well,” Stone said.

“Better news—Hank is no longer considered a suspect.”

“That is good news. She’s here now, we’re having a drink and going to the Four Seasons. You and Viv want to join us?”

“Can’t do it—we’re both working late. Tomorrow night? We’ll drink some of your booze.”

“Sure.”

“We’ll let ourselves in.”

“See you then.”

They both hung up.

“How’s Dino?” Hank asked.

“He’s good, and he had a couple of pieces of news: they’ve been looking for a guy named Marty Parese, who was Buono’s partner, but no luck. Apparently, he made himself scarce after the raid on the chop shop.”

“Oh, yeah, I met him once. Onofrio introduced us in a restaurant.”

“The good news: you’re no longer a suspect.”

“That’s a relief, I guess. I’d better let Herb Fisher know.”

“You ready for some dinner?”

“I’m starving. I’ve never been to the Four Seasons.”

“It will be my pleasure to introduce you.”

Stone let them out the front door. “You saw how to arm the system going out. This is how you disarm it when you come in.” He showed her the six-digit code, then rearmed the system and locked the door behind them. They cabbed it the few blocks to the restaurant and were soon seated at a poolside table in the main dining room.

• • •

An hour and a half later, Hank dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “That was just wonderful,” she said.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I have to go to the little girls’ room.”

“It’s on the way out. I’ll show you.” Stone signed the check, then led her downstairs. “I’ll get a cab and wait for you outside.”

Hank disappeared into the ladies’ room, and Stone asked the doorman for a cab. Nearly ten minutes passed before he found one, and Hank was just coming out the door.

• • •

Minutes later, Stone let them into the house, and after he had rearmed the system, they took the elevator upstairs.

They made love for half an hour or so, then collapsed in each other’s arms. Sometime in the night, Stone rolled over and was surprised to find her side of the bed empty, but she returned from the direction of her bathroom and crawled back in with him.

Still later, Stone was half wakened by what sounded like an electronic beep, but then he drifted off to sleep again.

• • •

In the morning, Helene sent up a big breakfast on the dumbwaiter, along with the morning papers, and they dawdled in bed. Halfway through the morning, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Bill Eggers. I’m doing some work on the Arrington account, and I can’t find the year-to-date statement. Have you got a copy?”

“Sure, Bill. I’ll go downstairs and fax it to you.”

“Thanks. See you later.”

Stone got out of bed and put on some pants, a shirt, and a pair of slippers.

“Going somewhere?”

“I just have to run down to my office and fax a document to my law partner, Bill Eggers. He’s doing some weekend work.”

“Don’t be long,” she said.

• • •

As Stone approached his office door, he heard the sound of machinery running and wondered if Joan was doing some weekend work, too. He opened the door and saw some sort of business machine on his desk and realized it was counting and sorting money. Joan must have found a machine after all.

Then something solid struck him on the back of the neck. He didn’t remember falling to the floor.

51

Stone smelled leather, and he couldn’t understand why. There was a murmur of voices from somewhere and the fluttery sound of a machine running. He opened his eyes and found himself facedown on his office sofa; his hands were chained behind him and his feet clamped together. He had a headache centered at the base of his skull, and he was having trouble thinking clearly.

He decided not to move for a while, just to listen and get oriented.

The machine stopped, and there was the sound of something tapping from the direction of his desk. He turned his head sideways so that he could see. There was a strange man seated at his desk; he was removing stacks of bills from the machine, tapping them on the desktop to square them, then banding them and arranging them in a suitcase that lay open beside the desk, while reading numbers from the machine and noting them on a yellow legal pad. Then he heard a voice he hadn’t expected to hear.

“How long do you think this will take?” Hank asked.

Stone moved his chin down enough to allow himself a view of the other side of the desk. Hank was removing a double-handful of money from one of the leaf bags, squaring batches of the bills, then stacking them into the machine. That done, she switched it on, and it began separating and sorting the tens and twenties.

“Shit,” the man said, “even with the machine, it’s going to take us all day, at least.”

“I guess there’s no faster way to do this,” she said.

“Not unless we had a couple more counter-sorters and more people to help, and we sure as hell don’t want more people in on this.”

“No,” she said, “we don’t.”

Stone saw her begin to look his way and closed his eyes.

“He’s still out,” Hank said. “How hard did you hit him?” Her tone was one of idle curiosity, not of concern.

“Jeez, I don’t know. Hard enough to put him down and out, but not hard enough to kill him, I hope. We may need him at some point.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Hank replied.

Okay, Stone said to himself, I think I’m getting this. He rewound his memory to earlier in the evening and watched the replay on the inside of his eyelids. They had drinks; he gave Hank a key; he showed her how the security system worked; she spent ten minutes in the Four Seasons’ ladies’ room while he got a cab; she must have made a phone call. Who else could the guy be but Marty Parese? They stopped talking and worked, and that gave him more time to think. He had come down to fax Eggers the year-to-date statement. If Bill didn’t receive it, would he send somebody over here? Stone’s question was almost immediately answered.

The phone rang three times, and the voice mail system picked up. “Stone? It’s Bill. Never mind faxing the document, we found our copy. Sorry to trouble you.” Eggers hung up.

Shit. No cavalry arriving from that direction. He did some more thinking. God knows where Joan is; long weekend. No conceivable cavalry from any other direction, either. Assuming they didn’t kill him—and that, he thought, might be an unwarranted assumption—nobody would find him until Tuesday morning. Where would Hank and her friend be by then? Acapulco? Rio? Answer: anywhere they damn well pleased. They would have a lot of luggage, of course, given the bulk of his five million dollars, even neatly stacked in suitcases. Unlikely that they would take a commercial flight; they wouldn’t want to be separated from their bags. So, they’d drive. Somewhere they could exchange the money for hundreds. Where the hell could they do that? They couldn’t just wheel it into a bank and make reverse change. Any banker in his right mind would call the FBI.

Wait a minute; why would Marty Parese have a cash counter-sorter handy on short notice? You couldn’t rent one at a tool rental place. Chop shop had to be a cash business; if you sold somebody a few thousand bucks’ worth of Mercedes bits and pieces, you wouldn’t take a check, and you wouldn’t put the cash in the bank. You’d launder it, somehow. Run it through a legit business account, maybe? One that dealt in a lot of cash? Casino? Check cashing service? Dirty bank? There must be dirty banks.

“Marty, tell me you got the groceries,” Hank said.

“A week’s worth.”

“I gave you a list.”

“Yeah, I got most of that. I couldn’t find truffle oil.”

She gave him a shopping list. When? On the phone from the ladies’ room, or maybe before that. She had a plan; she called him for dinner, not the other way around. Where would they need groceries, especially Hank’s kind of groceries? Someplace with a kitchen.

A wave of nausea struck Stone. Could a blow to the back of the head do that? He answered his own question by vomiting over the edge of the sofa.

“Jesus,” Marty said.

“Oh, Stone, poor baby,” Hank said. She went into his office bathroom and came out with a couple of towels and a trash can. She wiped his face with a damp facecloth, cleaned up the mess, and put the towels in the trash can. “Let’s sit you up,” she said. She rolled him onto his side, put his feet on the floor, and sat him up. “Is that better?”

Stone nodded and looked as dazed as he could, which, given the circumstances, wasn’t hard. He moved his hands: cuffs. He looked down at his feet: duct tape. He was secured.

“You want some water, Stone?”

He nodded. She went to the bathroom and came back with a glass. He took a sip, swished it around in his mouth, and spat into the trash can. “More.” He drank half the glass.

“Put some of that duct tape on his mouth,” Parese said.

“I can’t do that,” Hank replied. “If he vomits again, he could choke on it.”

“So what? I don’t care if he chokes, I’d just as soon put a bullet in his head.”

“Marty, I’ve told you before: if we kill him they’ll never stop looking for us, wherever we go. It’s not like killing Bats—nobody cares about him. Stone has friends in the police, and they’d really come after us. Stone can take the five-million-dollar hit without blinking. He might even be too embarrassed to tell anybody.”

“Whatever you say, babe. Now keep feeding the machine money.”

“How much are we up to?”

“Two hundred and twenty thou.”

“God. We’ll be here until Tuesday.”

“Not that long—we’re getting the hang of it now.”

They went back to work.

Stone felt better for throwing up; his head was clear now; he could think. Trouble was, he couldn’t think of any way out of this. There were things in the office he could use, but he couldn’t move. They could do with him as they willed.

That thought made him nauseous again, but he fought it down. He took some deep breaths.

“You okay, Stone?” Hank asked.

“Just confused,” he said.

“Yes, I guess this is pretty confusing for you.”

“So, was it you and Bats or you and Marty?”

“It was always Marty,” she said. “Bats was just a schmuck.”

“Ah,” he said, “all is revealed.” He was a schmuck, too. Now all he could do was sit here and wait to find out who won the argument over whether or not to kill him.