Текст книги "Standup Guy"

Автор книги: Stuart Woods

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

21

Onofrio “Bats” Buono, whose sobriquet arose from his wanton use of that instrument when collecting debts, took the call in the little office behind the chop shop he ran in Red Hook, Brooklyn. “Hey, Vinnie,” he said. “What’s the temperature down there?”

“Eighty degrees, Bats. The tempachur is always eighty degrees down here. I hope you’re freezing your ass off up there.”

“It’s pretty good here, Vinnie.”

“Bats, I heard something on the grapevine about the lost proceeds of your uncle Eddie’s job out at JFK, and I thought you might want to hear it.”

Bats’s blood pressure spiked for just a moment, and his breathing got short. “Yeah, sure, Vinnie.”

“Let’s be straight about this, Bats—if I do something that would help you recover that jack, I would expect to be generously compensated for my assistance.”

“That goes without saying,” Bats replied.

“No, it needed saying, and I said it.”

“Whatcha got, Vinnie?”

“I got a series 1966 C-note, the one with the red seal, that’s what I got.”

“Well, I’m real happy for you, Vinnie. Let me know when you find the other eight million, and we’ll talk.”

“You don’t seem to entirely get what I’m saying to you, Bats.”

“You got a C-note, right?”

“There’s more where this one came from.”

“Which is where?”

“I’m working on that. My theory is that we took it in payment for vigorish or a lost bet.”

“From who did you take it?”

“I’m working on that, too.”

“Did you hear that Johnny Fratelli is out there somewhere?”

“No shit? Did he bust out?”

“Nah, he served his sentence. Him and Uncle Eddie were tight, you know, for all that time in the joint.”

“You said he’s out there ‘somewhere.’ Can you tighten that up for me?”

“Well, if you were just out of the joint, and you had got your hands on big money, and people were shooting at you in New York, where would you go?”

“Vegas?”

“People in Vegas got a different set of bookies, Vinnie. How about Miami?”

“That makes sense.”

“Then get something going down there, will you? Fratelli knows a lot of people from the old days.”

“I’ll look into it,” Vinnie said.

“Call me.” Bats hung up.

Vinnie dialed a cell phone number.

“Yeah?”

“Where are you, Manny?”

“At Hialeah, where I’m supposed to be.”

“I got a call.”

“I get calls all the time, Vinnie, so do you.”

“This one was from New York, concerning one Johnny Fratelli. Know him?”

“I knew him in the joint fifteen years ago. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“That’s not what my caller said. He’s likely down here somewhere, and I want to talk to him.”

“What about?”

“Business.”

“Oh.”

“Put the word out with your people—I want Fratelli in my office, and there’s ten grand for anybody who can bring him here, unbruised.”

“Sure, Vinnie, I’ll spread the word.” Manny hung up. This was interesting, he thought. Nobody alive could remember the last time Vinnie paid anybody ten grand for doing anything, including murder. He called his own office.

“Consolidated Digital,” a voice said.

“It’s me. You know that weekly fifty grand we’re paying out?”

“Yeah.”

“When’s the next delivery?”

“Next Tuesday, but we’re not delivering, we’re wiring from offshore to offshore.”

“Where was the last delivery made?”

“At a Burger King up on I-95, around Delray, last Tuesday.”

“What’s this about wiring?”

“The guy handed the delivery boy an envelope with wiring instructions. It had to be from one of our offshore accounts.”

“Where’s the receiving account?”

“Hard to say. The nearest would be the Caymans.”

“So we’ve lost touch with the guy?”

“Looks that way. We don’t have any more appointments to keep, just wires to send.”

“Don’t send the next one,” Manny said. “Not until you get the go-ahead from me, personally.”

“Whatever you say, Manny.”

Both men hung up.

• • •

Not twenty miles from Hialeah, an FBI agent took off his headphones and made a phone call to his boss in the Miami field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Bob Alberts.”

“Sir, I picked up something interesting on the Vinnie Caputo wire. I thought you might like to hear it.”

“How long is it?”

“Five minutes, tops—two calls, both outgoing, one to a Brooklyn number, the other to a South Florida cell phone.”

“Okay, play it.”

The agent backed up the digital recorder and pressed the PLAY button. The recording played. “Get all that?”

“Yeah, I got it all. Send the recording to my in-box.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bob Alberts hung up the phone and spent a couple of minutes tapping his nails on his desk while he thought. Then he got a stack of his old notebooks from a desk drawer and started flipping through them. It took ten minutes to find the number, then he dialed.

“Harry Moss,” an elderly voice said.

“Hello, Harry, it’s Bob Alberts. How are you doing?”

“Well, Bobbie. Long time.”

“How’s the world treating you?”

“I’m eating a corned beef sandwich out by the pool, that’s how it’s treating me.”

“Life is sweet, huh?”

“You bet your ass, Bob. Why the hell are you wasting your time calling me when you should be out solving crimes?”

“Something came up about an old case of yours.”

“How cold?”

“Twenty-five years, give or take. The JFK robbery?”

“What the hell came up about that?”

“How much was stolen?”

“Fifteen million. We got about half of it back, but the brains behind it, a guy named Eddie Buono, died in prison recently, and we never saw a dime of it. What have you heard?”

“We picked up something on a wiretap about a series 1966 hundred-dollar bill, and the guy we’re tapping connected it to that robbery. He called somebody in Brooklyn about it. Was there a guy named Fratelli involved?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. I mean, I remember something about a guy named Fratelli, but he was never connected to the robbery.”

“I don’t know about that, but on our wiretap it was said that a John Fratelli was in Sing Sing with Buono for a long time, and that he recently got out. The Italian gentlemen in New York are looking for him. What do you remember about Fratelli?”

“Let’s see: six-four, two-fifty, a real ox. Had a fearsome rep as an enforcer. People were so scared of him they nearly always did what he said or answered what he asked. He hardly ever had to use force.”

“How old would he be?”

“Jeez, fifty, fifty-five, maybe.”

“Can you think of anything about him that would help us find him?”

“Come on, Bob, what’s going on?”

“I think he might have the money, or some of it, that you never recovered.”

“Where do you think he might be?”

“Maybe South Florida. Where might he hang out?”

“Jeez, I don’t know. Where those guys always hang out: the track, some bar somewhere.”

“That’s it, huh? Nothing else?”

“I been retired ten years, Bob. You must have somebody fresher than me to ask.”

“Okay, Harry, go back to your corned beef sandwich.”

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Bye, Harry.”

“Bye, Bob.”

• • •

Harry Moss hung up the phone in a sweat. He had seen Johnny Fratelli in a Burger King less than a week ago, wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, a straw hat, and dark glasses, but he had recognized him. He hadn’t put a name to the guy until now.

22

Jack Coulter, née John Fratelli, checked his image in the mirror before leaving his apartment. He had lost twenty pounds since leaving prison, ten of them since buying his Brooks Brothers suits. He was going to need a tailor. His hair was growing out nicely, now merely short, not skin on the sides, and he had started a mustache, which was not a problem for a man who had to shave twice a day to avoid a five o’clock shadow. A few days before, he had noticed a difficulty with reading the newspaper, so he had visited an optometrist and had been prescribed glasses. They gave him a whole new look, he thought, and the advantage of clear vision.

Fratelli met his dinner hosts at the entrance to the Breakers, where he was introduced to Hillary Foote, who was much more attractive than he had envisioned. She was tall, slim, and shapely in the right places, mid-forties. The Carnagys’ antique Rolls-Royce from the fifties collected them and drove them to the Brazilian Court Hotel and its restaurant, Boulud.

Hillary turned out to be smart and funny. She had been divorced a year before and also lived at the Breakers.

“I assume you’re retired, Jack,” she said. “What did you do when you had to work for a living?”

“I was an entrepreneur,” Fratelli replied, “until about ten years ago, when I sold a number of small businesses and became an investor. Now I just loaf. I’m thinking of taking up golf, in fact, as I understand that’s what loafers do.”

“In that case, I’m the biggest loafer you know. I play to an eight handicap.”

Fratelli had no idea what an eight handicap was, but he made a mental note to find out.

“How was your trip to the Bahamas?” Winston Carnagy asked him.

“Very nice indeed,” Fratelli replied, adding a small wink for emphasis.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Carnagy said, smiling.

“Hillary,” Fratelli said, “would you teach me to play golf?”

She laughed. “If I tried to do that, we’d hate each other in no time. What you need is a golf pro. Ask the concierge at the Breakers to set up some lessons for you at their course. Then, after you feel comfortable with the way you’re hitting the ball, we’ll play together.”

“Playing with you is a worthy goal.”

They chatted on through their excellent dinner; Winston and Elizabeth hardly got a word in, except to give Fratelli the name of Winston’s local tailor.

• • •

That night, having delivered Hillary to her door, Fratelli got into bed and reflected on his circumstances. He had traveled to a state he had never before visited, dressed in the sort of clothes he had never worn; he had bought an apartment in the kind of hotel he had seen only from the outside; he had an offshore bank account and a substantial weekly income from his investment with the loan shark. Thinking about that brought him up short.

Manny Millman was the only person from his past who knew he was in Florida, though he knew not where and under what circumstances. Manny and his deliveryman, whom he had met at the Burger King, were the only people who had laid eyes on him and who thus might become a problem for him. But neither knew he was in Palm Beach, so they should not be difficult to avoid. He would have to stay away from the tracks, though, and other places where he might run into them.

He had good friends in the Carnagys, and Winston had become his model for speech and behavior in this new world. And Hillary Foote showed much promise as a pleasing companion.

He needed more social gifts, though, and golf might be one of them. He would have to look into tennis, too. He had been athletic in high school, playing football and basketball. It would be interesting to see how the athletic gift would translate into more sociable sports.

• • •

Harry Moss got in line at the Burger King off I-95 and had a look around. The place was only a couple of miles from where he lived, in Delray Beach, and this was his third day running having lunch here, hoping for sight of Johnny Fratelli.

He had used everything at his disposal—the Internet, a search of Florida phone books for the name, he had even tried Facebook—but no Johnny Fratelli had turned up. His only hope had been the Burger King. Who knew? Maybe Fratelli was addicted to the double bacon cheeseburger. He ate his own cheeseburger and searched the restaurant over and over. He saw one man of the right size, but he was Hispanic.

• • •

John Fratelli presented himself at the Breakers golf club and was introduced to a kid of about twenty-two, who was supposed to teach him golf. What could a kid of that age teach anybody?

Quite a lot, as it turned out. The boy had a beautiful, liquid swing, and by the end of their first hour together, he had Fratelli hitting his irons nicely. He asked for another lesson after lunch, then got himself a sandwich in the clubhouse.

He liked the atmosphere; the players, mostly men, chatted amiably with one another, and he picked up snippets of golf lore as he listened.

During his second lesson, they started on the woods, and Fratelli found the driver challenging. Still, he had a good teacher.

When they were done, the boy—Terry—complimented him on his swing. “You know,” Terry said, “most of the people I instruct have played the game for a while, and I have to straighten out their bad habits. You don’t have any bad habits, and you’re a natural athlete, with a natural swing. If we can do two hours a day together, I’ll have you playing pretty good duffer golf in a couple of weeks.”

“I’ve got the time, Terry, schedule me now.”

“Tomorrow morning we’ll play nine holes and start to work on club selection and strategy.”

“I place myself in your hands,” Fratelli said.

• • •

Alvin Griggs walked into the clubhouse at Hialeah and asked for Manny Millman. He was directed to a man dressed in a seersucker suit and a golf shirt, with a large pair of binoculars, sitting at a table with a good view of the track, eating a club sandwich. He walked over and, uninvited, sat down.

“Hi, Manny,” Griggs said.

“We know each other?” Manny replied, wariness in his voice.

“No, and if we have a successful conversation, we are unlikely to meet again.”

“You’re a cop.”

“Federal,” Griggs said, “My name is Al Griggs, but I won’t flash a badge. It wouldn’t be good for your reputation in this setting.”

“I appreciate the courtesy,” Manny said. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to have a chat with John Fratelli.”

Manny was stunned to hear that name again, but he did a good job of screwing up his face and seeming ignorant. “Fratelli? I knew a guy by that name in the joint, but that was a long time ago. Last time I heard anything about him, he was dead.”

Griggs smiled. “Nice try, Manny,” he said. “But you’re not a good enough actor.” Griggs had no idea if Manny knew anything, but he had decided to treat him as if he did and was holding out.

“I got no reason to hold out on you, Mr. Griggs,” Manny said.

Griggs reached into a pocket and pulled out a page he had printed from the Internet, in color. “This is a series 1966 hundred-dollar bill,” he said. “Note the red seal. Seen anything like that lately?”

Manny took a close look at the page, then shook his head. “It’s just a C-note,” he said. “I see them all the time.”

“Yes, but not with the red seal.” Griggs produced a business card and slid it across the table. “If you come across a note like this, and especially if you see Johnny Fratelli again, I’d like to hear about it. There could be a substantial reward in it for you.”

“Mr. Griggs, I think you’re chasing a dead guy, but if I see any money like that, I’ll give you a call.”

Griggs thanked him and left.

• • •

Manny sat and watched him go. This Fratelli thing was beginning to be annoying. He got out his cell phone and called his bookkeeper.

“Yes?”

“It’s Manny.”

“Hey, Manny.”

“You remember I gave you a million a short while ago?”

“A fella remembers a thing like that.”

“How did you distribute it?”

“I shipped all of it to the Singapore bank.”

“Did you retain any of the money I gave you?”

“A payout on a long shot came across my desk, twenty grand. I may have used some of it for that.”

“But the rest went to Singapore?”

“It did, and I can prove it if I have to. Go online and look at the bank statement. You’ll see the deposit.”

“I’ll do that. What was the name of the big winner?”

“Hang on a sec, I’ll see.” He came back after a pause. “Howard Silver. He’s a regular at Hialeah.”

“Thanks.” So there was twenty grand in hot hundreds floating around out there, and Howard Silver, whom he knew by sight, had it.

23

John Fratelli awoke the following morning, and something was nagging at him in the back of his mind. It came to him: IRS. He showered and dressed and had his first shave of the day, then he called New York on his throwaway cell phone.

“Woodman & Weld, Mr. Barrington’s office.”

“Good morning, this is John Fratelli. May I speak to Mr. Barrington, please?”

“One moment, I’ll see if he’s free.”

“Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington, it’s John Fratelli. How are you?”

“Mr. Fratelli, I’m fine. You sound different.”

“Perhaps so. I have a legal question for you, a hypothetical one: how would a person recently out of sight for many years avoid having the Internal Revenue Service made aware of his presence?”

“Does this hypothetical person have a Social Security number or has he filed returns in the past?”

“He has never had an SSN, nor has he ever filed.”

“Then he should not apply for one, unless he seeks employment, in which case he might want to give some thought to a new identity.”

“I see. What else should he avoid?”

“Any sort of transaction requiring a Social Security number: opening a bank account, for instance, or applying for a loan, opening a department store or gas credit card. All sorts of businesses these days require a Social Security number. Of course, he could decline to divulge that number, because it’s technically private information. That might work with opening a bank account, but not when applying for credit. A lender would deny his application.”

“What about income?”

“Everyone is required to file an annual tax return, Mr. Fratelli, listing income from any source.”

“And if one doesn’t file?”

“Then they would have no reason to come after him, unless someone had reported his status to them. If this person had, for instance, not filed a tax return during his, ah, absence from society, the IRS would have no knowledge of him. Once he filed, though, they would know him forever.”

“Then perhaps he should avoid coming to the attention of the IRS.”

“That would be my advice, hypothetically.”

“Thank you. I’ll send payment for your services.”

“Please, no more hundred-dollar bills.”

“You object to cash?”

“I object to out-of-date cash. I had a visit from the Secret Service after I deposited those hundreds. They’re series 1966 and out of circulation. You can tell by the red seal on the bills.”

“What did you tell the Secret Service?”

“Substantially nothing: attorney-client confidentiality.”

“That was the right thing to do. I’ll send you a cashier’s check.”

“Mr. Fratelli, please don’t bother. You’ve more than compensated me for my time already. By the way, you should know that the Secret Service are not the only people interested in your existence and whereabouts. I had a visit from a retired police detective named Sean Donnelly, who investigated a crime committed at JFK airport some years ago.”

“But you told him nothing?”

“Correct. You should also know that, shortly after visiting me, Donnelly was shot while leaving P.J. Clarke’s in the wee hours of the morning.”

“Killed?”

“No, just winged. He’ll be up and around soon, and as far as I know, he remains interested in your whereabouts.”

“Any word on who shot Donnelly?”

“No, but my assumption is it’s probably whoever ventilated your suitcase. If I were you I would find a way to exchange your funds for new funds.”

“I have already done so.”

“Have you spent any more of the hundred-dollar bills?”

“Yes, I’ve paid my living expenses, but I’ve made an investment which brings me a weekly return, so I won’t be needing to do that anymore.”

“How much of a return, out of curiosity?” Barrington asked.

“Five percent a week.”

“Did you say a week?”

“Yes.”

“So, you have loaned to . . . a lender. How much?”

“One very large bill.”

Barrington made a sucking sound through his teeth. “Mr. Fratelli, this is not good. Those hundred-dollar bills will not go unnoticed by the organization employing your lender, and I fear that you may have more to fear from them than from the IRS.”

“That’s good advice, but I believe things are under control. I’ve settled in a comfortable spot, and they are not aware of my location or my new name.”

“Yes, I noticed the postmark on your card. You’ll want to watch that sort of thing.”

“You’re quite right, I was careless, and I won’t be again. Thank you for your advice, Mr. Barrington.”

“Did you take my advice on acquiring a throwaway cell phone?”

“Yes, I did. I’m speaking on it.”

“You might want to give me that number, in case I hear from any of your old acquaintances. Somebody has already fired a shotgun at my front door.”

“I’m extremely sorry to hear that. Here’s my number.” Fratelli dictated it to him.

“I won’t call unless I fear that you are in jeopardy.”

“Thank you, and goodbye.”

“Goodbye and good luck.”

Both men hung up

Fratelli thought about this for a few minutes, then he took up his throwaway cell phone and called Manny Millman.

“This is Manny.”

“This is John Fratelli.”

“Hey, Johnny, how’s it going?”

“I’m getting feedback about some certain C-notes.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard something about that.”

“How did you dispose of the cash I gave you?”

“It was shipped to an offshore bank account the day after you gave it to me.”

“All of it? Don’t lie to me, Manny.”

“Apparently, twenty thousand of it was paid to a punter who had a long shot come in. I just heard, and I’m going to recover whatever he has left and send it out of the country.”

“A very good idea,” Fratelli said.

“But at least some of it is floating around out there. And, Johnny, I had a visit from a Secret Service guy.”

“Asking about the C-notes?”

“Asking about you. I told him I thought you were dead.”

“Stick with that story,” Fratelli said.

“I will, and, Johnny, your request is being honored to transfer your weekly vigorish from offshore account to offshore account.”

“Very good.”

“How can I get in touch with you, Johnny, if anything else should come up?”

“You can’t. I’ve left the state and made myself at home elsewhere.”

“You’re sure there’s not a number?”

“Okay, I’ll give you a throwaway cell phone.” He dictated the number. “Memorize that, Manny, then burn it.”

“Johnny, like I told you before, I’m grateful to you for your help when I was in the joint with you. I won’t rat you out.”

“Thank you, Manny.” Fratelli hung up.

Manny got up from his table and started walking the Hialeah clubhouse, looking for Howard Silver.