by Stuart Woods
“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.
30
Dino and Viv showed up for drinks at the appointed time, as was their wont, let themselves into the house with Dino’s key, and entered the study, where Stone was reading a book. He looked up as they entered, then got up and built them drinks.
Dino glanced at his watch. “Turn on the TV,” he said. “Channel Two news. We’ve got about a minute.”
Stone picked up the remote and tuned it. “What are we looking for?”
“It will be self-explanatory,” Dino said.
Everybody settled down to watch, and a moment later an anchorman appeared, after a story about a dog who had saved a cat from drowning.
“A little more than an hour ago,” he said, “the NYPD raided premises in Brooklyn that turned out to be a very large chop shop, which is where stolen vehicles are taken to be dismantled and have their parts sold.” The screen changed to a helicopter shot of a huge steel shed surrounded by vehicles with flashing lights and men and women in armored vests. “The shop housed more than thirty vehicles, all German cars, like Porsches and Mercedeses, and is said by locals to have been in operation for at least two years, disguised as an auto repair establishment.” The camera switched to an indoor shot, showing a pile of multicolored fenders stacked like saucers. “Just pick one the color of your Mercedes and buy at a very significant discount from the dealer’s price. The alleged owner of the shop was not present for the raid, but is being sought for an interview by police.”
“Okay, you can cut it off now,” Dino said.
Stone switched from the TV to some light jazz. “Well,” he said, “I’m afraid I’m going to get the credit for your raid, and from all the wrong people.”
“You mean us? You sure get the credit there. Donatello went out there and bought a Porsche alternator for a hundred bucks. You got any idea what that would cost new?”
“I don’t know, five hundred?”
“More like a thousand. We put that raid together in less than four hours. What were you talking about, ‘credit from the wrong people’?”
Stone took his recorder from his pocket, set it on the coffee table, and switched it on, replaying his conversation with Bats Buono. When it was finished, he switched it off. “I didn’t record the part where I said if he messed with me I’d blow his head off.”
“So he’s going to think that you set up the raid! That’s hilarious!”
“Well, I guess I’m responsible for it, but I sure as hell didn’t set it up. You’ve certainly done wonders for my credibility with a certain segment of the community, Dino, but not a hell of a lot for my peace of mind.”
“I’ll put a car on you for a week,” Dino said. “How’s that? Or would you rather just get out of town?”
“I’ve been thinking about spending some time in London,” Stone said. “Looks like it might be the right moment.”
“Good move.”
“You’ll call me when you’ve bagged Buono?”
“Sure.”
They chatted for a while longer, then, at the appointed hour, went down to the kitchen, where Hank Cromwell was just finishing setting the table. “Array yourselves,” she said, “and we’ll dine.”
Everyone sat down, and a moment later, plates with sautéed fresh foie gras and sliced figs were set before them. There was much smacking of lips and many ooohs and aaahs around the table. Stone went to the wine cabinet and came back with a bottle of Le Montrachet, 1978, and opened it. Everyone sipped.
“The perfect companion to my dish,” Hank said. “Wherever did you come by that?”
“It was the gift of my Parisian friend, Marcel duBois,” Stone said, “along with some other grand bottles, one of which we’ll have with our main course.”
They polished off the foie gras in short order, and finished the wine while Hank put the finishing touches on the main course, which turned out to be a poularde, a
fat, older hen, in a champagne sauce. Stone selected a bottle of Château Palmer, 1961, decanted it, and poured Dino a sip.
“Never had anything that good before,” Dino said, “unless it was the white wine.”
“Another perfect accompaniment,” Hank said, serving the chicken. “From your French friend?”
“Yes, indeed, and there’s a dessert wine to come.”
It took them the better part of an hour, what with conversation and seconds, to get through the main course, then Hank served a crème brûlée, after sealing the sugar top with a chef’s blowtorch. The crust was so thick, Stone had to hammer on it with a large spoon to break through. He served them a half bottle of Château Coutet, 1959, with the dessert.
Finally, over coffee and a vintage cognac, Stone played the recording of his conversation with Buono for Hank.
“My goodness,” Hank said, breathless, when she had heard it. “I don’t think anyone has ever spoken to him that way.”
“There was a little more from my end,” Stone said, “but I didn’t record it, in case it ever is played in court.”
“Was my name mentioned?” she asked.
“No, it was not. He has no idea we know each other.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Hank said. “After all, I may be the only civilian he’s told about the chop shop.”
“Then we shouldn’t be seen together for a while,” Stone said. “I have to go to London tomorrow on business, so that takes care of me. Now we have to take care of you.”
“I’ll put a police car on you until we’ve bagged Buono,” Dino said.
“That would be a great relief. And I won’t have to testify?”
“I think Stone’s tape will cover it for the DA.”
“Hank,” Viv said, changing the subject, “I’d ask you for the recipes for everything we had tonight, but I’d never find the time to prepare it all. Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“From my mother and Julia Child, and an Englishwoman named Elizabeth David, who wrote wonderful cookbooks.”
“You certainly learned well. You could easily be a pro.”
“I wouldn’t find that fun,” she said, “doing it every day for strangers. I prefer doing it occasionally for people I like.”
“We’re always available for that,” Viv said.
“Hank, pardon my asking, but are you staying the night with Stone?” Dino asked.
“Yes,” Stone answered for her.
“What time do you go to work?”
“At eight.”
“Then there’ll be an unmarked police car outside at that hour, and he will transport you to and from work and wherever else you need to go, until Mr. Buono is safely locked up.”
“Thank you, Dino.”
• • •
Later, in bed, Stone and Hank showed their gratitude to each other for good food and police protection.
31
The following morning at seven-thirty, Stone walked out his front door and had a look up and down the block. An unmarked car waited at the curb, idling, two men in the front seat. He saw no threat, so he went and got Hank, kissed her, and put her into the backseat. “I’ll be back in a few days, maybe a week, and I’ll call you then,” he said. The car drove away.
Joan backed Stone’s Bentley out of the garage, and he put his luggage in the trunk. She drove him to JFK while he leafed through the Times. There was a report on the Red Hook raid of Buono’s chop shop, and Stone savored every detail. He made the morning flight to London and managed to get in a nap to replace some of the sleep he had lost by rising so early. His flight picked up a brisk tailwind across the Atlantic, and he was at Heathrow by eight-thirty PM, London time.
As he left customs with his luggage cart, he saw a chauffeur holding a card with his name on it. Shortly, he was in the backseat of a large Mercedes, on his way into the city.
He arrived at Emma Tweed’s house in Holland Park, an elegant neighborhood with large houses, and the chauffeur carried in his luggage, while Emma kissed him, took his coat, and walked him into the kitchen, where she served him a light supper of cold meats and a salad. He stayed up as late as he could, so that he would get a good night’s sleep and temper the jet lag, then they went to bed.
“You’re too tired to take me on tonight,” Emma said. “Sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Take this,” she said, handing him a small pill.
He took it and was asleep in minutes.
• • •
He awoke in a bedroom darkened by drawn curtains, with no idea what time it was. He got out of bed and drew the curtains and was nearly knocked down by the brilliant sunshine streaming in. When his eyesight recovered, he found a clock that told him it was after ten AM.
He showered and shaved and then felt not so fuzzy around the edges. He was getting dressed when his cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Good morning, Stone, it’s Evelyn Throckmorton.”
“Good morning, Evelyn.”
“I hope you had a good flight and a good night’s sleep.”
“I had both, thanks.” It was unlike the crusty ex-cop to be so solicitous.
“May I take you to lunch today, if you’ve no plans?”
“Of course.”
“Do you know the Grenadier, in Wilton Row, Belgravia?”
“I do. It’s my favorite pub.”
“May we meet there at one PM?”
“Perfect.”
“See you then.” Throckmorton hung up.
Stone made himself some toast and coffee and read the London papers, which Emma had left on the kitchen table. She rang him later in the morning.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, I’ve been up for an hour or so.”
“Can you entertain yourself for the rest of the day?”
“Sure. In fact, Throckmorton has invited me to lunch.”
“Good. I should be home around six. Did you bring a dinner jacket, as requested?”
“I did.”
“Then we’ll be having dinner at the home of friends at eight. Try and get a nap in this afternoon, so you can stay on your feet.”
“I’ll do that.”
They both hung up.
• • •
Throckmorton was already seated at a table in the small dining room of the Grenadier when Stone arrived. They shook hands, and Stone ordered half a pint of bitter ale.
“You drink our stuff, do you?” the ex-cop asked.
“Helps me acclimate,” Stone replied.
“I want to thank you for recommending me to Mrs. Tweed.”
“You’re very welcome, and thank you for solving her problem so swiftly.”
“It was our Russian friends, in Paris, stealing her designs,” Throckmorton said. “I understand you’ve had some dealings with them in the States.”
“I’m afraid that’s correct,” Stone said. “And I hope I’ve heard the last of them.”
“One can hope. From what I hear, you have new friends to play with, in New York.”
“What do you hear?”
“Some fellow named Buono?”
“You have excellent hearing.”
“I had occasion to speak to your friend Dino. Good job, his getting the big promotion to chief of detectives.”
“Yes. I believe he’s enjoying it. Did he call you?”
“T’other way ’round. I called him to get your number. When I called your office, your secretary wouldn’t give it to me.”
“I’m sorry about that, Evelyn. Joan is a tough gatekeeper.”
They ordered lunch from a short menu.
“How long will you be in London?”
“A few days.”
“Dino wanted you out of town, it seems.”
“Yes.”
> “I’m not sure you’re much better off over here,” Throckmorton said.
“And why would that be?” Stone asked.
“During my investigation of Mrs. Tweed’s problem, I had occasion to spend a day in Paris, and I visited a well-placed acquaintance in the Prefect of Police. Your name came up.”
“I’m surprised to hear that,” Stone said.
“You were there last year and had some dealings with them, I believe.”
“That’s true.”
“My acquaintance there is leading an investigation of Russian Mob elements operating in Paris, and as a result, did some wiretapping. Your name was being bandied about as being connected to the death of a man named Majorov, one of their own.”
“I’m extremely sorry to hear that,” Stone said. “My name being bandied about, I mean. Do you have any further information?”
“Just that these fellows seem to blame you, somehow. There were no further details.”
“Majorov was in Los Angeles, trying to force me to let him into the hotel business that I’m involved with out there. I read of his death in the New York Times. A heart attack aboard his private jet, I believe, Moscow. How could they possibly think I was involved?”
“Apparently, they believe his heart attack was instigated.”
“And they believe I instigated it?”
“Apparently. Or that you instigated the instigator.”
“Good God!” Never mind that it was true; the Russians weren’t supposed to expect it.
“Well, yes. I think you should be on your guard while you’re on this side of the Pond.”
“I’m unarmed on this side of the Pond,” Stone said.
“And you will have to remain so. See those two gentlemen in the bar? Blue suits, white socks?”
Stone looked over his shoulder. “Yes.”
“They are not unarmed, and one or more of their number will be around while you’re here. They are the first staffers of my new investigative service, which I have started with the proceeds of my work for Mrs. Tweed. They are here with my compliments.”
“Thank you, Evelyn. I hope they won’t turn out to be necessary.”
“In my experience, the Russians have long memories, extending over generations. Once crossed, they remain crossed.”