Standup Guy (Stone Barrington)

by Stuart Woods

  “Hey.”

  “Are your people working the Buono murder with Dan Sparks?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve got a suspect for you.”

  “I accept free gifts.”

  “I didn’t say it was free, it’s going to cost you a couple of dinners.”

  “Okay, one dinner—don’t get greedy.”

  “There’s a guy named Marty Parese, who was Buono’s best friend since childhood.”

  “So, your theory is that the best friend did it? Why not the butler?”

  “It’s not my theory, it’s Gino Buono’s theory—Bats’s father.”

  “Yeah? Are you and Gino best buddies these days?”

  “I didn’t say he told me.”

  “So this is what you lawyers call hearsay?”

  “In case you didn’t know, Dino, hearsay works when you’re investigating a murder, just not in a courtroom.”

  “You’re just trying to get Hank out of this, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t represent Hank, Herb Fisher does.”

  “I wonder how that happened.”

  “I recommended him, he’s good.”

  “Yeah, he is, I guess.”

  “Somebody I know thinks that Bats and Marty were in the kidnapping together, and that when I agreed to give Bats the money, Marty came running, but when he got to the cottage both Hank and the money were gone. After that, there was a disagreement.”

  “I can imagine,” Dino said.

  “There’s a theory about Bats’s head, too.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it.”

  “Marty put one into Bats’s head, then remembered he’d used his favorite gun, so he took off the head because he didn’t want anybody to find the bullet.”

  “Great. That explains all the knife wounds in Bats’s back.”

  “Marty didn’t want it to look like a shooting.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Okay, it’s good for a dinner, but it’s not that good, so you’d better order something cheap.”

  “When have you known me to order something cheap?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  They both hung up.

  Dino called the lead detective on the Buono case.

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “You ever heard of a Marty Parese?”

  “Yeah, he and Buono were partners in the chop shop. Allegedly.”

  “There’s a theory—this is about fourth-hand by now—that Parese and Buono were partners in the kidnapping, too, and when Parese got to the lake cottage and found Buono there but without the money or the girl, he put one in his head and cut off the head so we couldn’t make a ballistics match. What do you think?”

  “It does make a weird kind of sense,” the detective said. “I mean, the medical examiner says the knife wounds in Buono’s back were postmortem. We’ll pick up Parese and have a chat with him.”

  “Hey, that’s a good idea,” Dino said. “And Dan Sparks might like to have somebody there when you question him.”

  “Sure, Chief.”

  “Have a good time.” Dino hung up.

  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 yo
u 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, Harr
y. 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?”