Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“Were you then invited to the big party?”

“As I said, it was a private dinner and a private conversation. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

“Somebody posted a made-up guest list on a website this morning. Was it accurate?”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Altman.” Stone hung up.

Joan was back; she turned on Stone’s office TV and changed the channel to Fox News. A very blonde woman and three men occupied a sofa facing the camera.

“Who knows anything about this party the first lady gave last week at the Carlyle?” the blonde asked.

A young man spoke up. “I’ve talked to one person who may have been at the party, he won’t say. But while I didn’t get any names, he hinted that at least one of them was a big-time New York attorney, and several of the guests were prominent Republicans who may have voted for Will Lee last time.”

“We all know there were a few of those,” the blonde said, then moved the conversation to another subject.

Joan switched off the set. “Looks like the guy from the Times isn’t the only one on your trail,” she said, then she went back to her desk.

Stone’s private line rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. I hear Fox News is calling you a big-time New York attorney.”

“That sounds more like Bill Eggers,” Stone said. “And what are you doing watching TV at this time of the morning? You should be ashamed of yourself, wasting the city’s money that way.”

“Somebody told me about it,” Dino said defensively.

“Nah, you were watching Faux News. Bad Dino!”

“All right, I turned it on to what was said about a police shooting last night, and I just happened to hear.”

“What police shooting?”

“Sean Donnelly got popped coming out of P.J. Clarke’s in the middle of the night. He had apparently closed the place.”

“Is Sean dead?”

“No, it was a chest wound, caught a lung instead of his heart. He’ll live.”

“Who the hell would shoot a cop who’s been retired for fifteen years?”

“Good question. We’re looking at his old cases. Maybe somebody Sean put away got sprung and is holding a grudge.”

“I think I’ll send him a dozen roses,” Stone said, “just to piss him off.”

Dino laughed hard. “And don’t include a card, it will drive him nuts!”

“Where have they got him?”

“New York Hospital.”

“Consider it done.”

“You want dinner this evening? Viv’s back, and she’s always happy to see you.”

“Sure.”

“Clarke’s at eight?”

“You’re on.” Stone hung up and buzzed Joan. “Sean Donnelly caught a bullet last night. He’s at New York Hospital. Send him a dozen red roses, no card, and book me a table for three at Clarke’s, please, eight o’clock.”

“Done,” she said.

Stone picked up a stack of mail and leafed through it. An envelope with a Palm Beach, Florida, postmark caught his eye, and he opened it: a twenties-style cartoon of a man under a beach umbrella, a cocktail in one hand and a cigar in the other. Scrawled at the bottom : Good advice, thanks! J.F.

Well, Stone thought, John Fratelli can afford Palm Beach .

16

Dino Bacchetti attended a meeting at an uptown precinct, and among the subjects discussed was the shooting of Sean Donnelly.

“What’s happening with that?” Dino asked the group.

A detective spoke up. “We’re doing the obvious—checking his old cases for somebody newly out of the joint who has a grudge, but nothing yet. Donnelly’s being a bastard, won’t give us anything.”

“Why do you think he’s holding out on us?” Dino asked.

“I think he’s scared the perp will have another shot at him if he talks,” the detective replied.

The meeting broke up, and Dino got into his car and headed back downtown. Then they were passing New York Hospital, and he said to his driver, “Pull into the hospital. I want to visit somebody.”

Sean Donnelly was sitting up in bed, his left arm in a sling, disconsolately watching Fox News. He turned and saw Dino standing in the doorway, then turned back to the TV without speaking. A large vase of red roses rested on the windowsill.

“So, Sean,” Dino said, pulling up a chair to Donnelly’s bedside. “Tell me who shot you last night.”

“No idea,” Donnelly replied. “The blonde’s not bad, is she? I wouldn’t kick her out of the sack.”

“How come you’re stiffing the detectives on your case, Sean?”

“Spectacular tits, huh? Where do they find these women? You don’t see them on MSNBC—they’ve all gotta be so fucking smart over there. Either that or they’re dykes, like whatshername.”

“Sean, look at me,” Dino said.

Donnelly glanced at him, then turned back to the TV. “I’d rather look at the blonde’s tits, if it’s all the same to you, Dino.”

“I guess you retired before the department stopped us from talking like that,” Dino said. “I don’t give a shit about the blonde, I want to know who put a bullet in you.”

“Yeah? Why do you care?”

“Because I don’t want the local hit men running around taking potshots at retired police officers. The best way to stop ’em is to catch ’em. Why do I have to explain that to you?”

“What do you want, Dino? I already finished my Jell-O, so you can’t have that.”

“I told you what I want, give it to me.”

Donnelly sighed. “I was looking into an old case of mine, and I guess I got too close to somebody. Funny thing, the only guy I’ve talked to about it is your old buddy StonefuckingBarrington. Then somebody takes a shot at me. Go figure, huh?”

“Stone had nothing to do with this,” Dino said, “so don’t try and fob it off on him. Whose toes did you step on?”

“Eddie Buono’s, I guess.”

“Buono’s dead.”

“His pal Johnny Fratelli ain’t, and he just got out.”

“I hear somebody took a shot at Fratelli, too,” Dino said. “Would that be you?”

“Me? Why would I want Fratelli dead? He never did nothing to me.”

“Maybe he wants the same thing you do, and he got there first.”

“I want to solve a cold case—you think Fratelli wants that?”

“Why do you, all of a sudden, want to solve your cold case? You didn’t do anything about it for the fifteen years you’ve been retired.”

“Personal satisfaction,” Donnelly said.

“You think the money’s still out there, don’t you?”

Donnelly turned a little red in the face. “I fucking know the money’s still out there! We got Buono’s crew and most of their money, but Eddie never spent a dime of his cut, and he got half! He got busted and sentenced, less than a year after the airport job, for offing Paddy Riley, who ratted him out on an earlier gig. He weaseled out of that one, but not the Riley beef. He went up for Riley.”

“And you think Johnny Fratelli knows where the money is?”

“Look, Dino, Eddie Buono was scared shitless about getting raped in the joint. He was a pretty boy, and he just knew somebody was going to climb on him, so he hired Fratelli, who’s a big, tough guy, to keep the fags off his back. And he did, too—I talked to one of the guards on their cell block. They were cellmates for twenty-two years! Everybody was too afraid of Fratelli to make a pass at Eddie.”

“So, for that, Buono passed on the money to Fratelli?”

“He knew he was dying, what’s he gonna do, give it to the Salvation Army, in the hope of cracking the pearly gates? Them wops stuck together, or at least they did in the old days.”

Dino ignored the Italian slur. “So, where’s Fratelli? We’ll have a word with him.”