Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“Then you tell me why we’re interested at all, sir.”

“Because we’re curious and, at the moment, a little underworked. And we get points with Justice for alerting the FBI to these things.”

“Well, if the regional AIC gets wind of this, I’ll refer him to you,” Griggs said.

“You do that, Al.”

• • •

The engines of the Beech Baron stopped, and John Fratelli stepped out of the airplane onto the wing, then down to the ground. The pilot followed him and retrieved his large duffel from the rear of the airplane.

“I’ll be two or three hours,” Fratelli told the young man. “You might want to get some lunch somewhere.” He wheeled his duffel into the terminal and out the front door and got into one of the waiting taxis. He gave the driver the name of the bank, then sat back and enjoyed the ride.

• • •

His business at the bank took less than an hour, and he left with a thick envelope filled with crisp, new hundred-dollar bills, an account number, a bank statement, a debit card with only a number on it, and an empty duffel. He took a stroll down the main street of Georgetown and found an elegant men’s shop, where he bought some Bermuda shorts, some short-sleeved shirts, and other resort wear. He packed them into his duffel, just in case some customs agent got curious about why he was traveling with an empty bag.

Late in the afternoon, he returned to his Nassau hotel, then booked a charter flight back to Palm Beach the following morning. He did a little shopping in the town, getting a good deal on a gold Rolex and paying with his debit card, just to try it out. No problem. Back in his room he threw away the leather box the Rolex came in, along with the warranty and instruction book, after he had read it. He would travel with the watch in his pocket, not on his wrist, and not bother to declare it with U.S. Customs.

• • •

The following day he arrived at Palm Beach International and walked into customs.

“Did you buy anything while you were out of the country?” the agent asked him.

“Yes, ma’am, I bought some Cuban cigars, which I smoked, and a few clothes.” He paid duty on the clothes, then took a cab back to the Breakers. A note had been slid under the door.

John, it read, Elizabeth and I would be delighted if you could join us for dinner tomorrow evening. Her niece, Hillary Foote, will also join us. It was signed Winston . Fratelli phoned Carnagy and accepted.

• • •

The following morning he went into the sales office at the Breakers and made an offer for his suite. After a little haggling the deal was done, and he called the Cayman bank and ordered the funds wired to the hotel’s account.

Now, for the first time in more than twenty years, Fratelli had a home that didn’t have bars on the windows. And with a view that didn’t include a wall or barbed wire.

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.”