Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“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.