Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“Very funny, Al.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. I believe one person has all the money, and that he’s spent it rather sparingly while he figures out how to launder it. What we’re picking up didn’t come directly from that person’s hands. We’re getting it two or three generations of spenders away from him. One guy wouldn’t be taking both an airplane and a Greyhound bus out of South Florida.”

“You have a low opinion of this case, don’t you, Al?”

“It’s just that we seem to be in a lose-lose situation. The best we can hope for is to identify the guy who has the seven million dollars from the robbery, and if we do, all we’ll do is make the FBI look smart when we turn him over, and we both know they’re not all that smart.”

“Don’t you think it would be satisfying to find the guy who has all the cash?”

“Not particularly. He couldn’t be charged with stealing it, because the guy we know stole it died a few weeks ago, and because the statute has run out on the crime. The very worst that could be done with him is a charge of receiving stolen property, and I’m not so sure that, after so long, it’s even stolen property. And that particular crime isn’t what we’re tasked to investigate. Honest to God, boss, I don’t know why you’re so enchanted with this case. I mean, it’s not even a case.” Griggs could have gone on, but he sensed he was getting very close to the edge of insubordination, so he stopped.

“Al, if you were in possession of this money, what would you do with it?”

“I’d get it into a foreign bank, pronto,” Griggs said. “Before I could spend another dime of it.”

“Where?”

“The Bahamas, maybe, or the Caymans. Then I’d begin drawing on my balance in nice, new notes and start spending it like a drunken sailor. I think it’s extremely unlikely that a foreign bank would even notice that the bills are old, and even if they did, why would they care? Pretty soon the money will be making its way around the world, from account to account and pocket to pocket. It probably already is.”

The AIC heaved a deep sigh. “All right, Al, you’ve convinced me. You’re off the case. Go find me some counterfeit money, or something.”

“Thank you, boss.” Griggs got out of there as fast as he could.

• • •

Stone got to the restaurant five minutes early, and Hank Cromwell turned up on time, in a smashing little black dress and pearls and a rather large handbag. They exchanged cheek kisses, and he liked her perfume.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“An Absolut martini, straight up, with a fistful of olives. And then another, please.”

“I’ll try to avoid gaps between drinks.”

Their drinks came, and they touched glasses and sipped.

“Are you armed tonight?” she asked.

Stone snapped his fingers. “Damn it, I forgot!”

“If somebody had fired at my front door, I’d be walking around with a shotgun,” Hank said.

“I can’t imagine where you’d hide it—certainly not in that dress.”

“I’ll bet if I carried it openly, nobody would bother me.”

“Nobody but one or more police officers.”

“Well, there is that. I did go armed for a while, during one period of my life.”

“What period of your life was that?”

“The period when I was endeavoring to obtain a complete and final exit from the company of an Italian gentleman who had a lot of friends with broken noses and bulges under their silk suits.”

“And how long did that period last?”

“About seven months, before he finally got discouraged. He was very persistent.”

“How on earth did you become involved with him?”

“Well,” she said, “I met him at the bar at P.J. Clarke’s. How about that for a coincidence?”

Stone laughed. “You must spend a lot of time at Clarke’s.”

“Been there exactly twice—met him the first time and you the second. I’m hoping for better from you.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

She patted his cheek with a cool hand. “You’re sweet.”

“How did you find out the Italian guy was connected?”

“Connected?”

“A Mafioso.”

“It took me a little while, actually. He told me he was in the auto parts business, but I didn’t realize the parts were all secondhand and that he was running something called a chop shop in Red Hook, Brooklyn. Still is, for all I know.”

“Would it make you happy if I had him arrested?”

“I thought you were no longer a cop.”

“I’m not, but my best friend in the world is. Would you like me to mention his name to Dino?”

She looked thoughtful. “I must admit, the notion of his being behind bars has a lot to recommend it, but the possible consequences don’t. I’d have to testify against him, wouldn’t I?”

“Did you ever visit his place of business?”

“No, I finally just put two and two together. He used only cash, no credit cards or checks, and he peeled it off a roll the size of your fist, which was secured with a rubber band. And, as an afterthought, there was the .45 in the shoulder holster.”

“Then you wouldn’t make much of a witness,” Stone said, “since you don’t know anything. He could be just an honest businessman with an unreasoning fear of the IRS and other people with guns. Still, the cops could nose around Red Hook and see what they find.”

“I’m sure they’d find a garage full of Porsche and Mercedes hulks. That was what he drove, and it was never the same car twice.”

“Who was this guy?”

“One Onofrio Buono,” she said. “Known as Bats, and not because he was crazy.”

“Buono is a familiar name,” Stone said.

“He’s the only one of those I ever met.”

“A gentleman of the same surname, one Eduardo Buono, led a heist at Kennedy Airport a long time ago, during which fifteen million dollars in cash abruptly changed ownership. Half of it was never recovered, and the elder Mr. Buono died in prison quite recently. Any of that ring a bell?”

“Not really. I mean, I suppose Bats had a father named Buono, but he hardly ever came up in conversation.”

“Can you remember a time when he did?”

“Bats mentioned, once, that his father used to beat the shit out of his mother, a trait that I came to believe was genetically handed down from generation to generation.”

“Was he abusive to you?”

“Just once. He slapped me around early one evening, and I got him slapped in jail for the remainder of it. I immediately took a two-week vacation to nowhere, and my car drove itself to an island in Maine. It was in February, and it wasn’t much fun.

“When I got back there were a lot of dead flowers on my doorstep and a lot of unopened mail spattered with teardrops. That was when the persistence began, followed shortly by the obtaining of a temporary restraining order that was meant to keep him at least a hundred yards from me but, of course, didn’t work, resulting in two further visits to Rikers Island by Mr. Buono.”

“How did you finally get rid of him?”

“I had him visited in jail by a very large actor friend of mine, who specialized in portraying murderous hulks, and who explained to him what would happen to his various limbs and his brains if he did not immediately fall out of love with me.”

“And that worked?”

“From what I heard later, it was my friend’s finest work as an actor, a performance so convincing that it would surely have won him, in a different venue than Rikers, an Oscar nomination.”

Their dinner arrived and was happily consumed. “Are you armed?” Stone asked at one point.

“Not tonight.”

“Then what’s in the giant handbag?”

“A fresh thong and a change of clothes for work tomorrow. I thought I might share your bed tonight, if there’s room.”