Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

Clearly, Harry had better taste than Fratelli, so perhaps the Breakers would be a bit of a stretch for an ex-con with seven million dollars and no sense of style. Where else might one look for such a person? What would he buy, besides clothes? He drove out Okefenokee Drive, where all the car dealerships were. What would a guy who had just been sprung after twenty-two years think was a top-notch ride? He turned into the Cadillac dealership and had a stroll around the place, fending off salespeople as he went. Nah. Cadillacs weren’t big enough anymore.

He tried the Mercedes dealership, with similar results. Then he had it: Rolls-Royce! A guy with seven million bucks stashed away could afford a Rolls! He continued out Okefenokee until he spotted the dealership. Here, he had no problem fending off salespeople because they either ignored him or looked right through him. His stroll was short, and he was soon back in his Toyota. As he waited at the exit for the traffic to subside enough to let him in, a black Lincoln Town Car turned into the dealership and drove past him, its windows black. Harry made his turn and headed back toward Delray Beach.

• • •

Fratelli and Hillary sat in air-conditioned comfort in the rear seat of a Breakers town car and watched the dealership hove into view. As they turned in, they narrowly missed a gray Toyota leaving the lot. The driver stopped outside the showroom and leaped out of the car to open Hillary’s door.

“We’ll be a few minutes,” Fratelli said to the man, and a salesman was there to open the door to the showroom for them.

“Yes, sir, ma’am, how may I help you?”

“A Bentley, perhaps,” Fratelli said.

“Normally, our sales are by order,” the man said, “but as it happens, we have two new Bentleys on the showroom floor.” He indicated two cars. “A Mulsanne, which is our larger model, and a Flying Spur, which, though still a large car, is more compact.”

Fratelli had been on the Internet reading, so he was quite familiar with both cars. He and Hillary sat, first in the Mulsanne, then in the Flying Spur, then they got out and walked around both cars, very slowly. The salesman waited at a discreet distance, alert to any sign of a question from either.

“Well, Hillary, what does your unerring eye tell you?” Fratelli asked.

“Ummm,” she said, looking critically at both cars. “I think that the white Mulsanne is gorgeous, but I’m not sure that white is the correct color for that car. It’s just a teeny bit much.” She turned her attention to the Flying Spur. “However, I love the soft green of the Flying Spur, and especially the saffron and green leather interior. The equipment list is extensive, too, and it’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars cheaper. Really, why would one need more car than that?”

“I concur,” Fratelli said. “Will you excuse me while I have a chat with this fellow?” He turned to the salesman. “Why don’t you and I sit down for a moment?”

“I’ll rest in the Flying Spur,” Hillary said.

Fratelli had a last look at the car’s window sticker, then sat down at the salesman’s desk, picked up a notepad and a pen, and wrote down a number.

The salesman looked at it and frowned. “I really don’t think that’s possible, sir. I think . . .” He wrote down a larger number.

Fratelli made a point of gazing for a long time at the pad before writing down another number. “That’s my final offer,” he said. “Cash. Now.”

“No trade-in, sir?”

“No.”

“Just let me speak to my manager.” He got up and went into a glass-enclosed office, where he exchanged some words with the manager, then he returned. “I’m very sorry, Mr. . . .”

“Coulter.”

“Mr. Coulter, but my manager says it can’t be done.”

“Then I thank you for your time,” Fratelli said, rising and shaking the man’s hand. He went back to the car and helped Hillary out of it. “Shall we go, my dear?”

They left the showroom and walked toward the town car, where the driver waited, door open. Then there was a voice from behind them.

“Mr. Coulter?”

Fratelli turned to find the manager standing in the doorway. “Yes?”

“I believe we may be able to do business,” the man said.

“You understand that my offer is to include all charges. No dealer prep, or anything of the sort. I don’t need a thousand-dollar car wash.”

“There is sales tax, of course,” the man said.

“Of course.” Fratelli walked back to the town car and gave the driver a fifty. “We won’t be needing you for the trip back,” he said.

• • •

An hour later, having initiated a wire transfer and signed a number of documents, and having been given a tour of the instrument panel by the salesman, Fratelli drove his new Flying Spur out of the dealership. “Shall we go for a spin?” he asked Hillary.

“Why not, darling,” she replied, sinking back into the soft leather upholstery.

• • •

Harry Moss had another idea. He found the offices of the Palm Beach Post and bought a small display ad.

29

Now Stone was faced with a problem: he had an itch to go to London for a few days, but on the other hand, he had a very similar itch to stay closer to Hank Cromwell.

He hadn’t prayed about it, but the phone rang and he got what he considered to be an answer.

“Good morning,” Hank said.

“It certainly is,” Stone replied.

“I haven’t seen your kitchen. Describe it to me, especially the appliances.”

“Okay, there’s an eight-burner Viking gas stove with two ovens and a grill, a French-door refrigerator of commercial size, large and small microwaves, a large wine cabinet, a pantry, an ice machine, and a dishwasher. There’s also a butler’s pantry with a scullery, another ice maker, another dishwasher, and storage for dishes and silverware, mostly used for dinner parties.”

“That beats my electric, two-burner stove and half refrigerator,” Hank said. “Why don’t I cook us dinner at your house? Whenever you say.”

“Tonight?”

“Fine. I’ll leave work and do some shopping.”

“I’ve got an account at Grace’s Market,” he said. “Charge the food to me. You’re already providing the skill and labor. I already have the wine.”

“Is Grace’s a good store?”

“The best. It’s a cab ride for you, but they’ll deliver to the house, so you won’t have to hump anything.”

“I’ll be there around five, if we’re going to sit down at eight. You’ll have to vanish while I’m cooking, I don’t need a distraction.”

“Very good.”

“Would you like to invite Dino and Viv?”

“Why not? If you haven’t heard from me in ten minutes, they’re in.”

“Bye.” She hung up, and Stone called Dino.

“You and Viv up for dinner here, cooked by Hank?”

“Can she cook?”

“She’s making all the right noises.”

“What time?”

“Seven, in the study. We’re banished from the kitchen until dinnertime.”

“You’re on.”

They both hung up.

Joan buzzed. “There’s a Mr. Onofrio Buono on line one, says he’d like to make an appointment for some business advice. You know him?”

“Of him,” Stone said. “Tell him this afternoon. Hang on, make that early afternoon.” He didn’t want Buono and Hank to have sight of each other.

“Whatever you say.”

• • •

Joan buzzed precisely at two o’clock. “Mr. Buono is here.”

“Just a second.” Stone took a small digital recorder from a drawer, set it on his desk, switched it on, and covered it with a file. “Send him in.”

Stone rose to greet his guest, who was a solid six-footer in a black suit, white-on-white shirt, and a silver necktie. “Mr. Buono?” he asked, offering his hand.