Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“That’s right.” Buono shook his hand and took the chair opposite Stone’s desk.

“What can I do for you?” Stone asked.

“I’m considering starting a new business,” Buono said.

“Who recommended me to you?” Stone asked.

“I read about you somewhere—the Post , I think.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been written about for the Post in a business context.”

“It was more like a mention, it was complimentary.”

“I’m sorry, I interrupted you. What sort of business?”

“You might call it, ah, ‘proceeds recovery.’”

Stone thought for a moment. “Proceeds of what?”

“Well, let’s say you had a business, and you suffered a loss.”

“What sort of loss?”

“Any kind of loss that cost you.”

“All right.”

“Well, I would offer to recover that cost for you, for a reasonable share of what I recovered.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Buono, I’m trying to put what you’ve said in some sort of context, but I’m failing.”

“All right, let’s say you own a store, and a couple guys come in with guns and empty your cash register and your safe. I would recover that for you.”

“And how, as a storekeeper, would I know you were in that business and able to perform that service? Would you advertise?”

“Not exactly. Let’s just say I’d send around sales representatives, and that would make for word of mouth. I would also offer a service preventing that kind of loss, and insurance to get it back.”

“And if I didn’t hire you or purchase your insurance?”

“Then when things happen, you’re stuck with your loss.”

“In certain circles, Mr. Buono, that would be called ‘the protection racket.’”

“Are you calling me a criminal?”

“I’m not calling you anything. I’m just pointing out that your description of your proposed business closely resembles a practice that is highly discouraged by the criminal justice system.”

“I think that the scale is what’s putting you off,” Buono said. “Let me rephrase.”

“Please.”

“Let’s say you offer a service that transports large amounts of cash from banks in one country to banks in other countries. We’re talking millions, here.”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay, one day some guys with big guns and a forklift roll into your office, tie everybody up, and load a couple crates containing, say, fifteen million dollars, onto a truck and drive away.”

“That sounds an awful lot like the robbery of my store,” Stone pointed out. “Without the insurance provision.”

“Well, it’s the insurance provision that makes it illegal, right?”

“In a manner of speaking. And how do you get the fifteen million back?”

“Well, first of all, half of that money is recovered by the cops from several of the participants in the robbery. It’s the other half we’re talking about, and I don’t recover that. You do. And I pay a reasonable fee.”

“Well, Mr. Buono, it begins to seem as though we’re no longer talking hypothetically, that you’re referring to an actual event.”

“That’s a possibility,” Buono said.

“Well, if I were in a position to recover half of fifteen million dollars, why would I need you?”

Buono spread his hands and smiled. “To stay alive,” he said.

“Ah,” Stone said, “I perceive that you might be the person who recently fired a shotgun at my front door. Or, if not the person, then persons in your employ.”

Buono gave an affirmative shrug.

“I’m sorry, could you restate that?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly the person or the persons?”

“Either. Both.”

“May I ask why you think I might be in a position to recover this money for you?”

“Because the guy who has it is your client, and he came to you for advice. Guy name of Fratelli.”

“Well, Mr. Buono, as a matter of attorney-client confidentiality, I can neither confirm nor deny the name of a client.”

“Sure you can,” Buono said. “You just need to be motivated.”

“And you feel that marring the paint on my front door is a motivation?”

“Oh, it gets worse. Next time, the shotgun could be aimed at your face.”

“Okay, Mr. Buono, you’ve put your case. It’s time I put mine.”

“Please,” Buono said.

“I’ve already covered the part about attorney-client confidentiality, so I won’t bore you further with that.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Now let me tell you the part about this.” Stone took his badge wallet, put it on the desk and opened it. “This will tell you that I’m a retired police detective. Had you heard that from the Post ?”

“Sounds familiar. Why should I give a shit?”

“That fact should tell you that I have friendly acquaintances in the NYPD, one of whom is the chief of detectives. Did that occur to you?”

“Again, why should I give a shit?”

“Suppose I tell you that, if I felt inclined, I could have your chop shop in Red Hook raided and all your personnel arrested before you can get back there? And, of course, you arrested in the stolen car you’re driving.”

Buono’s previously mock-friendly face was suddenly devoid of expression. “How the fuck . . . ?”

“Mr. Buono, you have already invested me with amazing powers of perception regarding criminal activities. Why would I not know about yours?” Stone sighed. “Now it’s time for you to go.” He reached under the file folder and switched off the recorder. “And let me add this: if I ever again see or hear from you or any of your . . . employees, I will create such a shitstorm as to blow you and your business off the face of the earth. And if I get a chance, I’ll blow your head off while I’m doing it. Do we understand each other?”

Buono continued to stare at him, but now his jaw had dropped.

“The door is over there,” Stone said, pointing.

Buono got up and left without another word.

30

Dino and Viv showed up for drinks at the appointed time, as was their wont, let themselves into the house with Dino’s key, and entered the study, where Stone was reading a book. He looked up as they entered, then got up and built them drinks.

Dino glanced at his watch. “Turn on the TV,” he said. “Channel Two news. We’ve got about a minute.”

Stone picked up the remote and tuned it. “What are we looking for?”

“It will be self-explanatory,” Dino said.

Everybody settled down to watch, and a moment later an anchorman appeared, after a story about a dog who had saved a cat from drowning.

“A little more than an hour ago,” he said, “the NYPD raided premises in Brooklyn that turned out to be a very large chop shop, which is where stolen vehicles are taken to be dismantled and have their parts sold.” The screen changed to a helicopter shot of a huge steel shed surrounded by vehicles with flashing lights and men and women in armored vests. “The shop housed more than thirty vehicles, all German cars, like Porsches and Mercedeses, and is said by locals to have been in operation for at least two years, disguised as an auto repair establishment.” The camera switched to an indoor shot, showing a pile of multicolored fenders stacked like saucers. “Just pick one the color of your Mercedes and buy at a very significant discount from the dealer’s price. The alleged owner of the shop was not present for the raid, but is being sought for an interview by police.”

“Okay, you can cut it off now,” Dino said.

Stone switched from the TV to some light jazz. “Well,” he said, “I’m afraid I’m going to get the credit for your raid, and from all the wrong people.”

“You mean us? You sure get the credit there. Donatello went out there and bought a Porsche alternator for a hundred bucks. You got any idea what that would cost new?”