Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“I would be grateful if you would keep this in confidence. I wouldn’t want Winston and Elizabeth to know.”

“Of course. You’re a good man, Jack, and I’m terribly, terribly fond of you. You’re an honest man, too. Do you know how I know?”

“How?”

“You don’t cheat at golf. Almost everyone else I know does, but not you.”

Fratelli laughed.

“May I know your real name?”

“Jack Coulter is my real name. I have a birth certificate, a passport, and a driver’s license to prove it. I was born John Fratelli.”

“That’s a pretty name, it’s a pity you can’t use it.” Then she frowned. “Why can’t you use it?”

“Because there are a few people who know that I’m out, and they believe I have Eddie’s money.”

“And you don’t want to meet them again?”

“That is correct.”

“You don’t see any old friends?”

“The only friends I have are Winston, Elizabeth, and you.”

“And we will always be your friends,” she said, squeezing his hand.

Dinner arrived, and Jack tasted the wine and approved.

Hillary raised her glass. “To a bright future,” she said.

He raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

The following morning, as Jack was having breakfast in bed and reading the papers, he was finishing the Palm Beach Post and he was suddenly riveted by a small display ad.

JOHN FRATELLI

I know who and where you are.

You would be wise to contact me

before I find it necessary

to collapse your world.

• • •

There was a name, Harry Moss, and a phone number.

41

Stone was at his desk when Dino called.

“Thanks for the road trip,” he said. “How’s our victim?”

“Better than I would have thought,” Stone said. “She insisted on going to work this morning—after going home to change clothes.”

“Well, it’s unlikely that we’re going to hear from Buono again.”

“You think so?”

“Pretty soon he’ll find out he’s a federal fugitive, and that should scare the shit out of him.”

“How’d he get to be a federal fugitive?”

“Kidnapping is a federal crime, and I turned the case over to the FBI, since Hank is no longer at risk.”

“And how will Buono know he’s a federal fugitive?”

“He’ll see it on TV tonight, along with an interview with an FBI agent, or somebody he knows will see it.”

“You do good work,” Stone said. “Was Viv mad at you for keeping her up last night?”

“Yes, and now she wants to come along when I see you, so she’ll know where I am.”

“Okay by me.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“See you later.”

They hung up.

Joan came to his door. “What’s in the two huge bags upstairs?” she asked. “They were delivered late yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t open them.”

“Five million dollars,” Stone replied.

“Ooh! May I have it, please?”

“No.”

“I said ‘please.’”

“Politeness will not get you everywhere. That reminds me, I have to get rid of that money.” He phoned Mike Freeman.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mike.”

“I’m still waiting for the phone call from your broker.”

“He won’t be making the call, I have the money here. Can you have it picked up and delivered to my bank in a secure fashion?”

“Security is what we’re all about.”

“Have your men see Joan when they arrive. She knows where it is. There are two bags, instead of one, and please have your men get a receipt from my banker. They may have to wait a bit while he counts it.”

“Those bankers! They don’t trust anybody, do they?”

“They certainly don’t.”

“Are you ready to tell me what this is all about? I’ll buy dinner.”

“Sure. Where?”

“I’m feeling flush, how about at Daniel?”

“Great.”

“Eight?”

“Fine, see you then.”

• • •

Jack Coulter found a Palm Beach area telephone book in a desk drawer in his suite and looked up the name. He was listed: Harry M. Moss. Coulter had remembered the name that went with that face. The address was on Ocean Drive in Delray Beach, a little south of Palm Beach. Pretty tony neighborhood for a retired FBI agent. Moss must have come into money: certainly, he wanted to come into more.

Jack called Manny Millman, the bookie, and while the number rang, he became John Fratelli again, in accent and attitude.

“Yeah?”

“Manny? It’s John Fratelli.”

“Hey, there. Everything okay?”

“Almost. I’d like somebody investigated without him knowing. Anybody you know can handle that?”

“Sure. I’ve got an ex–Miami cop who bets with me. What do you need?”

“Got a pencil?”

“Always.”

“Name is Harry Moss.” He gave Manny the address and phone number, and his own number. “Retired FBI. I want to know everything there is to know about him. Everything. I’ll pay ten grand for a very thorough investigation. He’s got three, maybe four days. Have him call me at this number when he’s ready to report. If you’ll pay him, you can deduct twelve grand from my next payment, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What’s your man’s name?”

“Willard Crowder, black guy, first-rate human being.”

“Then go!”

“You got it, pal. I’ll call him right now.”

“Thanks, Manny.”

“You okay, Johnny?”

“Never better—Vegas is sensational!” He hung up.

42

Manny called the number, and Willard Crowder answered on the second ring.

“Yeah, Manny, I know, I’m overdue. I’m good for it.”

“Don’t sound so grumpy, Will, this is a good-news call.”

“Good news I could use.”

“How’d you like me to scrub your tab of, let’s see . . .”

“Six and a half large.”

“Right, and I’ll throw in another two grand in cash.”

“Who do I have to assassinate?”

“Not a soul. All you have to do is pretend to be a private eye.”

“Manny, I am a private eye, remember? I’ve got a plastic badge and everything. What do you need?”

“There’s a guy up in Delray Beach named Harry Moss. Write this down.” Manny gave him everything he had. “He’s a retired FBI guy. A friend of mine wants to know everything there is to know about him.”

“Everything? Like what?”

“Everything you can find out by the end of the week. Think of it as an employment investigation. My friend especially wants to know the dirt.”

“I’m gonna need expenses.”

“I think my friend will spring for another grand.”

“Okay, I’m on it.”

“Call me when you’re done. I’ll give you my friend’s number.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Don’t ask.” Manny hung up.

• • •

Crowder hoisted himself out of bed and looked around. Good thing the woman was coming in this afternoon. He picked up the beer bottles and treated himself to his first shave and shower in three days, ignoring the thirst that lived at the back of his throat.

That done, he stuck a couple of days’ clothes into a duffel and ripped the plastic wrap off a dry-cleaned suit. He left the woman’s money under the pepper mill on the kitchen counter, and filled his pockets with the usual crap. He hesitated when he came to the 9mm and decided to go with his old snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Airweight revolver that he had worn on his ankle for years as a backup piece. He Velcroed it in place, put on a necktie, grabbed a straw fedora and his duffel, then went down to his car, a 1968 Mercedes convertible that made him look classy to the women. On his way up U.S. 1, he ran it through a car wash, which felt almost as good as his shower.