Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“I remember when you were a smart-ass detective third grade,” Sean said.

“I remember that, too,” Stone replied. “Why don’t we talk about that instead of . . . What was that name again?”

“Johnny Fratelli, and you’re still a smart-ass.”

“I expect you could gather a large body of opinion behind that statement, Sean, especially at the NYPD, but discussing it at length would be a waste of our time. Instead, why don’t you tell me what this is all about? I’m dying to know.”

“It’s about seven million dollars,” Sean said.

“And to whom do those funds belong?”

Sean sputtered a little. “There’s some question about that.”

“If you’re looking for it, then I suppose it must be stolen money.”

“It is.”

“And when was it stolen?”

“Roughly twenty-five years ago.”

“Then that theft has been erased by the statute of limitations. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”

“Sure, I’ve heard of it,” Sean said. He was turning a little red now.

“Then on what legal grounds are you pursuing this money?”

“Grounds?”

“Sean, think back to the Police Academy. One day there was a lecture on the legal grounds for charging a person with a crime. Were you out sick that day?”

“I know about grounds.”

“And I should also point out that you have not been a police officer for what, fifteen years? What is this, some sort of citizen’s investigation?”

“I don’t care about the crime, and I don’t care about Fratelli. I just want the money back.”

“Back? Did you ever have the money?”

“I want to give it back to its owner.”

“And who might that be? Let’s see.” Stone turned to his laptop and did some Googling. “Ah, the Acme International Transfer Corporation, now defunct. Sean, I’m afraid the owner no longer exists, not since 1989. And the money? Well, I’m very much afraid that belongs to whoever possesses it, under the long-standing and universally accepted legal principle known as ‘Finders, Keepers.’ See the Magna Carta, Article Four, Section Three.”

“Now, listen—”

“You can’t argue with the Magna Carta, Sean.”

“You’re about to get yourself in some very big trouble, Stone.”

“Come off it, Sean. You blew this case a quarter of a century ago, and now you’ve heard that this guy . . .”

“Fratelli.”

“. . . Fratelli got himself recently sprung—on parole?”

“Nah.”

“Sprung after doing all his time like a standup guy, and now you and your friends want to rob him?”

“What friends?” Sean asked, looking alarmed.

“Well, I’m assuming that a graduate of the New York City Police Academy and a veteran trained marksman of the NYPD, if he took a shot at a guy, would hit him and not put three rounds into a suitcase, so therefore he must have had some less talented and inexperienced help.”

“There could be a cut in this for you.”

“Sean, I don’t need your cut, I’m awash in dough. Don’t you read the gutter press anymore?”

“Yeah, I read about that,” Sean said disconsolately. “All right, I asked you nice, I offered you a cut, you gave me nothing.”

“Nicely summed up, Sean.”

“But the next guys that ask ain’t going to be so friendly about it.”

“Now, now, Sean, threats are against the law.”

“Okay, I tried,” Sean said. He got up and shuffled out of the office.

“Have a good day, Sean, and don’t shoot at anybody!” Stone called out. He heard the outside door slam.

Joan came into his office. “You know,” she said, “things are going downhill around here. These last two guys are the kind of people you used to see before you became an upscale, corporate lawyer. Should I be worried?”

“Joan,” Stone said, “it’s you who keeps sending these people in to see me—it’s not like I’m soliciting their business.”

“Well,” she said over her shoulder as she stalked out, “you must be doing something to attract them.”

8

Stone had a sandwich at his desk, then Joan came in with the New York Post , which he subscribed to but rarely read. Today would be an exception.

RUSSIAN MOGUL DIES ON PRIVATE JET

Yuri Majorov found dead of “heart attack” at Moscow airport

Stone’s heart leapt. He turned quickly to the inside pages for the story.

Russian zillionaire Yuri Majorov arrived aboard his private Gulfstream jet airplane at a Moscow airport a few days ago, dead. Crew members aboard his airplane said that he had gone to sleep before the aircraft left Santa Monica Airport, in California, for Moscow, with a planned refueling stop in Gander, Newfoundland, where he seemed to be still asleep. But after landing in Moscow, when a flight attendant attempted to awaken him, he was stone-cold dead.

Majorov’s body was taken by Russian police to the Moscow morgue, where an autopsy was performed, but no cause of death could be determined. Authorities await the results of tox screening, to see if any drugs were present in his body, but these tests can take weeks or even months in Russia.

Majorov, the son of a KGB general, was educated at Moscow University and trained as an intelligence agent for the KGB. After the collapse of the Soviet Union he made a major fortune, forming cartels to buy state-owned businesses. He used the proceeds of this wealth to establish himself as a European businessman, but the smell of corruption lingered around him for the rest of his life, and he was rumored to be an important figure in the Russian Mafia.

Stone didn’t know exactly how Majorov had died, but he knew who had effected his death, and he was immensely grateful to that person. His phone buzzed.

“Mike Freeman on one.”

“Hello, Mike.”

“Have you seen the Post ?”

“I’ve just read it, and I feel a warm glow all over.”

“You know who did that, don’t you?”

“I do: he whose name shall not be spoken.”

“I don’t know if you saw the reports in the Los Angeles papers of the death of Vladimir Chernensky at the Bel-Air Hotel.”

“I didn’t, but I didn’t need to.”

“I hope that, since this business is all cleared up, our friend might soon be coming to work for us at Strategic Services.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Not since leaving L.A., but I expect he’ll be spending some more time out there. After all, he’s teaching your son to fly.”

“Peter already knows how to fly, now he’s working on his instrument rating, and so are Ben and Hattie. In a few months, they’ll all be flying the Mustang.”

“Right.”

“Have you thought of hiring him to work in L.A.? He seems to like it there.”

“It crossed my mind, but that hasn’t come up in our conversations.”

“I’ll be interested to know how it turns out.”

“I’ll let you know.”

The two men hung up, and Stone leafed through the rest of the paper, finding nothing of interest. Then his phone buzzed again. “The first lady on line one,” Joan said.

“Hello, Kate. I’m so sorry to have missed the event last night.”

“Thank you, Stone, I got your very kind note. And your very nice check. Are you free for dinner this evening?”

“I am.”

“Come and have it with me at the Carlyle. I’m on my own, and we can’t go out together without causing talk.”

“Love to.”

“Seven?”

“See you then.”

“Dress down this time.”

“Will do.”

• • •

Stone arrived on time, finding Kate in her usual jeans and a sweater. Somebody brought him bourbon in a glass and they sat down before the fireplace.