Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“Is she mad?”

“In the British sense of the word? No. But she is angry—her business is being attacked.”

“So she said. Probably some disaffected clerk making a few quid on the side.”

“That was my first thought, too.”

“Can she pay?”

“In addition to being very famous, she is very successful.”

“Ah, then it might not be entirely a waste of my time if I went to see her.”

“It might not.”

“What are you doing with yourself? I haven’t seen you since you somehow poked your nose into that explosion at the American Embassy last year.”

“I’m trying not to poke my nose into things like that,” Stone said. “I’m just a quiet-living, respectable attorney-at-law these days, dabbling in my clients’ businesses from time to time.”

“I’m sure you’re making ungodly amounts of money. That’s what Americans do, isn’t it?”

“Every chance we get. Now here’s your chance to stuff your bank account by putting all those recently unused police skills to work in the private sector.”

“Ah, yes, the private sector—never had much to do with that.”

“Try it, you’ll like it.”

“What should I charge her?”

“To make that sort of suggestion would be a conflict of interest for me, since I have an interest in the lady. Let’s just say that good businesspeople understand that people with skills must be reasonably well paid, and they expect to get what they pay for.”

“Mmm, as much as that, eh?”

“Negotiate,” Stone said.

“All right, I’ll give her a go.”

“‘It,’ not ‘her.’”

“Quite. Good day.” Throckmorton hung up.

So did Stone.

10

Shortly before lunch, Joan buzzed. “Two gentlemen with badges to see you,” she said.

Stone sighed. “Send them in.”

They were not cops; that was obvious from their neatly cut and pressed suits and regimental-stripe neckties. The larger of the two men held up a wallet with a badge pinned to it. “United States Secret Service,” he said. “I’m Special Agent Willard, this is Special Agent Griggs.”

Stone thought Griggs looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

Willard removed a plastic envelope containing a bank note from his jacket pocket and handed it to Stone. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.

Stone looked at the money and handed it back. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a United States hundred-dollar bill.”

Griggs laughed; Willard didn’t.

“Do you recognize this particular bill?” he asked, handing it back to Stone.

“Well, I don’t recognize the serial number, if that’s what you mean. Otherwise, it looks just like every other hundred-dollar bill I’ve ever seen.”

Willard handed him another hundred-dollar bill. “Compare it to this one, and tell me what you see.”

Stone looked at the second bill, then again at the one in the plastic bag. “Slightly different portraits,” he said, “but they’re both Benjamin Franklin.”

“Do you see the red seal on the one in the bag?” Willard asked.

Stone looked again. “Hard to miss,” he said, “since it’s red. Aren’t you fellows trained in currency recognition? Why do you need my help?”

“Of course we’re trained in currency recognition.”

“Is it counterfeit?” Stone asked.

“No, it’s perfectly genuine, it’s just old.”

“Agent Willis—”

“Willard.”

“Willard. Is it legal tender?”

“Yes.”

“Then what is it you want? I’m trying to help, but so far, I’m at a loss.”

“This bill,” Willard said, holding up the plastic bag, “was deposited in your bank account the day before yesterday, by a woman I suspect is your secretary.”

Stone buzzed Joan. “Can you come in for a moment, please?”

Joan came and leaned on the doorjamb. “Yes, Mr. Barrington?”

“These gentlemen work for the United States Treasury Department, and they would like to know if you deposited this”—he took the bag from Willard and handed it to her—“in my bank account the day before yesterday.”

“Well,” Joan said, “I did make a cash deposit the day before yesterday, but I don’t recognize this particular bill. I hardly knew the ones I deposited.”

“Thank you, Joan.” She left, and Stone handed back the bill to Willard. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Mr. Barrington, where did you get the bill?”

“I expect I received it as payment for legal services,” he said, “which is what we offer around here.”

“Who paid you with this bill?”

“Neither I nor my secretary recognize this particular bill,” Stone said. “I thought we both made that clear.”

It was Willard’s turn to sigh. “Mr. Barrington, can you recall receiving cash for payment during the last week or so?”

Stone stared at the ceiling for a moment and pretended to think. He was thinking about having Dover sole for lunch.

“Yes,” he said, finally.

“And who made that payment?”

“Gentlemen,” Stone said, sounding as patient as he could, “I am under the impression that, in addition to currency recognition, agents of your service receive some training in the law?”

“That is correct.”

“Then you are aware of something called ‘client-attorney confidentiality’?”

“So you decline to tell us who paid you with this note?”

“I decline to disclose the name or names of my clients,” Stone said.

“We believe this bill to have been stolen,” Willard said.

Stone frowned. “How recently? You did say it was old.”

“Yes, it was part of the 1966 series of hundred-dollar bills, and we believe it was part of the loot in a robbery committed twenty-five years ago.”

“And are you investigating that event?”

“We are.”

“Sadly, gentlemen, you are wasting your time. The statute of limitations would have expired five years after the robbery; therefore, the money you hold in that plastic bag is an innocent hundred-dollar bill.”

“Mr. Barrington, there is no such thing as an innocent hundred-dollar bill.”

“Well, I suppose you presume it to be guilty, since you have arrested it, but that hundred-dollar bill is entitled to the presumption of innocence. If it was once guilty, it has been pardoned by the statute of limitations. Now, if you took it from my bank account, please put it back, and leave it alone. I have bills to pay.”

Griggs was having a hard time suppressing laughter, but Willard plowed on. “Mr. Barrington—”

Stone stood up. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure meeting you, but I don’t see how I can be of further help. I wish you and that poor hundred-dollar bill a good day.”

The agents got to their feet.

“Agent Griggs,” Stone said, “you look familiar. Have we met?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Griggs replied. “I was on the presidential detail last year when you visited the White House.”

“Of course, that would be it. Good to see you again.”

The two men filed out of the office, and Stone heard the front door close behind them. Joan came in. “You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you? When you sent me to the bank?”

“I said you probably wouldn’t be arrested,” Stone said, “and I have probably kept my word.”

11

Stone polished off his Dover sole and took another sip of the Far Niente Chardonnay. “That was a delicious lunch, Bill,” he said to the managing partner of Woodman & Weld. “I dreamed about it at my desk this morning.” They were having lunch at Eggers’s regular table in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons, which was downstairs in the Seagram Building, where the Woodman & Weld offices were located on four floors.