Stuart Woods - Two-Dollar Bill

"I told you, it's Billy Bob's. I took it from him outside Elaine's that night, when somebody took a shot at him."

"Well, that turns out not to have been very bright, doesn't it?"

"He had just become my client, and I couldn't allow him to be arrested for carrying a gun in a strange city."

"Commendable," Dino said.

"I meant to give it back to him when he left town, but I forgot."

"Not so commendable."

"So now you're going to try to tie me to another murder?"

"Stone, I'm not trying to tie you to anything. My guys are just doing their jobs. Now, after the appropriate fingerprint and ballistic tests, then they may try to tie you to something."

"Who was murdered?"

"An investment banker named Owen Pell. In his Fifth Avenue apartment. It was in the papers."

"I think I saw something about it, but I didn't know the man."

"Well, that's a good start for your defense. You might start dreaming up an alibi."

"When did it happen?"

"Let's see, it was… two weeks ago today, in the evening."

"I'll check my calendar. What time?"

"The ME says between eight and midnight."

"Hang on." Stone went to his desk and flipped through his diary. "Here it is. I had dinner with you at Elaine's."

"Two weeks ago, today? I don't remember that."

"Oh, stop it, you know damned well we had dinner. Mary Ann threw you out of the house, or something."

"Oh, yeah, that night. I guess you're covered."

"There's something else, though."

"What?"

"I don't want word of my possession of the gun to reach the License Division of the department."

"Oh, yeah, that could cause them to yank your carry permit, couldn't it?"

"I think I could win the fight, but I'd rather not have to go through it."

"I'll see what I can do. You want to have dinner tonight?"

"I'm seeing Tiff."

"How about tomorrow?"

"I'm seeing Lance Cabot."

"Whatever happened to Lance?"

"Who knows? I ran into him this afternoon, when he was having me followed by a earful of spooks."

"Why were they following you?"

"You're going to love this. They're looking for somebody called Whitney Stanford, a venture capitalist."

"Who's he?"

"He's Billy Bob and Rodney Peeples."

"You're shitting me! Another alias?"

"You bet. Lance was shocked to learn that his guy was our guy. By the way, you can expect a phone call from Lance; he doesn't want you to arrest Billy Bob."

"Lance can go fuck himself."

"Tell him that, after he hoses you down with national security."

"Lance is protecting this guy?"

"Just until he can catch him himself and put him out of business."

"If he does that, we'll never get our hands on him."

"You're right about that. They'll either turn him to get at some other people, or send him to Leavenworth, and you'll get your crack at him in twenty years."

"Well, I hope Billy Bob's forty-four doesn't match our bullet; it'll make it easier to give Lance what he wants."

"And Lance always gets what he wants."

"We'll see."

"Thanks for your help; see you later."

"Bye."

Stone hung up. He was beginning to really hate Billy Bob Barnstormer, or whoever he was.

He called Tiff Baldwin.

"Hello?"

"It's Stone."

"I know, my secretary told me."

"You want some new information on Billy Bob, or you want to be a smart-ass?"

"Gee, that's a tough one; okay, what's your information?"

"He's turned up with another alias."

"What is it this time?"

"Whitney Stanford."

"Hey, I know that name; he's under investigation by this office for some kind of stock fraud."

"He may also have murdered an investment banker named Owen Pell. The NYPD is running a ballistics test right now."

"No kidding? I would have thought he was too smart to leave the gun at the scene."

"He didn't exactly leave the gun at the scene."

"Then how did the cops get ahold of it?"

"He left it in my safe."

Tiff burst out laughing. "So Billy Bob has figured out yet another way to leave you holding the bag?"

"It's not funny."

"I'm sorry, it's just my sense of the ridiculous."

"You better get a grip on your sense of the ridiculous, if you ever expect me to cook you dinner again."

"I'm terribly sorry," she said, making an unsuccessful effort not to laugh.

"You'd better be."

"My co-op board meeting is tonight."

"Hey, that was fast."

"Lucky timing, that's all. I just barely got my financial statement and my letters together in time. They're passing those around among themselves now. I haven't felt this naked since the last time I was with you."

"Yeah, they're probably showing that stuff to the guys at their clubs, too. Think you'll pass the investigation of your sex life?"

"What!!!?"

"You didn't know they do that?"

"They don't."

"There were two detectives on my doorstep when I came home this afternoon."

"And what did you tell them?"

"I had to tell them everything…"

"Everything?"

"I had to; it's a felony to lie to a detective in a sexual investigation. Haven't you read the whole text of the Patriot Act?"

Then she began laughing. "Good one; you almost had me. But I'm going to make you pay for that."

"I'll look forward to it."

STONE WAS WAITING when Tiff's car pulled up out front. It had begun to snow, lightly at first, but now fat flakes were being deposited in large numbers, collecting on the sidewalks, while cars beat them to pulp in the streets.

"Good evening," she said as he got into the rear seat with her.

Stone kissed her. "Good evening. Where are we off to?"

"Rao's," she said. "Do you know it?"

"I've been there, but not nearly often enough. How did we get a table?" You didn't get a table at Rao's; you owned it, or you didn't: It was as simple as that.

"One of my colleagues willed it to me."

"He died?"

"He went back to Washington; it's the same thing. So I get his table, same night every week."

Rao's was in Spanish Harlem, way uptown, and they took the FDR drive up the East Side of Manhattan, while the Lincoln's wipers tried valiantly to deal with the increasing snow.

They arrived to find the usual collection of limos and expensive cars outside, some of them abandoned, with the keys left in them, in case somebody needed to move them. Prominent among them was a bright red Hummer, with a driver.

"Who the hell would drive a Hummer in New York?" Stone asked.

"It's your town; you tell me," Tiff said.

Inside, the place was packed, as it was every night. Their booth, along the south wall, was ready for them, and Stone took the seat facing the bar, where it was easier to see a waiter. It was also easier to see the motley crowd at the bar-people who had congregated there, hoping that somebody would have a coronary on the way to the restaurant and, thus, make a table available. The place seemed to draw its share of wiseguys, too. A few months back, one of them had shot another of his ilk, when he drunkenly complained too loudly about a dinner guest who had spontaneously begun to sing an aria. The events had been exhaustively covered in newspapers and magazines, and now a lot of people seemed to think that a shooting was a regular occurrence at the restaurant, though it was the only instance in the more than one hundred years of its existence.

A waiter brought them drinks, then Frank Pellegrino, the owner and grandnephew of the founder, came over and pulled up a chair. Frankie looked familiar even to people who had never been to Rao's, because he was also an actor, most recently playing a recurring role on the FBI team assigned to bring Tony Soprano's mob to justice.

Kisses and handshakes were exchanged.