Stuart Woods: Two-Dollar Bill

" What !!!" Bill Eggers shouted.

"Yeah, you can really pick 'em, Bill."

Dino got on his cell phone and called the cavalry.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Dino's detectives were conducting their preliminary investigation of the incident, and a criminalist was searching the car for bullet fragments.

One of the detectives walked over to Billy Bob, notebook in hand. "You're Mr. Barnstormer, is that right?" the detective asked.

"That sure is right," Billy Bob said.

"You got any identification, sir?"

Billy Bob produced a Texas driver's license.

"Is this your current address?" the detective asked, checking the license.

"It sure is."

"Are you armed, Mr. Barnstormer?" the detective asked.

"Hold it, Billy Bob," Stone said, placing a hand on his arm. "My name is Barrington. I'm Mr. Barnstormer's attorney," he said to the detective. "I'd like to point out that your question is inappropriate, in the circumstances, since Mr. Barnstormer is the intended victim here, and I instruct him not to answer. I will tell you, though, that Mr. Barnstormer is not carrying a weapon."

"Okay," the detective said, making a note. "Anybody see the car?"

"I did," Stone replied. "I was sitting next to the shot-out window, and I saw a black Lincoln Town Car make a hard left onto Eighty-eighth Street, running the light. It had New York plates, but I couldn't get the number."

"Okay," the detective said. "Mr. Barnstormer, can you think of anyone in New York City who might want to cause you harm?"

Billy Bob looked at Stone.

"You can answer that one," Stone said.

"Nope."

"No one at all?"

Billy Bob looked at Stone again, and he nodded.

"Nope."

"Do you know anybody in New York, Mr. Barnstormer?"

"Sure, I know lots of folks. I know Lieutenant Bacchetti over there, and I know a feller named Mr. Michael Bloomberg."

"You know the mayor?" Stone asked, surprised.

"Yep, we're real tight, Mike and me."

"I think that's all I need to know for the moment, Mr. Barnstomer," the cop said. "Where are you staying?"

"You can reach him through me," Stone said, handing the detective his card. "Can we go now? You through with the car?"

The criminalist walked over.

"You find anything?" the detective asked him.

"No bullet fragments," the young man said, "but I found some residue on the broken glass."

"What kind of residue?"

"Whoever did the shooting used frangible ammo, the kind of stuff you use at the firing range. The slugs disintegrated on impact with the glass, which is why the window on the opposite side of the car didn't take any hits. Looks like you've got an environmentally conscious shooter."

"A real citizen," Stone said. "Is the car released?"

"Sure," the criminalist said.

"Are you through with Mr. Barnstormer?" Stone asked the detective.

"For the moment."

"Thank you and good night," Stone said, climbing into the car. "Let's go, Billy Bob."

The car pulled away from the curb, and Stone gave the driver the address before turning to his new client. "All right, Billy Bob," he said, "what the fuck was that all about?"

"How the hell should I know?" Billy Bob responded.

"You don't know who your enemies are?"

"I don't have no enemies, to speak of."

"What about the ones not to speak of?"

"Well, you know, you do business, you piss off a few people along the way."

"You do much business in New York?"

"Now and again."

"You do business with anybody of a criminal nature?"

"Well, you never know what folks do in their spare time."

"You know anybody with connections to organized crime?"

"I do business with businesspeople, that's all," Billy Bob said, sounding defensive.

"You piss off anybody in New York?"

"Not that I know of," Billy Bob said.

Stone was having trouble speaking, now, since he was sitting next to the blown-out window and the icy air was blowing in his face at thirty miles an hour, and his lips didn't want to move. He put his gloved hands over his face and waited for the car to reach its destination.

THE CAR PULLED UP in front of Stone's town house in Turtle Bay, and everybody got out. The driver went to the trunk and began unloading luggage, while Stone, in amazement, counted. Eight pieces of black alligator luggage with brass corners were disgorged. Stone reckoned there was fifty thousand dollars' worth of reptilian baggage there. It took all three of them to get it up the front steps of the house and into the entrance hall.

"Pick me up at nine o'clock in the morning," Billy Bob said to the driver, "and get me a car with a back window."

"I'd advise you to travel in something less conspicuous," Stone said, "since people are shooting at you. Try a black Lincoln, like the shooter; there are thousands of them in the city."

"Okay," Billy Bob said to the driver, "something shorter and blacker." He tipped the man and sent him on his way.

Stone and Billy Bob humped the luggage into the elevator, and Stone pushed the button for the third floor. "Left out of the elevator, first door on your right," he said. "I'll walk up; we wouldn't want to break the cable."

"What time do you get up?" Billy Bob asked. "I fix a mean breakfast."

"Not early," Stone said. "Kitchen's on the ground floor; help yourself." He let the elevator door close and headed for his own room, thinking only of how to get the man out of his house at the earliest possible moment the following morning.

STONE WAS WAKENED by the smell of seared meat. He rolled over and checked the bedside clock: 8:30 A.M. He had overslept. He struggled out of bed, got into a robe and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

Billy Bob Barnstormer was standing before the Viking range, turning over a thick strip steak on the integral gas grill, while stirring something in a saucepan on an adjacent burner. He looked over at Stone. "Hey! G'mornin'! I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"You did. What are you doing?" Stone looked at the steaks; he had bought them at Grace's Marketplace, at hideous expense, with the idea of cooking them in the company of a woman he knew.

"Why, I'm just rustlin' up some grub for us," Billy Bob said. "I had to go with what I could find in the icebox, 'cept for the grits. I brought those with me."

"You travel with grits?" Stone asked.

"Only when I go north," Billy Bob explained. "You cain't get 'em up here. How you like your beef cooked?"

"Medium to medium rare," Stone said, annoyed with himself for cooperating in this endeavor. "I'm not sure I can eat a steak at this hour of the day."

"Don't worry, you'll have the grits and some eggs to cut the grease. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, y'know." Billy Bob picked up a bowl of what looked like a dozen eggs, whisked them briefly with a fork and dumped them into a skillet holding a quarter pound of melted butter. "Have a seat," he said. "Oughta be two minutes, now." He turned the steaks again.

Stone got a container of fresh orange juice out of the Sub-Zero and poured two glasses, put some coffee on, then set the table and sat down. Reconsidering, he got up and found two steak knives, then sat down again.

Billy Bob forked the steaks onto the two plates, then scooped out some grits, then filled the unoccupied portion of the plates with scrambled eggs. He took a bottle of Tabasco sauce and sprinkled it liberally over his eggs, but when he tried for Stone's plate, Stone snatched it away.

"Hold the Tabasco," Stone said. "You're trying to put me in the hospital, aren't you?"

"Aw, it's good for you." Billy Bob sat down and sawed his steak in half. It was blood rare, blue in the middle.

So was Stone's. He got up and put it back on the grill, then sat down and started on his eggs and grits.