Standup Guy

“Ladies, gentlemen, you know why you are all here, because you started this. You were kind enough to get together and write individually to Will, suggesting a course of action. Will immediately turned your letters over to me, and told me to get on with it, if that’s what I wanted to do. That is what I want to do, and I am going to need your continuing help and advice. Since this is all your fault, you are now the steering committee for my campaign.”

“How much is it going to cost us, Kate?” someone called from the back of the room.

“All I want from you is your friendship, your affection, your wisdom . . . and a check for a million dollars payable to a superPAC that’s being set up as we speak.” Loud laughter. “And that’s just for starters, because I am going to ask each of you—at the moment we secure the nomination—to get on the phone and start raising twenty-five million dollars each, and the smaller the contributions, the better. That will give us half a billion dollars to run on—about half of what we’ll need for the whole campaign.

“Now, I know it will be difficult for all of us not to discuss this with anyone else—spouses, lovers, business associates, barbers, bookies—but every day you can keep your mouth shut about this evening and our mutual intentions, the stronger the move we make will be when we make it. I’m doing half a dozen exit interviews while I’m in New York, and I don’t want to have to face questions about my political intentions. At this moment, you are the only people who know of my intentions. Now, everybody grab a seat, if you can find one, and start asking me questions.”

Stone sat quietly and marveled at how knowledgeable, fluent, concise, and witty Kate was when fielding the questions. She was going to be great on the road and in town hall meetings. The questions went on for an hour, then there was another half hour of chatting, exchanging of business cards, and congratulating Kate. Stone was the last to leave.

“I thought that went just perfectly,” he said to Kate at the door.

“I thought so, too, Stone, and thank you for being here and helping me in Will’s absence.”

“I’m very glad to be here, and I’ll be very glad to help in any way I can. Let me know when you need my check.”

They hugged and kissed, and Stone left the apartment feeling that he had been part of something historic. As he waited for the elevator, the doors opened and Will Lee stepped out. “How did it go?” he asked, then threw up a hand. “No, I don’t want to know.”

“How was Chris Botti?”

“Brilliant.”

“So was Kate.”

Will clapped his hands over his ears, and Stone got onto the elevator, laughing.

When he got home, he found a pocket recorder and dictated an account—everything he could remember about the evening.

He went to bed excited.

4

Stone took his breakfast tray off the dumbwaiter, along with the two morning papers, the New York Times and the Daily News.

As he ate his eggs and bacon he went over the lead stories of both papers: not a word about last night’s event. He switched on the TV and was greeted by the sight of the president leaving the Blue Note. A local reporter stuck a microphone in his face.

“Mr. President, where’s the first lady? Couldn’t you get a date?”

Will laughed. “She had a di

“And who was that?”

“She wouldn’t tell me.” He got into the waiting SUV and drove away.

• • •

Immediately after Stone reached his desk, Joan buzzed. “John Fratelli to see you.”

“Again?”

“He says it’s urgent.”

“All right, send him in.”

Fratelli appeared in the doorway, still carrying his suitcase.

Stone waved him in. “So, Mr. Fratelli, why aren’t you at a bank opening an account?”

“I tried,” Fratelli said, holding up his suitcase to display three bullet holes.

“Are you hurt?”

“The money stopped the rounds,” he said. “I wasn’t heeled, so all I could do was hide behind my bag.”

“Did you call the police?”

“I didn’t think that was such a good idea.”

“I see your point,” Stone said. “What bank did you go to?”

“One on the corner of Forty-second and Third. I forget the name.”

“And you never got inside?”

“No.”

“Any idea who shot at you?”

“We’re still under lawyer confidentiality?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t know if you’re old enough to remember,” Fratelli said, “but a long time ago, some guys stuck up a freight terminal at JFK and walked away with a big crate full of money that was being shipped to a foreign bank.”

“I’m old enough to remember,” Stone said. “And I suppose your friend Buono was one of them?”

“He was their leader,” Fratelli said, “and some of them were unhappy with their cut. Eddie took half, something like seven million, and the others split the rest. They got away clean, and Eddie told them all to lie low for eighteen months, not to buy anything expensive or showy, just to live regular, you know?”

“I know,” Stone said.

“Well, all of a sudden half a dozen bookies in Brooklyn got paid what they were owed, so right away, the street knew who pulled the job. Then one of them bought a red Cadillac convertible, and all of a sudden there were cops everywhere.”

“As I recall, the busts came only a couple of weeks after the robbery,” Stone said.

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Fratelli, it sounds like what you’re telling me is that Eddie didn’t spend any of his half of the money—what was it? Seven million?”

Fratelli nodded solemnly.

“But you only got the two million in the safe-deposit box?”

Fratelli nodded again.

“Arithmetic tells me there’s another five million out there somewhere.”

Fratelli nodded.

“How many guys did the job?”

“Five.”

“How many are still alive?”

“Two.”

“And where are they?”

“Out,” Fratelli said.

Stone held up a hand. “Don’t tell me who they are.”

“One of them was at Sing Sing when Eddie and me were. He made a couple of attempts to get Eddie to tell what he had done with his money, but I . . .”

“You were watching Eddie’s back,” Stone said.

Fratelli nodded. “For twenty-two years.”

“Did you recognize the man who shot at you?”

“Two of them: one driving, one shooting. Young guys. I don’t know any young guys.”

“Mr. Fratelli,” Stone said, “I think you need to get out of town.”

“But I’ve still gotta—”

“The rest of the money, wherever it is, has been safe all these years—a few months more isn’t going to hurt.”

“I guess I’d better get on a plane, then.”

“No, Mr. Fratelli, not a plane. These days everything gets X-rayed.”

“Train?”

“A better idea, but your shooters might be watching. Same with the bus station.”

“Then how’m I going to get out of town?”

“I don’t suppose you have a driver’s license?”

“Not anymore.”

Stone thought about it. “Do you know what a livery service is?”

“No. Uniforms?”

“Cars—black Lincolns, mostly, with drivers. They’re an expensive way to travel, but you can afford it.” Stone rummaged in his desk drawer, came up with a card, and handed it to Fratelli. “This is a big one, a chain. You don’t want to deal with a small, neighborhood outfit—no telling who owns it. What you do is, you pick a place you want to go, say Pittsburgh.”

“Why Pittsburgh?”

“It’s just an example. You call this service and tell them you want a car to drive you there. They’ll be happy to take cash. Then, after you’re under way, you change your mind and tell the driver you want to go somewhere else, like Boston or Washington, D.C. Anyplace with train service. When you get there, have him drive you to the station and take a train to anywhere you like, except back to New York.”