Standup Guy

6

Stone’s ass had barely touched his office chair the following morning, when Joan buzzed. “Mike Freeman on one.”

Stone heaved a rueful sigh and picked up the phone. “I know, Mike, and I’m sorry.”

“I hope something terrible happened to you that prevented your being there,” Mike said.

“You’re begi

“I’m begi

“I got embroiled in a discussion about a client and didn’t realize that I’d missed the event until it was too late. I offer my abject apologies.”

“Kate asked for you. A lot.”

“I’ll write her a note,” Stone said. “Maybe if I include a check for a million dollars, that will mollify her.”

“A very good idea.”

“What’s the name of the superPAC?”

“The Best Woman.”

“Won’t people guess whom it’s for?”

“We’re hoping most people will think it’s for Hillary Clinton.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Look, this is going to get out anyway. I was amazed that it didn’t make yesterday’s papers.”

“So was I. The event is already a day and a half old, and nothing’s out there. Is it possible this could last awhile?”

“I don’t think so,” Mike said. “Frankly, I’ll be relieved when it breaks.”

“When it does, everybody will accuse Kate of being a spoiler for the other candidates. I’ll bet she starts getting write-in votes in primary states.”

“You go write her a note, now,” Mike said. “I’ll see you later.”

Stone hung up, got out a sheet of his best stationery, and wrote his apology. He buzzed Joan. “Please make out a check to something called ‘The Best Woman.’”

“For how much?”

“A million dollars.”

“Good God, for that kind of money she’d better be the best!”

“And bring it to me for my signature with no further comments or questions, please.”

“Yes, boss.”

A moment later, she appeared with the check. Stone signed it, stuffed it into an envelope, and addressed it to the White House box number where Kate got her personal mail. “Post this, please. No, FedEx it.”

“FedEx won’t ship to a P.O. box.”

“All right, make it 1600 Pe

“Are you bribing the president?”

“Out.”

“And by the way, you have a visitor.” Joan walked out of the office.

“Who?” Stone asked, but she was already gone. Then John Fratelli filled his doorway—at least he thought it must be Fratelli, because the haircut was still the same. Stone waved him to a chair. Fratelli was wearing a double-breasted, pin-striped suit, a crisp white shirt, and a gold necktie. A pearl-gray fedora was in his free hand, and his shoes were new and elegant. He was pulling the largest, most beautifully burnished leather duffel Stone had ever seen—on wheels, yet. It seemed very heavy.

“Good morning,” Fratelli said.

“Mr. Fratelli,” Stone said, “you are a vision of loveliness.”

“I took your advice,” Fratelli said. “They were great at Brooks Brothers. Turns out I’m a perfect forty-four extra long. All they had to do was fix the trouser bottoms.” He sat down and turned the duffel on end, where it remained. “All I got to do now is grow some hair.”

“And I see you got a larger piece of luggage,” Stone said, then held up a hand. “I don’t want to know why you needed it.”

“I’ve got a smaller one for my new clothes,” Fratelli said. “It’s in the car.”

“What car?”

“The livery Lincoln, remember?”

“Yes, but I thought you were getting out of town yesterday.”

“I thought I might enjoy a night at the Plaza Hotel before I left,” Fratelli said, looking pleased with himself. “I had a couple of drinks and a steak in the Oak Bar, but I had this bag with me at all times.”

“I think you’re going to have to find a safe place to leave the contents,” Stone said. “You can’t go everywhere with a bag that size and that heavy without people wondering, especially if you’re paying cash for everything.”

“You’re right, I know, but when I saw me in the mirror in my new suit, I thought I deserved a night in a fine hotel. Oh, and I paid for it with my new debit card. That was very insightful of you, Mr. Barrington. Carrying enough cash to do business does get to be a burden.”

“Has anyone taken a shot at you today?”

“Not yet,” Fratelli answered.

“Then your disguise must be working.”

“So far.”

“Then you should get on the road, before someone from your past recognizes you.”

“You know,” Fratelli said, “I would have thought that getting recognized by somebody from my past would have been impossible—until yesterday.” He stood up, reached into an inside pocket, withdrew an envelope, and laid it on Stone’s desk. “I don’t think we’ll be meeting again,” he said, “and I didn’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate your advice.” He put on his fedora, gave it a tap to settle it, and wheeled his money out of Stone’s office.

“Good luck!” Stone called after him, and he answered with a little wave. Stone picked up the envelope and counted the money, then inspected it. The picture of Benjamin Franklin was different from that on the current bills, and the Treasury seal and serial numbers were in red ink.

Stone buzzed Joan and asked her to come in. He counted all the hundreds that Fratelli had given him and handed them to her. “Please deposit this three thousand dollars into my main account, but do it at a different branch, where you’re not known.”

Joan looked at the money, then back at him. “Am I going to get arrested?”

“Probably not,” Stone said. “Now get out of here.”

“If I’m busted, I’m going to tell them everything.” Joan shrugged.

“You don’t know anything,” Stone pointed out. “You’re just making a bank deposit.”

“Hah!” she cried as she left.

7

Less than an hour had passed, and Joan had returned from making her bank deposit. She buzzed Stone. “A Detective Do

“Tell him, since he doesn’t have an appointment, he’ll have to wait.”

“Gotcha.”

Stone read the New York Times and did the crossword puzzle, then he picked up the phone. “You may send in Detective Do

Sean Do

“Sean,” he said. “Long time.” They shook hands, and Stone waved him to a chair. “What’s up?”

“I believe you have a client named Joh

“Well, Sean, if I did have such a client I would be unable to either confirm or deny it, because my client list is confidential.”

“You know he’s your client, I know he’s your client. Why?”

“Sean, after all these years in the department, do I have to explain the concept of client-attorney confidentiality to you?”

“He was seen coming out of this office yesterday.”

“Was he? Maybe he just came in to ask directions. People do that sort of thing all the time.”

“He was carrying a heavy suitcase with bullet holes in it. Somebody shot at him.”

“Well, Sean, shouldn’t you be looking for a shooter at this time, instead of harassing an attorney for information you know he couldn’t give you, even if he wanted to?”

“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?”

“Joh

“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.”