Two-Dollar Bill

on the table.

'What's that?'

'Your retainer,' Billy Bob said.

'My retainer for what?'

'For representing me as my lawyer. It's a check for fifty grand.'

Stone gulped and washed down some eggs with some orange juice. 'What are you involved in, Billy Bob?'

'Why, I don't know what you mean.'

'I mean, you got shot at last night, and you seem real anxious to have a lawyer.'

'Just in case.'

'Just in case of what?'

'You know what I mean.'

'No, I don't know what you mean.'

'Everybody ought to have a lawyer. I have a lawyer ever' place I do business.'

'And how many lawyers is that?'

'A whole mess of 'em.'

'At fifty grand a pop?'

'Well, I pay less in the boondocks, but when you're in a place like New York, you got to go first class.'

'I appreciate that, Billy Bob, but if I'm going to be your lawyer, you're going to have to level with me.'

'Stone, I promise you, the second there's something to level with you about, I'll level with you.'

Stone eyed the envelope with the check. He had been prepared to instruct his secretary to sell some stock this morning, since he was cash poor.

'Well, all right, I'll represent you, but you've got to keep me up-to-date on what you're doing, if I'm going to be effective.'

'Why, sure I will,' Billy Bob said soothingly.

Stone didn't feel soothed. He felt stuffed like a pig, having just eaten the biggest breakfast of his life. All he needed now was an apple in his mouth. He read the Times and tried to forget his stomach.

The phone rang, and Stone picked up the kitchen extension. 'Hello?'

'Good morning,' a man said. 'May I speak with Billy Bob Barnstormer, please? This is Warren Buffett calling.' Stone was stunned into silence for a moment.

'Hello?' Buffett said.

'Sorry, just a moment.' Stone held out the phone to Billy Bob. 'It's for you.'

Billy Bob took the phone. 'Hello? Hey, Warren, how you doin'? Just fine thanks. We ready to go? Shoot, I been ready for a month. You want some money? How much? Thirty? That gonna be enough to give us a decent cash reserve? You sure you don't need more? Well, it's there if you need it. I'll get it to you this morning. Nah, I got your account number from last time. Great, you take care now.' Billy Bob hung up. 'Mind if I make a long-distance call on your phone? I'll pay, of course.'

'As long as it's not to Hong Kong, be my guest.'

Billy Bob dialed a number. 'Hey, Ralph. You up yet? Okay, when you get to the office wire Warren Buffett thirty million dollars. Yeah, same account as last time and the time before that. You know the drill. Okay, talk to you later.' Billy Bob hung up. 'Well, we're off!'

Stone stared at him, wondering. Well, he'd seen Buffett on television lately, and it had sounded like him.

5

STONE WORKED in his office most of the day, clearing his desk of papers that had piled up over the past couple of weeks. It went like that, usually-he neglected things, then got them done in a rush. He had his secretary, Joan Robertson, deposit Billy Bob's check, and she looked relieved to have the money in the bank.

Late in the afternoon he went upstairs and looked for Billy Bob, but he had, apparently, checked out of the Stone Hotel. For a moment, Stone was confused by the pile of alligator luggage still in the guest bedroom. Then he found a note: 'Thanks for the sack, Stone. Keep the luggage as a house present. I got some more. Billy Bob B.'

Stone gazed at the cases in disbelief, pushing at them with a toe as if they might bite. They felt empty. He'd leave them there and argue with Billy Bob about it later.

He had a big event, starting at six o'clock-Woodman amp; Weld's annual firm party at the Four Seasons restaurant. He got out a fresh tuxedo, shirt, shoes, jewelry and a bow tie, then shaved and got into a shower. He had just finished and turned off the water when he heard a noise from the direction of his bedroom and the murmur of voices.

He grabbed a terry-cloth robe and walked toward the sounds. Two men in suits were having a look around his bedroom. 'Who the hell are you?' Stone demanded.

The two men turned and looked at him, unsurprised. 'FBI,' one of them said, and they both flashed IDs.

'What are you doing in my bedroom?'

'Your secretary let us in and told us to wait.'

'She didn't tell you to wait in my bedroom.'

'She wasn't specific.'

'What do you want?'

'The United States Attorney wants to see you.'

'Well, tell him to call and make an appointment.'

'Wants to speak with you now.'

Stone checked the bedside clock. 'At this hour of the day?'

'Get dressed,' the man said.

What the hell could the U.S. Attorney want with him? Stone wondered. He went back into the bathroom, dried and combed his hair, then went back into the bedroom. The two FBI agents were still standing there, looking bored. He went into his dressing room and got his clothes on.

'The occasion isn't formal,' an agent said, when Stone reappeared.

'I always dress for the U.S. Attorney,' Stone said. 'Let's go.' They went downstairs, and Stone grabbed a heavy, black cashmere topcoat a white silk scarf, a black hat and some warm gloves. New York was in the midst of its coldest winter in years. They went outside and got into a black Lincoln that was idling at the curb, apparently driven by another agent.

'We have to go all the way downtown?' Stone asked. 'It's rush hour: it'll take at least an hour, and I have to be somewhere.'

'Relax, we're not going far,' an agent said.

Ten minutes later they stopped at the Waldorf-Astoria, at the Towers entrance. The agents led him to an elevator, and they went up many floors, stopping near the top of the building. The elevator opened into a large vestibule, and Stone could hear the sound of many voices beyond a set of large double doors. An agent opened a side door and showed him into a small study.

'Be right with you,' the agent said, closing the door behind him.

Stone shucked off his overcoat and tossed it onto a sofa, next to somebody's mink coat. He looked around the room: It didn't appear to have been done by a hotel decorator but seemed actually to be used as a study. Behind him, a door opened and closed, and Stone turned around. A tall, blond woman in a tight black cocktail dress walked toward him, her hand extended.

'Good evening, Mr. Barrington. I'm Tiffany Baldwin, the U.S. Attorney for New York.'

Stone shook her hand. 'The last time I saw you,' he said, 'you had a different name and were six feet six and wearing a double-breasted suit.'

'I believe you're referring to my predecessor,' she said.