“Okay. Where can I find you?”
“I’m back at Le Parc. I figure they won’t be looking for me there.”
“No, but they might send a cleanup crew.”
“Jesus, I hadn’t thought of that; I’d better get out of there fast.”
“You need a place? I live about three blocks from here; my kid’s in college, you can have his room.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather stick with hotels; I’ll let you know where I am.” Stone pulled out his cell phone and switched it on; it lit up, as usual. “Son of a bitch, it still works. I’ll have to write Motorola a nice letter.”
“I can check with you on that number?”
“Yep.”
“Anything else?”
“Rick, can you get hold of a handgun for me?”
“Something untraceable, I suppose.”
“I’d rather not fill out any federal forms.”
“Stone, are you planning to shoot somebody?”
“Not at the moment, but you never know.”
34
Stone got himself out of Le Parc as fast as he could, first calling the Beverly Hills Hotel for a reservation. He might as well be comfortable, he thought, and hide in plain sight. He checked into a small suite and rang for the valet.
“Yes, sir?” the man said when Stone opened the door.
Stone held up his sodden suit, which he had hung on a hanger, and his shoes, into which he had inserted trees. “Do you think you can do anything with these?”
The man gingerly lifted a sleeve and sniffed it. “Salt water?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Stone said. “A boating accident.”
“I’ll have to soak it in fresh water first, to get out the salt, and then press it several times as it dries.”
“Can I hope for the best?” Stone asked.
“You can always hope, sir, but I won’t make any rash promises.”
“Do the best you can,” Stone said, slipping the man fifty.
“I most certainly will, sir.”
The man disappeared, and Stone closed the door. He got some more sleep, and late in the afternoon took a call from Rick Grant.
“I got the meet set up with my FBI guy, but it’s going to cost you an expensive dinner.”
“Fine; where?”
“Place called Michael’s, in Santa Monica, seven o’clock.” He gave Stone the address and directions.
Refreshed and rested, Stone was at Michael’s on time; Rick and another man were waiting for him at a table in a lovely garden.
“Stone, this is Hank Cable,” Grant said.
Stone shook hands with the FBI agent.
“We’ve met before,” the man said.
“Where?” Stone asked, puzzled.
“We had a meeting about the Sasha Nijinsky case, a few years ago, in New York. I was stationed there then.”
“Now I remember.”
“You were doing everything you could to keep us out of the case, as I recall.”
“I believe I was,” Stone agreed.
“I didn’t particularly hold it against you; it’s what we expected from the locals.”
“I’m glad. What have they got you doing out here?”
“I run the financial investigations division.”
“Just the man I want to talk to,” Stone said, smiling.
“Let’s order,” Grant said.
They ordered drinks, perused the menu and ordered dinner, then got down to business.
“So, what do you want from us?” Cable asked.
“It’s more what I’m going to give you,” Stone replied.
“How much is it going to cost me?”
“It’s a freebie; I don’t want any glory, just to see justice done.”
Cable hooted with laughter.
Grant stepped in. “Hank, I think it might react to your benefit if you listened.”
“Okay, okay, shoot, Stone.”
Stone turned to Grant. “Rick, did you get anything on Barone Financial Services?”
“It’s registered with all the right state and federal agencies, but it’s some kind of bucket shop. Headquarters is a rundown office building on La Cienega; they’ve got the top floor, the sixth, about two thousand square feet of space.”
“Not a big outfit, then? Are there any other offices?”
“Just one, in Tijuana, Mexico.”
“Fairly weird.”
“What’s really weird is that this little outfit has forty telephone lines, including several special lines for fast modem transmissions.”
“Sounds like a bookie joint,” Cable said.
“You ever hear of a bookie operation that was registered with the state and federal governments as a broadbase financial services organization?” Grant asked.
“Now that you mention it, no,” the FBI agent replied.
“Neither have I,” Stone said. “What it sounds like to me is money laundering, especially with the Mexico connection.”
“Now you’re talking,” Cable said. “Ilove money laundries.”
“Barone’s girl told me he was in Mexico a lot,” Stone said. “What about Barone himself? Does he have a sheet?”
“Two arrests as a teenager, in New York, for running numbers.”
“He’s connected, then,” Cable said. “Why don’t I see what I can do about some wiretaps?”
“Good idea,” Stone said, “but I think there’s a lot more to this than Barone and his company.”
“Like what?” Cable asked.
“Ever hear of Abalone Fisheries?”
“Yeah. Holding company, isn’t it?”
“Right, but it’s who’s doing the holding.”
“Who?”
“Two guys named David Sturmack and Onofrio Ippolito.”
“Ippolito, the chairman of Safe Harbor Bank?”
“The same. Abalone owns twenty-odd percent of Safe Harbor and nearly all of Barone Financial.”
“Now you’re getting really interesting,” Cable said.
“You ever hear of Sturmack?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“He’s a lawyer who doesn’t practice law, son of a guy who worked closely with Meyer Lansky. He’s clean on paper, but he had major connections with the unions, especially the Teamsters.”
“And Ippolito is in business with him? I mean, Ippolito has a reputation as upstanding.”
“This upstanding citizen,” Stone said, “ordered a hit on me last night.” He told Cable the story.
“Had you ever met Ippolito before?”
