Black Dog

Eighteen

At mid-morning the next day Joan came into Stone’s office. “Yes, sir?”

Stone tapped on a stack of files on his desk. “I’ve been through all this, and it appears that Ed Sr. had declared all the cash in the U.S. Trust box as income and paid taxes on it. The estate, of course, pays any further taxes due to the IRS and the state, and everything else is yours, free of taxes.”

“How much, net to me?”

“The investment accounts are, as you might imagine, fat. And together they contain about three hundred million dollars, after any taxes. My best guess is $375,000,000, not including the cash in the Troutman Trust boxes, which has not, so far, been reported. Let’s call that another five million.”

“So, I’m worth $380,000,000?”

“Considerably more than that. We haven’t talked about the real estate and other property. Add another $100,000,000 for that, so well over $450,000,000.”

“Whew!” Joan said.

“Now, let’s talk about greed.”

“ ‘Greed’?”

“How greedy are you?”

“So-so greedy, I guess.”

“There’s a way to get the Troutman cash out of the country and into an offshore bank account, too. But there’s a risk,” Stone said.

“Tell me about it.”

“I fly you down to the Bahamas, and we check into a nice hotel for a few days. The next day, you charter a light airplane, under an assumed name, and you fly to Georgetown, in the Cayman Islands, south of Jamaica, no more than an hour’s flight. You take your luggage off the charter and to a bank in the city — there are many to choose from. You open a numbered account — no name on it — and deposit your cash there. Then you fly back to the Bahamas, lie on the beach for a few days, then fly home. The bank will issue you a credit card that works anywhere in the world, drawing on your Cayman cash.”

“What’s the risk?”

“You have to fill out a form before you leave the States declaring any funds or financial instruments that amount to more than ten thousand dollars. Lying on that form is a felony, with a big fine, forfeiture of your cash, and, maybe, jail time. But U.S. Customs may neglect to inspect your luggage.”

“And the alternative?”

“Declare the cash to the IRS now, pay the taxes, and live happily ever after.”

“I like that one,” she said. “I’m rich enough without cheating the IRS.”

“So you won’t be vacationing in the Bahamas?”

“Maybe next year, sans cash.”

“I am greatly relieved,” Stone said.

“I’m going to spend the weekend at my new house, going through Aunt Annetta’s things and deciding what to keep.”

“You might look around the house and see if there are any pictures or sculptures that you can’t stomach, and put together a list for auction. Same with jewelry.”

“Good idea.”

“I must say, your aunt Annetta had very good taste in furnishings and décor.”

“She had dreadful taste in those things,” Joan said. “Ralph Lauren has good taste. His people did the whole place.”

“That would explain it.”

“By the way, I’ve hired a secretary.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Alberta Page,” Joan said.

“Al for short?”

“Peaches.”

“What?”

“Alberta is a species of peach.”

“Peaches Page. I like it.”

“She starts tomorrow, but neither of us will be in; we’ll be working on the house together.”

“Can I help?” Stone asked.

“You’d just be in the way.”

“Right.”

“See you Monday.”

“Hold on. I’m going out in a few minutes,” Stone said, “got an appointment downtown, so turn on the answering machine.”

“Okay.”

Stone got out of the Bentley in Little Italy, a short distance from the La Boheme coffeehouse. He made a call. “I’m outside,” he said.

“Back room” was the reply. The man hung up.

Stone walked into the coffee shop, and a waiter caught his eye and nodded toward a door at the rear of the room.

Stone knocked, then entered. A man in his mid-thirties sat alone at a table and waved him to a seat. “Vito Datilla,” he said, offering his hand.

“Stone Barrington.” He sat down. The young man, he knew, was referred to locally as Datilla the Hun, as was his father before him.

“What can I do for you?”

“I represent the estates of Edwin and Annetta Charles,” Stone said.

The Hun’s eyebrows went up. “I see.”

“Perhaps not.”

“You do not wish to continue our business relationship?” He sounded hurt.

“The Charleses’ heir does not wish to. No offense intended.”

“I’ll try not to take any.”

“I would be grateful to you.”

“So, you’re the big-time, uptown lawyer?”

“I have dealings in all sorts of places.”

“Some friends of mine told me about you. They were impressed, so I’m impressed.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“So, let me guess: The heir wants Ed’s money back?”

“That puts it succinctly.”

“Now, why would I want to give a refund?”

“It’s the heir’s decision. It’s her money.”

“We’ve been doing very well, lending that money.”

“I expect so. All the more reason for a refund to be painless.”

“Shelling out three million clams is never painless.”

“It is, if they’re not your clams.”

“Suppose I make your heir an offer?”

“Anything in excess of three million clams would be welcome.”

Datilla laughed. “I hear you got another friend, who’s the police commissioner.”

“I would never mention his name in a transaction such as this.”

“Still, if I decline to refund, he might take offense on your behalf.”

“He will never hear of it.”

“If I refund?”

“He wouldn’t hear of it from me, even if you decline to do the right thing.”

“So, you’re not threatening me?”

“That would be disrespectful,” Stone said. “I have every respect for you. I hope you will respect my client, as well.”

“You realize, Barrington, that there’s no paper on all this. Why would I refund money I don’t have to?”

“Nothing requires you to... except honor.”

Datilla blinked. “I’ll give you this, Barrington: you know how to handle a ticklish situation.”

“I hope so. I do that for a living.”

“Would you like to represent me sometime? I can always use a legit lawyer.”

“I would prefer to keep our relationship as it is. I hope you understand.”

“Explain it to me.”

“I have partners. We all have clients who have certain expectations of us regarding our other clients. We have to respect their wishes in that regard.”

“Delicately put.”

“Thank you.”

Datilla reached under the table for something. Stone tensed, half expecting him to come up with a shotgun. Instead, he placed a battered suitcase on the table. “There you are,” he said. “Would you like to count it?”

Stone shook his head. “I trust you,” he said. “And, anyway, the bank will count it later. If there’s a discrepancy, I’ll send you either a bill or a refund.”

Datilla laughed again and made a shooing motion with his hands.

“I’m a busy man,” he said. “Get outta here.” He offered his hand.

Stone shook it and got out of there.