Two-Dollar Bill

20

STONE WAS WAITING when Tiff's car pulled up out front. It had begun to snow, lightly at first, but now fat flakes were being deposited in large numbers, collecting on the sidewalks, while cars beat them to pulp in the streets.

"Good evening," she said as he got into the rear seat with her.

Stone kissed her. "Good evening. Where are we off to?"

"Rao's," she said. "Do you know it?"

"I've been there, but not nearly often enough. How did we get a table?" You didn't get a table at Rao's; you owned it, or you didn't: It was as simple as that.

"One of my colleagues willed it to me."

"He died?"

"He went back to Washington; it's the same thing. So I get his table, same night every week."

Rao's was in Spanish Harlem, way uptown, and they took the FDR drive up the East Side of Manhattan, while the Lincoln's wipers tried valiantly to deal with the increasing snow.

They arrived to find the usual collection of limos and expensive cars outside, some of them abandoned, with the keys left in them, in case somebody needed to move them. Prominent among them was a bright red Hummer, with a driver.

"Who the hell would drive a Hummer in New York?" Stone asked.

"It's your town; you tell me," Tiff said.

Inside, the place was packed, as it was every night. Their booth, along the south wall, was ready for them, and Stone took the seat facing the bar, where it was easier to see a waiter. It was also easier to see the motley crowd at the bar-people who had congregated there, hoping that somebody would have a coronary on the way to the restaurant and, thus, make a table available. The place seemed to draw its share of wiseguys, too. A few months back, one of them had shot another of his ilk, when he drunkenly complained too loudly about a dinner guest who had spontaneously begun to sing an aria. The events had been exhaustively covered in newspapers and magazines, and now a lot of people seemed to think that a shooting was a regular occurrence at the restaurant, though it was the only instance in the more than one hundred years of its existence.

A waiter brought them drinks, then Frank Pellegrino, the owner and grandnephew of the founder, came over and pulled up a chair. Frankie looked familiar even to people who had never been to Rao's, because he was also an actor, most recently playing a recurring role on the FBI team assigned to bring Tony Soprano's mob to justice.

Kisses and handshakes were exchanged.

"So what's it going to be tonight?" Frankie asked. A detailed discussion of what was available ensued, and they ordered more dishes than they could possibly eat.

"It's okay," Tiff said, "I'll take the leftovers home to the Waldorf Towers."

Stone ordered a bottle of wine and looked around the room: His eyes came to rest on the nose of a man in a booth across the room. Most of the rest of him was blocked by the wing of his booth; the nose was terribly familiar, but Stone couldn't quite place it.

Dishes began to arrive, and they tried, but failed, to keep up. There was veal, shrimp, an eggplant dish, chicken and, of course, pasta.

"You know, this is the best plain tomato sauce I've ever tasted," Stone said. "I don't know how Frankie does it." Frankie also cooked.

"You're right. In Washington I used to buy it by the jar at my neighborhood grocery store."

They ate and ate, until they couldn't eat any more, then the remains were packed up for Tiff to take home. As they were waiting for the check, the man across the room rose from his booth and, with his female companion, began to move toward the door, picking his way through the expanding crowd at the bar. To Stone's annoyance, he managed this with his back turned to their table. Then, as the man disappeared out the front door, it struck him. "Billy Bob," he said.

"What?"

"I swear, that was Billy Bob who just left."

"I didn't see him."

"I could only see him from behind." Stone got up. "I'll be right back." He made his way through the crowd to the front door and stepped outside. The red Hummer was pulling away, driven by a chauffeur. The rear windows were darkened, and Stone couldn't see inside. He watched it disappear up the street, undeterred by the accumulating snow, which now amounted to about eight inches. He got out his cell phone and called Dino.

"Bacchetti."

"It's Stone; I'm at Rao's, and I'm sure Billy Bob just left."

"Sounds like you're not really sure."

"I never got a look at the guy's face, but I'm sure it was Billy Bob. He should be easy to pick up, he's in a bright red Hummer."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Oh, did you retire from the NYPD when I wasn't looking?"

"It's nothing to do with me; I handed this one off to Lance, remember? You were there. Call Lance." Dino hung up.

Stone called Lance's cell phone.

"Yes?" he drawled.

"It's Stone; I'm pretty sure I just spotted Billy Bob."

"Where?"

"Leaving Rao's. You know the restaurant uptown?"

"Of course; I'm a regular."

"You've got a table at Rao's?"

"Every week."

"How the hell did you do that?"

"Frankie and I go way back. Tell me about this person you think was Billy Bob."

"He was eating at a booth across the room from us, and I never got a clear look at his face, but I'm pretty sure it was him."

"Which way did he go?"

"Downtown, I imagine," Stone said dryly. "Where else would he go but downtown? And in a bright red Hummer."

"Did you get the plate number?"

"It's a bright red Hummer, for Christ's sake! You don't need a plate number."

"Probably from a service; if I had a plate number, I could track it down and maybe back to Billy Bob."

"Well, I didn't get it; I'm up to my ass in snow, here, and the visibility isn't too good."

"It's snowing?

"Where are you, in a cave?"

"I'm in my study."

"Well, take a look out a window sometime. I've done my duty; good night!" He hung up and went back into Rao's brushing snow-flakes off his shoulders and hair. He was slightly damp all over, now. He sat down in the booth. "I called it in, but Dino wasn't interested."

"Wasn't interested? Isn't the guy wanted for murder in this city?"

"He's handed the case off to Lance."

"Who the hell is Lance?"

Stone realized he'd said too much. "Ah, I can't really talk about that."

"What do you mean? You're not making any sense at all."

"Are you going to call in this sighting to your people?"

"What can I tell them?"

"That a guy I'm pretty sure is Billy Bob is headed downtown from Rao's in a red Hummer."

"He was in the Hummer we saw?"

"Yes, and he's getting farther downtown every minute. Don't you think your feds would want to know that?"

Tiff got out her cell phone and dialed a number. "Tell your boss that someone strongly resembling Rodney Peeples has been seen leaving a restaurant in Spanish Harlem and is on his way downtown in a red Hummer." She listened for a moment, then covered the receiver. "Did you get a license number?" she asked Stone.

Stone shook his head. "Poor visibility; it's really snowing hard, now."

"No license number; poor visibility, but how many red Hummers can there be in New York City? Great, pass it on." She hung up. "Okay, I reported it; can we go home and make love, now?"

"You betcha," Stone said.