“Good morning, this is John Fratelli. May I speak to Mr. Barrington, please?”

“One moment, I’ll see if he’s free.”

“Stone Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington, it’s John Fratelli. How are you?”

“Mr. Fratelli, I’m fine. You sound different.”

“Perhaps so. I have a legal question for you, a hypothetical one: how would a person recently out of sight for many years avoid having the Internal Revenue Service made aware of his presence?”

“Does this hypothetical person have a Social Security number or has he filed returns in the past?”

“He has never had an SSN, nor has he ever filed.”

“Then he should not apply for one, unless he seeks employment, in which case he might want to give some thought to a new identity.”

“I see. What else should he avoid?”

“Any sort of transaction requiring a Social Security number: opening a bank account, for instance, or applying for a loan, opening a department store or gas credit card. All sorts of businesses these days require a Social Security number. Of course, he could decline to divulge that number, because it’s technically private information. That might work with opening a bank account, but not when applying for credit. A lender would deny his application.”

“What about income?”

“Everyone is required to file an annual tax return, Mr. Fratelli, listing income from any source.”

“And if one doesn’t file?”

“Then they would have no reason to come after him, unless someone had reported his status to them. If this person had, for instance, not filed a tax return during his, ah, absence from society, the IRS would have no knowledge of him. Once he filed, though, they would know him forever.”

“Then perhaps he should avoid coming to the attention of the IRS.”

“That would be my advice, hypothetically.”

“Thank you. I’ll send payment for your services.”

“Please, no more hundred-dollar bills.”

“You object to cash?”

“I object to out-of-date cash. I had a visit from the Secret Service after I deposited those hundreds. They’re series 1966 and out of circulation. You can tell by the red seal on the bills.”

“What did you tell the Secret Service?”

“Substantially nothing: attorney-client confidentiality.”

“That was the right thing to do. I’ll send you a cashier’s check.”

“Mr. Fratelli, please don’t bother. You’ve more than compensated me for my time already. By the way, you should know that the Secret Service are not the only people interested in your existence and whereabouts. I had a visit from a retired police detective named Sean Donnelly, who investigated a crime committed at JFK airport some years ago.”

“But you told him nothing?”

“Correct. You should also know that, shortly after visiting me, Donnelly was shot while leaving P.J. Clarke’s in the wee hours of the morning.”

“Killed?”

“No, just winged. He’ll be up and around soon, and as far as I know, he remains interested in your whereabouts.”

“Any word on who shot Donnelly?”

“No, but my assumption is it’s probably whoever ventilated your suitcase. If I were you I would find a way to exchange your funds for new funds.”

“I have already done so.”

“Have you spent any more of the hundred-dollar bills?”

“Yes, I’ve paid my living expenses, but I’ve made an investment which brings me a weekly return, so I won’t be needing to do that anymore.”

“How much of a return, out of curiosity?” Barrington asked.

“Five percent a week.”

“Did you say a week?”

“Yes.”

“So, you have loaned to . . . a lender. How much?”

“One very large bill.”

Barrington made a sucking sound through his teeth. “Mr. Fratelli, this is not good. Those hundred-dollar bills will not go unnoticed by the organization employing your lender, and I fear that you may have more to fear from them than from the IRS.”

“That’s good advice, but I believe things are under control. I’ve settled in a comfortable spot, and they are not aware of my location or my new name.”

“Yes, I noticed the postmark on your card. You’ll want to watch that sort of thing.”

“You’re quite right, I was careless, and I won’t be again. Thank you for your advice, Mr. Barrington.”

“Did you take my advice on acquiring a throwaway cell phone?”

“Yes, I did. I’m speaking on it.”

“You might want to give me that number, in case I hear from any of your old acquaintances. Somebody has already fired a shotgun at my front door.”

“I’m extremely sorry to hear that. Here’s my number.” Fratelli dictated it to him.

“I won’t call unless I fear that you are in jeopardy.”

“Thank you, and goodbye.”

“Goodbye and good luck.”

Both men hung up

Fratelli thought about this for a few minutes, then he took up his throwaway cell phone and called Manny Millman.

“This is Manny.”

“This is John Fratelli.”

“Hey, Johnny, how’s it going?”

“I’m getting feedback about some certain C-notes.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard something about that.”

“How did you dispose of the cash I gave you?”

“It was shipped to an offshore bank account the day after you gave it to me.”

“All of it? Don’t lie to me, Manny.”

“Apparently, twenty thousand of it was paid to a punter who had a long shot come in. I just heard, and I’m going to recover whatever he has left and send it out of the country.”

“A very good idea,” Fratelli said.

“But at least some of it is floating around out there. And, Johnny, I had a visit from a Secret Service guy.”

“Asking about the C-notes?”

“Asking about you. I told him I thought you were dead.”

“Stick with that story,” Fratelli said.

“I will, and, Johnny, your request is being honored to transfer your weekly vigorish from offshore account to offshore account.”

“Very good.”

“How can I get in touch with you, Johnny, if anything else should come up?”

“You can’t. I’ve left the state and made myself at home elsewhere.”

“You’re sure there’s not a number?”

“Okay, I’ll give you a throwaway cell phone.” He dictated the number. “Memorize that, Manny, then burn it.”

“Johnny, like I told you before, I’m grateful to you for your help when I was in the joint with you. I won’t rat you out.”

“Thank you, Manny.” Fratelli hung up.

Manny got up from his table and started walking the Hialeah clubhouse, looking for Howard Silver.

24

Howard Silver stood at the hundred-dollar window at Hialeah and took one last look at the odds board. He was about to turn back to the window when he found himself abruptly pushed out of line.

“Come with me, Howard,” Manny Millman said, taking a firm grip of Silver’s elbow and propelling him toward a door marked “Employees Only.”

“What the hell, Manny? I don’t owe you anything.”

“I know, Howard, and I’m grateful for your business.” Manny opened a door and shoved him into a conference room. “Have a seat,” Manny said. “We’re going to have a little conference.”

“What’s the beef, Manny? I don’t understand.”

“Howard, when your long shot came in, we gave you twenty grand in hundreds, that correct?”

“Well, yeah, that’s how much I won.”

“I’m sorry, but through an administrative oversight you were given the wrong hundred-dollar bills.”

“No,” Howard said, shaking his head vehemently, “the ones you gave me are working just fine, everywhere I go.”

“How much have you spent, Howard?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“All right, let’s do it this way: how much you got left?”

Howard made a little involuntary jerking motion that moved his left arm across his chest. “I’ll go home and count it and let you know,” he said.

Manny removed Howard’s arm from its frozen position, stuck his hand into Howard’s inside pocket and came out with a thick bundle of bills, bound by a rubber band. “Looks like ten grand here,” he said. “Give me the rest.”