Shoot First(Stone Barrington #45)(41)

31




Stone drove back to the offices of the Steele Group with Arthur, then they went up to his office.

“All right,” Arthur said, “how do you want to do this?”

“I want you to cut me checks for ten, fifteen, twenty, and twenty-five million dollars, made out to ‘bearer.’”

“And if you should get mugged on the way to see Bellini, or should you yield to temptation and take a South American vacation, it will cost me, let’s see, seventy million dollars?”

“Should either of those things occur, Arthur, you can always stop payment,” Stone replied. “Do you have a check format that is very official-looking?”

“The checks on our claim account satisfy that requirement.”

“Good. Let’s not keep Mr. Bellini waiting.”

Arthur picked up a phone and pressed a button. “Mr. Harvey, this is Arthur Steele. Please cut four checks on our claims account in the amounts of ten, fifteen, twenty, and twenty-five million dollars, and hand-carry them to me for my signature.” He listened for a moment. “Yes, those are the correct amounts, and please hurry.” He hung up and looked at Stone. “I expect that Mr. Harvey has suffered a coronary and that someone is calling nine-one-one, as we speak. If he does show up, be prepared to wait while he argues with me.”

“I’ll summon all my patience,” Stone said. He picked up a Wall Street Journal from Arthur’s desk and began perusing it. Arthur sat, drumming his fingers on his desk.

After ten minutes of this, a man walked in carrying a file folder. He was wearing an ordinary business suit, but Stone imagined him in a green eye shade and sleeve garters, with ink-stained hands.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Steele,” the man said.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Harvey.” He nodded toward Stone. “This is Mr. Barrington.”

Harvey turned and stared at him.

“I’m the delivery boy,” Stone said.

Harvey handed the file folder to Steele, but didn’t immediately release it from his grip. “I’ll need a signed claim payment memo for each of these checks,” he said.

“Mr. Harvey,” Arthur replied, “let go of the fucking file.” He gave it a yank, and it slipped from Harvey’s grip.

“Mr. Steele—”

“That will be all, Harvey. Don’t let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out.”

Harvey backed his way to the door, let himself out, and closed it softly behind him.

“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Harvey,” Arthur said, opening the file. “He lets go of money reluctantly.”

“I noticed,” Stone replied.

Arthur spread out the checks, took an expensive pen from his pocket, uncapped it, and let it hover over the desk as he carefully read the amounts on each.

“Arthur . . .”

“All right, all right,” Arthur spat, then signed each check. He took an envelope from his desk, tucked the checks into it, and handed it to Stone. “They are arranged in ascending amounts,” he said to Stone. “Don’t, for God’s sake, hand him the wrong one, or even worse, all of them.”

Stone tucked the envelope into an inside pocket, stood up, and shook Steele’s hand. “At the next board meeting, Arthur, I’ll tell them how reluctant you were to let go of these checks.”

“I want three of them back by the close of business today,” Arthur said.

Stone went downstairs and got into the rear seat of the Bentley, then he got out his cell phone, found the card Lance had given him, and gave the address to Fred. Ten minutes later Fred pulled up to a tall, skinny building; Stone got out, went inside, then dialed Bellini’s number.

“Hello?” a male voice said hesitantly.

“Mr. Bellini, this is Stone Barrington. I think you are acquainted with the name.”

“How did you get this number?” Bellini asked incredulously.

“It was posted on the public bulletin board at the Apple Store,” Stone replied, “with a thumbtack.”

Bellini made a gargling sound.

“I’m downstairs in your building, and I have a great deal of money for you. Please buzz your front desk and instruct them to admit me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If the desk clerk doesn’t pick up his phone in ten seconds, I’m leaving and taking the money with me.” He hung up.

Five seconds later, a phone on the front desk rang, and the attendant picked it up. “Yes, Mr. Bellini? Of course, sir.” He hung up. “Are you Mr. Barrington?” he asked Stone.

“I am.”

“Will you please take the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor?”

“Thank you.” Stone walked to the elevator and pressed the button. The car rose, creating a g-force that pressed Stone into his shoes, then glided to a stop. The door opened directly into a vestibule, and a thickly built man about six feet tall, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, no tie, and clutching a semiautomatic handgun, addressed him. “What do you want?”

Stone brushed past him, ignoring the gun, walked into a large living room with spectacular views, selected a chair next to another, and seated himself. “I’m Stone Barrington. Shall we get down to business?” he asked, indicating the other chair.