“Is this your current address?” the detective asked, checking the license.
“It sure is.”
“Are you armed, Mr. Barnstormer?” the detective asked.
“Hold it, Billy Bob,” Stone said, placing a hand on his arm. “My name is Barrington. I’m Mr. Barnstormer’s attorney,” he said to the detective. “I’d like to point out that your question is inappropriate, in the circumstances, since Mr. Barnstormer is the intended victim here, and I instruct him not to answer. I will tell you, though, that Mr. Barnstormer is not carrying a weapon.”
“Okay,” the detective said, making a note. “Anybody see the car?”
“I did,” Stone replied. “I was sitting next to the shot-out window, and I saw a black Lincoln Town Car make a hard left onto Eighty-eighth Street, running the light. It had New York plates, but I couldn’t get the number.”
“Okay,” the detective said. “Mr. Barnstormer, can you think of anyone in New York City who might want to cause you harm?”
Billy Bob looked at Stone.
“You can answer that one,” Stone said.
“Nope.”
“No one at all?”
Billy Bob looked at Stone again, and he nodded.
“Nope.”
“Do you know anybody in New York, Mr. Barnstormer?”
“Sure, I know lots of folks. I know Lieutenant Bacchetti over there, and I know a feller named Mr. Michael Bloomberg.”
“You know the mayor?” Stone asked, surprised.
“Yep, we’re real tight, Mike and me.”
“I think that’s all I need to know for the moment, Mr. Barnstomer,” the cop said. “Where are you staying?”
“You can reach him through me,” Stone said, handing the detective his card. “Can we go now? You through with the car?”
The criminalist walked over.
“You find anything?” the detective asked him.
“No bullet fragments,” the young man said, “but I found some residue on the broken glass.”
“What kind of residue?”
“Whoever did the shooting used frangible ammo, the kind of stuff you use at the firing range. The slugs disintegrated on impact with the glass, which is why the window on the opposite side of the car didn’t take any hits. Looks like you’ve got an environmentally conscious shooter.”
“A real citizen,” Stone said. “Is the car released?”
“Sure,” the criminalist said.
“Are you through with Mr. Barnstormer?” Stone asked the detective.
“For the moment.”
“Thank you and good night,” Stone said, climbing into the car. “Let’s go, Billy Bob.”
The car pulled away from the curb, and Stone gave the driver the address before turning to his new client. “All right, Billy Bob,” he said, “what the fuck was that all about?”