Two-Dollar Bill (Stone Barrington 11)

Stone looked over his shoulder to see Billy Bob entering the room. He was wearing a western-cut tuxedo that seemed to be sprinkled with stardust, and on his arm was a six-foot-tall woman who looked like a stripper who had been redone by Frédéric Fekkai and Versace. “Oh, that’s my newest client, one Billy Bob Barnstormer.”

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“I am not.”

“Where did he get that suit? It looks like he’s playing Vegas.”

“Texans have places to get things like that,” Stone said. “They keep them from the rest of us.”

“Thank God for that. Who is he? What does he do?”

“It’s hard to say, exactly. He goes out into the world and gathers money from trees. He flew into Teterboro in a GIV last night and stayed at my house, leaving many pieces of alligator luggage behind as a house gift. And he got a phone call this morning from Warren Buffett.”

“I should have such house guests,” she said.

“Do you have a house, yet?”

“They’re putting me up in a government suite at the Waldorf Towers until either I find a place or they need it for somebody more important, whichever comes first.”

“I would extend your residence there as long as possible.”

She shook her head. “No, I have to pay my own room service and laundry bills. Do you have any idea what they charge for dry cleaning a silk blouse?”

“A week’s pay?”

“Very nearly, and breakfast this morning was forty-five bucks.”

“I hope you ate well.”

“Better than I intended to. I felt I had to finish it.”

“I know how you feel. Billy Bob cooked me breakfast this morning—a strip steak and half a dozen eggs. I couldn’t eat lunch, and I’m not very hungry now.”

He looked back at Billy Bob and his date, posing for a photograph with the mayor, whose head hovered at about the height of the date’s nipples, which were threatening to become visible. They all seemed the best of friends.

Stone was still thinking about that phone call that morning. “Excuse me a second,” he said. He walked out of the dining room and into the hallway, next to the huge Picasso weaving and called Bob Cantor, who did all sorts of technical investigations for him.

“Hello?”

“Bob, it’s Stone; are you near your computer?”

“Always.”

“Can you do your magic and tell me the origin of a phone call that came to my house about nine-fifteen this morning?” Stone could hear the tapping noises from Bob’s keyboard.

“Did you get a lot of calls this morning?”

“That was the only long-distance call before about ten.”

“Here we go: It came from the residence of somebody named Warren Buffett, in Omaha, Nebraska. Holy shit, are you getting calls from Warren Buffett?”

“It would appear so. Thanks, Bob.” He hung up and returned to his table.

“Everything all right?” Tiff asked.

“Seems to be,” Stone replied. He was going to have to start taking Billy Bob Barnstormer seriously.

WHEN THE DINNER was over, they went back to her waiting car.