Timothy's Game

by Lawrence Sanders

  Ramsey’s building looks the way Cone imagined it: peeling paint, torn shades, cracked windows. It is dreary and dying, and no way would you figure it as the residence of a Wall Street plunger.

  There’s a spindly-legged little girl on the sidewalk. She’s about nine, and she’s skipping rope to the repeated chant:

  “Hubba, hubba, hubba,

  You better use a rubbeh.

  Or your ma will be a bubbeh.”

  A freckled, red-haired boy is sitting on the sagging stoop, watching her. He looks to Cone to be about eleven, going on forty-six.

  “You live here?” Cone asks him.

  The kid stares at him coldly. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m looking for Paul Ramsey. You know him?”

  “I don’t know nothing, I don’t.”

  “He’s supposed to live in this building.”

  “I’m not saying, I’m not.”

  “But you heard the name?”

  “I told you I don’t know, I told you.”

  Cone sighs. “Who are you—Joey Echo? All right, I’ll see for myself.”

  He starts up the stoop. The kid stands up.

  “Hey,” he says, “you want to know about this guy, you want to know? Cost you a buck.”

  Cone digs out his wallet, fishes out a dollar, hands it over.

  “I don’t know nothing, I don’t,” the kid yells and darts away.

  Outraged, Timothy watches the juvenile con man race down the street. Then he laughs at how easily he’s been scammed. He figures that kid will end up President or doing ten-to-twenty in Attica.

  He goes into the cramped vestibule that smells of urine and boiled cabbage. There’s a bellplate but no names are listed in the slots. But there are names on the mailboxes. Two are listed for Apartment 5-A.

  One is Paul Ramsey.

  The other is Edward Steiner.

  He gets a cab going downtown on Ninth Avenue. The hackie wants to talk baseball, but Cone isn’t having any; he’s got too much to brood about.

  There’s this woman, Sally Steiner, who goes for 10,000 shares in Wee Tot Fashions, Inc., in an insider trading scheme at Pistol & Burns. And there’s this man, Paul Ramsey, who buys 27,000 shares of Trimbley & Diggs, Inc., in what is apparently another insider scam at Snellig Firsten Holbrook. And this Ramsey lives in an apartment with a guy named Edward Steiner.

  Maybe the two Steiners aren’t related, don’t even know each other. Coincidences do happen—but don’t bet on it. The Wall Street dick wonders how far he should push what he’s already calling the “Steiner Connection.”

  He’s back in the loft, pacing back and forth, when a light bulb flashes over his head, just like a character in a cartoon strip. And suddenly he remembers what he’s been trying to recall these past few days, something he heard that struck a tinny note. It comes to him now.

  Jeremy Bigelow said that when he interviewed Sally Steiner in the course of his investigation of the Wee Tot Fashions deal, she claimed she bought her 10,000 shares because she wanted to get Wee Tot’s reports. She was planning to quit the garbage business. She hoped to learn more about the manufacture, distribution, and sale of children’s clothing.

  Now, as Cone well knows, people sometimes do buy stock to get a company’s reports and possibly learn about the business. And sometimes they buy stock just so they can attend the annual meeting of stockholders and may get a free box lunch. But those objectives can be achieved by purchasing one share, ten, or maybe a hundred. But buying 10,000 shares just to get quarterly reports? Ridiculous!

  Cone curses his own stupidity; he should have caught it from the start. It’s obvious to him now that Sally Steiner bought her stake because she knew something or had heard something about the takeover of Wee Tot Fashions, and was out to make a quick buck.

  He goes to the wall telephone in his greasy little kitchenette and calls Neal K. Davenport, a detective with the New York Police Department. He’s worked with Davenport on a few things, and the city bull owes him.

  “Hey, sherlock,” the NYPD man says cheerily. “How’ya doing? I haven’t heard from you in weeks. You’ve found another patsy in the Department?”

  “Nah,” Cone says, “nothing like that. I just haven’t been working anything you’d be interested in.”

  “Glad to hear it. Every time you get me involved, I end up sweating my tush. So why are you calling now?”

  “It’s about the commercial garbage-collection business.”

  “Oh?” Davenport says. “Thinking of changing jobs, are you? I’d say you’re eminently qualified. You want a letter of recommendation?”

  “Cut the bullshit,” Cone says, “and just tell me if I’m right. Private garbage collection, waste disposal, and cartage in Manhattan is pretty much controlled by the Families—correct?”

  “So I’ve heard,” the NYPD man says. “They’re supposed to have the whole fucking city divided up into districts and neighborhoods. If you want to pick up shit, you’ve got to pay dues to the bentnoses. There was an investigation years ago, but nothing came of it. The DA’s witness disappeared and hasn’t been heard from since. So what else is new?”

  “Thanks,” Cone says. “Nice talking to you.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Davenport says. “You got something on the mob’s connection?”

  “Not a thing,” Cone assures him. “If I come across anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I won’t hold my breath,” the city cop says.

  Cone hangs up and stares at Cleo thoughtfully.

  “Something stinks,” he tells the cat. “And it ain’t garbage, kiddo.”

  Five

  SALLY STALLS VIC ANGELO and Mario Corsini for two weeks. It’s a gamble; if she can’t come up with a winner, then she loses Steiner Waste Control and access to inside secrets in trash collected from Bechtold Printing. And that’ll be the end of her Big Chance.

  She conned the two villains in Angelo’s car outside the funeral home where Jake lay in his coffin.

  “Look,” she says to them, “I got a boyfriend on Wall Street. He’s a lawyer in the Mergers and Acquisitions Department of a big investment banker. I won’t tell you which one. Anyway, he gets in on the ground floor on mergers, takeovers, and buyouts. There’s a lot of money to be made if you get advance notice of these deals. I’ve been making a mint. You guys let me keep Steiner Waste Control, and I’ll feed you the same inside information I get from my boyfriend.”

  The two men stare at her, then turn to look at each other.

  “I don’t like it,” Angelo says. “Insider trading is a federal rap. Who needs it?”

  “Wait a minute, Vic,” Corsini says. “The insider here is this girlie’s boyfriend. If he wants to shoot off his mouth, it’s his problem. The people he tells can claim they bought on a stock tip.”

  “Right!” Sally says enthusiastically. “I tell you it’s foolproof. I’ve played four deals and haven’t lost a cent.”

  Corsini gives her a two-bit smile. “And you invest for the boyfriend and then kick back to him. Have I got it straight, girlie?”

  “Of course,” she says. “Whaddya think? And don’t call me girlie.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Angelo says, slowly peeling away the band from one of his fat Havanas. “Trouble with the Feds I don’t want.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to take one little flier, Vic,” Corsini says.

  That’s when the shtarkers agree to give her two weeks to come up with a winning tip. If she can do that, they’ll talk a deal. If she fails, they’ll buy Steiner Waste Control—on their terms. Sally goes along with that; she’s got no choice.

  By this time she’s got Terry Mulloy and Leroy Hamilton organized. Trash from Bechtold Printing is being delivered to her Smithtown garage, and the stuff she’s already pawed through is taken away and brought back to the Eleventh Avenue dump.

  By the ninth day she’s getting panicky. She’s broken three fingernails grubbing through the Bechtold scrap, and all she’s fou
nd is worthless first proofs of prospectuses and mass mailings to stockholders. But then, on a Thursday night, she hits paydirt.

  There are crumpled pages with the letterhead of Snellig Firsten Holbrook. They outline a suggested plan for a leveraged buyout of an outfit called Trimbley & Diggs, Inc. Financing will include junk bonds and a hefty cash payment by company executives who are going to take T&D private as soon as they get control. The purpose, as far as Sally can make out, is to sell off or develop valuable shorefront real estate.

  She looks up Trimbley & Diggs in that day’s Wall Street Journal and finally finds the stock listed in Nasdaq. It’s selling for four dollars a share. The next day she calls Paul Ramsey, tells him to buy 9,000 shares of T&D; she’ll get the cash to him as soon as possible. Then she calls Mario Corsini at the number he gave her. He isn’t in, but she leaves a message, and he calls back in fifteen minutes. Sally tells him she’s ready for a meet.

  He says they don’t want to be seen with her in public, and that’s okay with Sally. She suggests they come out late that night to her Smithtown home, say at midnight when her mother and housekeeper will be asleep, and they can talk without being interrupted or overheard.

  Corsini doesn’t like it. He implies her place may be bugged. He can’t take the chance.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Sally says disgustedly. “Why would I want to do a stupid thing like that? I’m in this thing deeper than you are. Look, if it’ll make you feel any better, you drive out there, park in the driveway, and I’ll come out and sit in the car. Your Cadillac’s not bugged, is it?”

  Corsini mutters darkly that he doesn’t think so, but these days who the hell knows? Finally he agrees that they’ll drive out that night and try to arrive at midnight. Sally gives him the address and directions on how to find her home.

  She gets home early, fills a plate with the shrimp salad Martha has prepared, and takes it upstairs to have dinner with her mother. She and Becky watch the evening news on TV while they’re eating, and then Sally goes downstairs while Martha gets her mother ready for bed. She works on her records and books in the den. Steiner Waste Control, with the addition of Pitzak’s territory, is making a bundle. Jake would have been happy.

  By eleven o’clock the house is silent. Sally sits quietly, plotting how she’s going to get the cash to Paul Ramsey and how much, if anything, she should give to Dotty Rosher. That bubblehead has written a letter to Sally, claiming she’s broke, and after all she did for Jake, she figures she should have something for her time and trouble. And silence.

  Sally decides to turn Dotty’s letter over to the Steiners’ attorney, Ivan Belzig. He’s a toughie and will know exactly how to handle an attempted shakedown like that.

  At fifteen minutes before midnight, she’s standing in the dimly lighted living room, peering out a window at the graveled driveway. It’s almost ten minutes after twelve when the silver gray limousine comes purring up and coasts to a stop. The headlights are doused.

  Sally snaps on the porch light and steps out the door. But before she can get down the steps, she sees Vic Angelo and Mario Corsini get out of the Cadillac and start toward the house, looking about them.

  “You decided to come inside?” Sally asks as they approach.

  “Yeah,” Angelo says. “I figure you’re straight. You’d be a fool not to be.”

  She leads the way into the den and offers them a drink, but they decline.

  “We won’t be here that long,” Angelo says.

  Both men light up cigars, Vic one of his thick Havanas and Mario a short, twisted stogie that looks like a hunk of black rope. The air grows fetid, and Sally switches the air conditioner to exhaust. She comes back to sit behind the desk. She looks at Vic Angelo, suddenly shocked at how much he reminds her of Jake.

  “So?” she says briskly. “Have you decided? You want in? If you do, I’ve got a hot tip for you.”

  “Nah,” Angelo says. “The stock market ain’t for us. I talked to my lawyer about it. He says the risk of our being racked up on an insider trading charge is zip. But if we do get involved, then maybe the Feds start looking into our other activities—and that we can do without. So we’re turning down your proposition.”

  She stares at the two men, feeling as if she’s been kicked in the cruller. They return her stare with all the expression of Easter Island statues.

  “So,” Angelo goes on, “we take over Steiner Waste Control. My lawyer is drawing up the papers now. We’ll pay you a nice price.”

  “A nice price!” Sally explodes. “My father started that business with one lousy, secondhand pickup truck. He worked his ass off to build it up, doing the driving and loading himself. And after I joined him, I worked just as hard. How can you put a ‘fair price’ on that? Goddamn it, that dump belongs to the Steiner family.”

  “Not anymore it doesn’t,” Angelo says coldly. “Look, private garbage collecting and cartage is a rough, dirty business. It’s no place for a woman.”

  “Screw that!” Sally says wrathfully. “I can handle it.”

  “You don’t need it, do you?” Mario Corsini says, speaking for the first time. “I mean, you got this boyfriend on Wall Street and you’re cleaning up on inside tips. You’ve been making a mint. That’s what you told us—right?”

  “Well, yeah, sure,” Sally says, beginning to feel desperate. “But the money to play the market comes from the business.”

  “That’s your problem,” Vic Angelo says, rising. “You’re a smart lady; you’ll find a way to work it. The papers for the sale of Steiner Waste Control will be ready in a couple of weeks. We’ve got to find someone to take over, but that’s our problem. Thanks for inviting us to your home. Nice place.”

  Then they’re gone. She watches the limousine pull slowly away. She digs her nails into her palms, determined not to cry. She turns off the porch light, locks and bolts the front door. Then she goes back into the den, slumps in her swivel chair, and in a low voice calls those two snakes every filthy name she can think of. It’s almost ten minutes before she begins to weep.

  By Monday morning she’s got her act together again. But her brain is churning like one of the compactors at the dump as she tries to find an out. All she knows is that no way, no way, are those skunks going to get control of her family’s business.

  She drives into the city, and before going to the office, stops at the bank that handles the company’s accounts. She withdraws $36,000, telling the bank officer she’s made a deal on a new truck, but the seller wants cash. She gets the money in hundred-dollar bills, neatly packed in a manila envelope. It’s small enough to fit into her capacious shoulder bag, next to her loaded pistol.

  When she gets to the dump, Judy Bering jerks a thumb at Sally’s private office. “You got a visitor,” she says in a low voice. “He wouldn’t wait out here. Wouldn’t give me his name. A mean bastard. He scares me. You want I should call the cops?”

  “Not yet,” Sally says. “If I need help, I’ll yell.”

  She walks into her office with a hand in her shoulder bag, gripping the gun. Mario Corsini is seated in the armchair alongside her desk. Sally stops short, glares at him.

  “Don’t tell me,” she says. “You came to count the paper clips. Afraid I’ll steal something before you take over?”

  “Nah,” he says with a bleak smile. “Close the door and sit down. You and me gotta have a private talk.”

  “We did,” Sally says. “On Friday night. Remember? So what more have we got to talk about?”

  But she does as he says: closes the door and sits down behind her desk. She examines him in silence.

  He really is a repellent man, with a pitted, ocherous complexion and eyes like wet coal. His shiny black hair is parted in the middle and plastered to his long skull like a gigolo or tango dancer of the 1920s. He’s wearing morticians’ clothes: black suit, white shirt, black tie, black socks, black shoes. No color. No jewelry. He looks like a deep shadow.

  “I gotta tell you,” he says. “I think Vic
is making a big mistake.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Sally says bitterly, “tell him.”

  “I did,” he says. “My point is this: We can take over this place anytime we want—but what’s the hurry? Why not give you a chance to deliver the stock tips you promised? If you come through, maybe we could make more loot on the market than we can by taking over. If you can’t deliver, then we grab the business. I told him all that but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “And Vic’s the boss,” Sally says.

  “That’s right,” Corsini says. “Vic’s the boss. So I go along even when I don’t agree. But there’s more than one way to skin a cat. We got a lot of things going on, and there are ways I can stall our moving in on you.”

  “Yeah? What ways?”

  “Just believe me when I tell you I can do it,” Corsini says evasively. “But it means you’ll have to play along with me. With me, not with Vic and me. You understand? He knows nothing about this. If he knew I was talking to you alone, he’d cut off my balls. I told him I was coming here to see how my cousin, Tony Ricci, was being treated.”

  “Well, he’s doing okay. The kid’s a hard worker—and ambitious.”

  “Yeah, I know. I had breakfast with him about an hour ago. He’s all right; he does what I tell him. Anyway, what I want to toss at you is this: On Friday night you said you had a hot tip for us. Vic turned you down. I want you to give me the name of that stock. I’ll invest my own money. Not Vic’s money or our company’s money, but mine, my personal funds. Now if your tip pans out, and I make a nice buck, then I go to Vic and say, ‘Hey, that Sally Steiner wasn’t shitting us; she really can deliver. Why don’t we let her keep the dump as long as she keeps feeding us inside info on stocks.’ What do you think of that?”

  “I think it sucks,” Sally says. “There are two things wrong. First of all, you could do exactly like you tell me, and Vic would still say screw it, we’re taking over the business.”