“You think this Corsini arranged for Vic Angelo being chilled?”
“Definitely. It’s common talk on the street, but we can’t get enough real evidence to justify busting Corsini, let alone indicting him. But we keep hoping.”
“Is this Corsini into extortion of private carters and garbage collectors?”
“Sure he is. Why do you ask?”
So, for the second time that morning, Cone describes the activities of Sally Steiner, and how she’s been able to come up with those profitable stock tips.
“That’s lovely,” D’Amato says when Cone finishes. “I’d guess that she’s passing her inside information along to Corsini. For what reason I don’t know. Maybe she’s got the hots for the guy. Some women think mobsters are king shits.”
“Maybe,” Cone says, “or maybe he’s leaning on her, and those stock tips are what she has to pay to stay in business.”
“Could be,” the sergeant says. He blots his mouth delicately with a paper napkin, sits back, and lights another of his long cigarillos. “On the list you gave me, Mario Corsini’s address was given as Atlantic City. Actually he lives in Queens but probably bought his stock through an Atlantic City broker. No law against that. Maybe the broker’s a pal of his, or maybe one of the Departeur Family. Something bothering you?”
“I don’t know,” Cone says fretfully. “We’ve been blowing a lot of smoke, but there are damned few hard facts. It’s all ‘suppose’ and ‘maybe’ and ‘perhaps.’ I don’t think every private garbage and rubbish collector in New York is paying dues to the mob. I mean, we have no hard evidence that Mario Corsini or any other Mafia type is ripping off Steiner Waste Control. How can we prove a connection?”
Sergeant D’Amato gives Cone a soft smile. “About seven or eight months ago, Corsini brought a cousin over from the Old Country. It’s legal; the kid has all his papers. His name is Anthony Ricci. Anyway, in that list you gave me, there were two heavy stock buyers in Atlantic City. One was Mario Corsini. The other was Anthony Ricci.”
“So?” Cone says. “What does that prove?”
“Anthony Ricci works for Steiner Waste Control.”
“Let me buy you another cheeseburger,” Timothy Cone says.
Seven
“THERE YOU ARE,” EDDIE Steiner says, gesturing. “In all your primitive glory.”
Sally stares at the completed oil painting propped on an easel. “Jesus!” she bursts out. “You made me look like a tough bimbo.”
“You are a tough bimbo,” her brother says. “But forget your vanity for a minute; what do you think of it as a painting?”
“It’s good, Eddie,” she says grudgingly.
“Good? The goddamned thing is magnificent. It’s just one hell of a portrait. The best I’ve ever done. Ever will do. But then I’ll never find a model like you again.”
She moves closer to inspect the canvas.
“Careful,” he warns. “Don’t touch. It’s still wet; I just finished it last night.”
“I’m going to have to lose some weight,” Sally says. “Look at those hips. And that ass. My God!”
“You’re just a strong, solid woman, sis. Don’t knock it.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I told you about that gallery in the East Village that wants to give me a show. I finally agreed. I’ll bet this thing will be the first to sell.”
“I hope you’re not going to call it My Sister or anything like that.”
“Nah,” he says, laughing. “I’m calling it Manhattan.”
Good title, she thinks. In the nude body of a thrusting woman, he’s caught the crude, exciting world she lives in. The colors are so raw they shriek, and sharp edges and jagged composition reflect the demonic rhythm of the city.
“Yeah,” she says, “I think you got something there. If no one wants it, I’ll buy it.”
“And cut it up?” he teases.
“Never. When I’m old and gray, I’ll look at it and remember,” she says, smiling. “Well, look, here’s a package for Paul. Cash and a note telling him what stocks to buy. Okay?”
“Sure. I’ll give it to him. He likes the idea of being the Boy Wonder of Wall Street. Listen, Sal, you’re not going to get into any trouble on this, are you?”
“Trouble? What trouble? I’m giving stock tips to a good friend, that’s all. Nothing illegal about that.”
“I hope not,” Eddie says. “I’d hate to visit you up the river on the last Thursday of every month, bringing you some of Martha’s strudel.”
“Not a chance,” she says confidently. “No one’s going to lay a glove on me.”
She walks back to the office, thinking of her portrait. It lights up that entire dingy apartment. The more she recalls it, the better she likes it. It’s Manhattan, all right, but it’s also Sally Steiner, shoving belligerently from the canvas.
“That’s me,” she says aloud. “A tough bimbo.”
It’s almost noon when she gets back to Steiner Waste Control. There are four big yellow trucks on the tarmac, waiting to unload. Most of the guys have gone across to the Stardust Diner for lunch, but Anthony Ricci is waiting in the outer office. She knows what he wants.
“Why don’t you go to lunch,” she says to Judy Bering. “I’ll hold down the fort until you get back.”
“I may be a little late, Sal. I want to get over to Bloomie’s. They’re having a sale on pantyhose.”
“Take your time. Tony, come into my office.”
The kid really is a beauty, no doubt about it, and she wonders what Eddie could do with him—and then decides she’s never going to bring them together and find out. Paul Ramsey would kill her.
Ricci has a helmet of crisp, black curls, bedroom eyes, and a mouth artfully designed for kissing. That chiseled face might be vacuous except that, occasionally, the soft eyes smolder, the jaw sets, lips are pressed. And there, revealed, are temper, menace, an undisciplined wildness when the furious blood takes over.
He’s got a muscled body and moves with the spring of a young animal. He’s been working all morning, but he doesn’t smell of garbage; he smells of male sweat with a musky undertone from the cologne he keeps in his locker and uses every time his truck returns to the dump.
“How’s it going, Tony?” Sally asks him. “Like the job?”
“It’s okay,” the kid says. “For a while. I’m not about to spend the rest of my life lifting barrels of shit.”
“You’re not?” she says, putting him on. “And what have you got in mind—an executive job where you can wear monogrammed shirts and Armani suits?”
“Yeah,” he says seriously, “I think I would like a desk job.”
“With a secretary? A blue-eyed blonde with big knockers?”
He gives her the 100-watt grin. “Maybe. But not necessary.”
“No, I don’t imagine you have much trouble in that department. You got someone special, Tony?”
He shrugs. “I have many friends, but no one special, no. Mario, he’d like me to marry a woman he has picked out for me, but I don’t think so. Her father is respected and wealthy, but she looks like a—like a—what is it that farmers put in their fields to frighten birds away?”
“A scarecrow?”
“Yeah,” Ricci says, laughing, “she looks like a scarecrow. Not for me.”
“What kind of a woman are you looking for?”
He leans toward her slightly, his dark, burning eyes locked with hers. “An older woman,” he says in a low voice. “I am tired of young girls who talk only of clothes and rock stars and want to go to the most expensive restaurants and clubs. Yeah, I’m interested in older women.”
“Because they’re grateful?” Sally suggests.
He considers that. “It’s true,” he says finally, and she decides he may be an Adonis, but he’s got no fucking brains. “Also,” he continues, “older women are settled and know about life. They are smart about money, and they work hard.”
“Uh-huh,” Sally says. “Sound
s to me like you’ve got it all figured out. An executive desk job—with or without a secretary—and an older woman you can tell your troubles to. And what would you give her? You’d be faithful, I suppose.”
He doesn’t realize she’s kidding him, but sits back with a secret smile. “She would not care about that,” he says. “Where I come from, a man provides a home, food on the table, and takes care of his children. What he does outside the home is his business. The wife understands.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” Sally says. “I hope you find a rich older woman like that.”
“I intend to,” he says solemnly, staring at her with such intensity that she begins to get antsy.
“Well,” she says, “let’s get down to business.” She slides a sealed white envelope from the top drawer of her desk and hands it to him. “You know what’s in that, Tony?”
He nods soberly. “More than I make in a month for lifting garbage.”
“You better believe it,” Sally says. “So don’t lose it or take off for Las Vegas. A receipt isn’t necessary.”
Her sarcasm floats right over those crisp, black curls. “A receipt?” he says, puzzled. “Mario didn’t say anything about a receipt.”
She wonders if this boy has all his marbles. “Forget it,” she says. “Just a joke. Nice talking to you, Tony.”
“Maybe some night we could have dinner,” he says, more of a statement than a question. “I know a restaurant down on Mulberry Street. Not expensive, but the food is delizioso. Would you like to have dinner with me?”
She realizes that if Terry Mulloy had made the same proposal, she’d have told him to stuff it. “Sure,” she says to Anthony Ricci. “Why not?”
After he’s gone, she questions why she didn’t cut him off at the knees. Not, she decides, because he’s so beautiful and dumb. But he’s Mario Corsini’s cousin, and she has a presentiment that he might, someday, be of use to her. She has never forgotten that on the morning Vic Angelo was murdered, Ricci didn’t get to work until noon.
She calls Mario, leaves a message, and he calls back in twenty minutes.
“I delivered the mail to Tony,” she tells him.
“Okay,” he says. “You got anything else for me?”
“Yeah,” she says, and gives him the name of the smaller food processing company involved in the merger being engineered by Pistol & Burns.
“A good one?” Corsini asks.
“I’m in it,” Sally says. “You suit yourself.”
“It better be good,” he says. “You know what’s riding on it.”
“You scare the pants off me,” she says scornfully.
“I’d like to,” he says, and she hangs up.
Timothy Cone and Jeremy Bigelow are “eating street” again. They’re sauntering down through the financial district toward the Battery, stopping at carts and vans to pick up calzone, chicken wings in soy sauce, raw carrots, chocolate-chip cookies, gelato, and much, much more.
“I never want to work a case with you again,” the SEC investigator says. “Every time we eat like this, I gain five pounds and my wife tells me she can’t sleep because my stomach keeps rumbling all night.”
“I got a cast-iron gut,” Cone brags. “But nothing compared to my cat. That monster can chew nails and spit tacks.”
“Lucky for him. How did you make out with those Trimbley and Diggs trading records I gave you?”
“I made out like a thief,” Timothy says. “I found the leak.”
Jeremy stops on the sidewalk, turns, stares at him. “You’re kidding,” he says.
“Scout’s honor,” Cone says, and for the third time he describes how Sally Steiner is digging through trash from Bechtold Printing and finding smeared proofs of confidential financial documents.
He tells Bigelow nothing about the Mario Corsini connection.
Twiggs had succumbed to hysterical guffaws after hearing the story, and Joe D’Amato had been amused, but the SEC man is infuriated.
“Son of a bitch,” he says angrily. “I should have caught those nine-thousand-share trades. How did you break it?”
“A lot of luck.”
“You told Pistol and Burns?”
“Oh, sure. Twiggs called me this morning. They’ve canned Bechtold and are switching to another commercial printer until they can put in a desktop printing system. Listen, Jerry, you better tell Snellig Firsten Holbrook.”
“Yeah,” the other man says worriedly. “I’ll do that. You think the printer was in on it?”
“Nah,” Cone says, “I think he’s clean. He’s just careless with his garbage, that’s all.”
“My God,” Bigelow says, trying to wipe drips of gelato from his lapel, “do you realize what this means? We’ll have to get hold of Bechtold’s customer list—get a subpoena if we have to—and alert all his Wall Street customers about what’s going on.”
That’s exactly what Cone wanted him to say. This guy is brainy, but not the hardest man in the world to manipulate.
“Yeah,” he says sympathetically, “a lot of work. Maybe an easier way to handle it would be for you to pay a visit to Frederick Bechtold. Come on strong. Tell him what’s been going down, and if he doesn’t get rid of Steiner Waste Control and put in an incinerator or pulverizer, you’re going to report him to every Wall Street customer he’s got. He’ll believe you because he’ll already have the bad news from Pistol and Burns.”
“It could be handled that way,” Jeremy says thoughtfully. “A lot less work. No subpoenas, charges, and court trials.”
“Sure,” Cone agrees. “And why should an innocent printer suffer just because Sally Steiner has larceny in her heart.”
They stop at an umbrella stand for a final giant chocolate chip cookie. They munch on those, holding paper napkins under their chins as they walk.
“Sally Steiner,” Bigelow repeats. “What are we going to do about her?”
“What can you do?” Cone asks. “Let’s face it: Your chances of making a legit charge against her for inside trading are zilch. She’s a shrewd lady, and I’m betting she’ll fight you every inch of the way. Maybe you can force her to cough up her profits—but I doubt it. Meanwhile the SEC will be getting a lot of lousy publicity. Everyone will be on Steiner’s side and getting a big laugh out of how clever she was to beat the stock market.”
“Yeah, you’re right. If this was a megamillion deal, I’d push for a formal inquiry by the Commission. But how much could she have made? Half a million?”
“Probably less than that,” Cone says, not mentioning how much Corsini and his pals might have cleared. “But the important thing is that you’re closing her down. The moment you brace Bechtold, you know he’s going to get rid of Steiner. She’ll be losing a good customer and getting cut off from her source of inside scoop.”
“It makes sense,” Jeremy says, nodding. “I’ll just keep the whole thing on the investigative level and file a report saying the leak’s been plugged.”
“And take all the credit,” Cone advises. “I don’t want any glory. My job was with Pistol and Burns, and they’re happy. The rest belongs to you.”
“Thanks, Tim,” Bigelow says gratefully. “Listen, you don’t mind if I split, do you? I want to get uptown and start the ball rolling.”
“Go ahead,” the Wall Street dick says. “Tell the printer it was all Sally Steiner’s fault.”
He watches the SEC man hurry away, tossing the remnants of his cookie into a litter basket. Cone finishes his, then turns and meanders uptown to Haldering & Co.
He’s satisfied that he’s put the first part of his plot into place. If he can stage-manage the second part, his scheme will have a chance. Except, he admits, everything depends on the reaction of Sally Steiner. All Cone can do is put the pressure on and hope she’ll cave. She might not, but he’s got to try it. It’s his civic duty, he tells himself virtuously. And besides, the whole thing is a hoot.
Back in his office, he calls Joe D’Amato. Sorry, he’s told, the sergeant is out and can
’t be reached. Cone leaves a message and begins to get skittery. A lot depends on timing, and if he can’t get hold of D’Amato and persuade him to play along, the whole scam will collapse.
He chain-smokes two cigarettes and makes a half-assed attempt to compose his long-delayed progress reports. They should be submitted weekly to Samantha Whatley, but at the rate he’s going, they’ve become monthly progress reports.
His phone doesn’t ring until after four o’clock. By that time his throat is raw from smoking, and his “Yeah?” comes out like a croak.
“Joe D’Amato,” the sergeant says. “Something wrong with your voice?”
“Too many coffin nails. Thanks for calling back. I need a favor.”
“Yeah? And what might that be?”
“You got a phone number for Mario Corsini? I’d like to call him.”
“What for? Wanna have lunch with him?”
“Nah, nothing like that.” Then Cone explains what he has in mind. “It’s risky,” he acknowledges, “but I think it’s got a chance, don’t you?”
“Damned little,” D’Amato says. “You’re playing with fire, you know that?”
“Sure, but what have I got to lose? I figure if I go ahead with it, she’ll think seriously about turning.”
“Umm. Maybe.”
“You want to make the call to Corsini yourself?”
“Hell, no. Self-preservation are the first, second, and third laws in this business, and I’ve got to cover my ass. I’m even going to erase the tape of this call.”
“Does that mean you’re going to give me Corsini’s phone number?”
“I haven’t got it. But I’ve got the number of a social club in Ozone Park where he hangs. Maybe they’ll get a message to him to call you back. That’s the best I can do.”
“Good enough,” Cone says. “Let’s have it.”
That evening, on the way home, he stops to buy some baked ham hocks, which he and Cleo dearly love, and a container of potato salad. But back in the loft, he postpones laying out the evening’s feast until he calls that Ozone Park social club.
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