“All the comforts of home,” she says lightly. “I also own a Cadillac, but this baby is more fun to drive.”
“I wish—” he starts, then suddenly stops.
They sit in dimness, windows opened a few inches to let in moist night air. The windshield is beaded with mist, and illumination from streetlights is broken into watery patterns, as irregular as pieces from a jigsaw puzzle.
“If you had your druthers, Tony,” she says quietly, “what kind of a car would you like?”
“A Jaguar,” he says promptly. “The XJ-SC Cabriolet. You know the car?”
“I’ve seen it. A beauty. You have expensive tastes.”
“Yes,” he says sadly, “I do. Maybe someday …”
“Maybe sooner than you think,” she says. “Do you mind if we sit here a few minutes? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Sure,” he says. “The night’s young.”
In spite of all her rehearsals and imagined scenarios, she finds it difficult to state or even hint at what she wants. But Tony is no great brain, she tells herself, so she figures her best bet is to come on as blunt and obvious as possible. Then she can gauge his reaction and play him from there.
“That cousin of yours,” she says. “Mario. What do you think of him?”
Ricci shrugs. “He’s okay, I guess. Sometimes he thinks he’s my father. He knows what he wants.”
“Yeah,” Sally says with a short laugh. “He wants me.”
Tony turns to peer at her in the gloom. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”
“The guy is driving me crazy. He’s after me every day. He won’t let up. I don’t know what to do about it.”
“He is after you? I don’t understand. You pay your dues promptly.”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, Tony? That cousin of yours is trying to get me into bed. He’s told me a hundred times what he wants to do to me.”
“No!”
“Oh, yes. You didn’t know?”
“I swear I didn’t.”
“I thought he might have said something about it. I know how men talk.”
“Mario is not like that. He is very—how do you say it?—very nearmouthed.”
“Closemouthed.”
“Yes, closemouthed. He tells me nothing. Just Tony, do this; Tony, do that. He keeps his secrets.”
“Well, I’m one of them. No way am I going to spread my legs for that guy. He disgusts me. But I don’t know how to make him leave me alone. I’m not going to ask you to talk to him about it.”
“Holy Mother, no! I couldn’t do that.”
“Of course you couldn’t. Because then he’d know I had talked to you about it. He’d get jealous because you’re young and handsome, and he’d think you and I have something going.”
“Yes,” he says, “that’s true.”
“Tony,” she says, putting a hand on his thigh, “what am I going to do?”
“You told him you don’t want, uh, what he wants?”
“I told him a hundred times, but he won’t take no for an answer. He just keeps after me. Calls me almost every day. Sends me letters. Dirty letters—you know?”
Tony nods. “He is acting like a fool. If a woman says no to me, I say goodbye. There is always another.”
“You think I haven’t told him that? But it hasn’t done any good. I’ve got to get him out of my life, but I don’t know how.”
No response from Tony.
“Sometimes,” Sally says, deciding this is the moment, “sometimes I wish the same thing would happen to him that happened to Vic Angelo.”
“What? What are you saying?”
“You heard me. I just want him gone, and I’m at the point now where I don’t care how it’s done. I hate the guy, and I hate what he’s doing to my life.”
They sit in silence then, and Sally gives him time to absorb what she’s said. If he belts her, she’s sunk. If he gets out of the car and stalks away, she’s sunk. If he tells Mario of their conversation, she’s sunk. That’s a lot of sinking, and her only life preserver is Tony’s ambition and greed.
“I’d pay,” she says in an aching voice, and she doesn’t have to fake the desperation. “I’d pay a nice buck to have it done. Cash. I’d even help plan it. Make it look like an accident.”
He doesn’t answer, and her hand tightens on his thigh. She moves closer.
“And maybe a good job for the guy who does it,” she goes on. “An inside job. No more straining your kischkas lifting pails of garbage in all kinds of weather. You saw that extra desk in my office? That was my father’s. I’ve been handling everything since he died. But the business is getting too big. I need another executive. Someone I can trust. Someone who’s done me a big favor by putting Corsini down.”
She looks closely into his face and sees something new: stoniness. His eyes are hard and shiny as wet coal.
“No,” he says flatly, “I cannot do it. Anyone else, but not Mario. He is my cousin. You understand? He is family.”
Sally slumps. “Then I’m dead,” she says dully.
“No, you are not dead,” Anthony Ricci says. “There is a way out for you.”
“Yeah?” she says in a low voice. “Like what?”
“Marry me.”
She looks at him. “Are you nuts?”
“Listen to me,” he says, taking her hand, holding it tightly. “You marry me and Mario will never bother you again. I swear by my mother. And you get to keep the business. Sure, you will still pay dues, but no one will hassle you—because you will be my wife.”
“And what’s in it for you?”
“First, I marry a smart, beautiful, older woman. It will help me stay in this country. Also I get a good inside job, a desk, maybe a secretary.”
“And a piece of the business?”
He gives her his megawatt smile. “Maybe a little piece.”
“And what about the sex department?”
“What about it? Am I so ugly?”
“No,” she says. “Ugly you ain’t.”
“So? What do you say?”
“Let me think about it,” Sally Steiner says, and doesn’t object when he kisses her.
Timothy Cone has covered his table with several thicknesses of old newspaper, and they need it; the barbecued ribs, potato chips, and pickles make for a messy meal. Cleo prowls around, waiting for scraps.
“My live-in garbage disposal,” Cone says.
“Cut the small talk,” Samantha Whatley says, “and get on with your story. I want to know how it comes out.”
As they eat, he describes for the fifth and, he hopes, final time how Sally Steiner was trading stocks on inside information gleaned from the printer’s trash. He tells Sam about the mob’s control of the private carting business and how Sally was giving tips to Mario Corsini.
“For what reason I don’t know, exactly,” Timothy admits. “But I think he was leaning on her; that’s my guess.”
Then he recounts how he went up to see Steiner and did a little leaning of his own, trying to turn her so she’ll go to the cops and end extortion by the skels.
By the time he’s finished his narrative, they’ve demolished ribs, chips, and pickles. Sam has provided chocolate eclairs for dessert, but they put those in the fridge and settle down with their beers, feet parked up on the littered table.
“My, oh my,” Sam says, “you really have been a busybody, haven’t you? But you know what burns my ass?”
“A flame this high?” he asks, holding his hand a yard off the floor.
“Shithead,” she says. “When you found the insider leak for Pistol and Burns, your job was finished. Keerect? That’s what they hired Haldering for, and you delivered. It should have ended right there. But no, you had to push it and get involved with the Mafia shaking down garbage collectors, and trying to get this Sally Steiner to blow the whistle. Why did you do that, Tim?”
He looks at her. “I don’t know,” he says. “It just seemed the thing to do.”
>
“Bullshit!” Sam says. “You know what I think your problem is? I think you see yourself as nemesis. Death to all evildoers!”
“Nah, not me. I just saw a chance for the good guys to make a score, so I played out my hand. Listen, the cops helped me plenty. If I can fiddle a good bust for them, then they’re happy and willing to keep cooperating. I wasn’t acting out of anything but pure selfishness.”
“Uh-huh,” Samantha says. “Get me an eclair, you Masked Avenger.”
“Up yours,” he says.
They sip their beers, nibble their chocolate eclairs, and agree it’s a loathsome combination—but tasty. Their conversation becomes desultory, with Cone doing most of the talking, and Sam replying with monosyllables or grunts.
“Hey,” he says finally, “what’s with you? Got the fantods or something?”
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“That Sally Steiner. I feel sorry for her.”
He snorts.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Sam asks. “A laugh?”
“If it is, it’s on me. I went up to see that put-together lady to find out if she was ready to talk to the cops.”
“And?”
“She told me to get lost. She’s marrying Tony Ricci, Corsini’s cousin.”
“You’re kidding.”
He holds up a palm. “Scout’s honor. She snookered me. I thought I had her in a bind, but she wiggled out of it. By marrying Ricci she gets to keep the business. And she gets Corsini off her back. Maybe she’ll have to give her husband a piece of the action, but I’ll bet that garbage dump is going to stay in the Steiner family for another generation. She’s a real survivor.”
“Is she pretty?” Sam asks.
“She’s okay.”
An hour later, they’re lolling naked on the floor mattress. Popped cans of beer have been placed within easy reach, and Cleo, protesting mightily, has been locked in the loo.
Samantha, sitting up, begins unpinning her magnificent hair. Timothy watches with pleasure the play of light and shadow on her raised arms, stalwart shoulders, the small, hard breasts. Suddenly she stops and stares at him.
“Listen,” she says, “you made it sound like Sally Steiner is marrying that Tony Ricci just so she can keep the business in the family. Did it ever occur to you that she might love the guy?”
Cone shrugs. “Could be. There are all kinds of love.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, reaching for him. “Here’s mine.”
BOOK II
A Case of the Shorts
One
JOHN J. DEMPSTER, CHAIRMAN and Chief Executive Officer of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., comes charging out of his office bathroom, a dynamo in overdrive. Gray brush-cut hair is wet from a shower; he scrubs his scalp furiously with a towel. He’s wearing only boxer shorts imprinted with monetary insignia: dollar, pound, deutsche mark, yen.
Mrs. Esther Giesecke, his executive secretary, follows him to the dressing room, picking up his damp towel. She stands in the doorway as he dresses swiftly.
“All right,” he says, “what have we got?”
“Tommy called from LaGuardia. The Lear is fueled and ready to go. He wants to know when you’ll be leaving.”
“The idiot!” Dempster snaps. “We’ll be leaving when I get there. What else?”
“Hiram Haldering called to confirm your appointment on Monday afternoon at three.”
Another woman appears at the secretary’s side. She is Eve Bookerman, Chief Operating Officer of Dempster-Torrey.
“You sure you want to go to Haldering’s office, J.J.?” she asks. “Why not have him come over here?”
“No,” he says brusquely. “I want to get a look at his operation. Twiggs at Pistol and Burns says it’s a raggedy-assed outfit, but apparently they get results. Eve, I’ll want you to come with me. And Ted Brodsky, too. Tell him about it. Anything else?”
“Your case is packed,” his secretary tells him. “The takeover papers are in there, with a photocopy of your letter of intent. And a preliminary draft of your speech to the Chicago analysts.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she tells him.
“Eve, you got anything?”
“Time magazine wants to do a profile. They’ll assign someone to follow you around for a day. Twenty-four hours in the life of a magnate—that kind of thing.”
“A cover?” he asks sharply.
“They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
“Tell them no cover, no story. Did you send flowers to Ed Schanke’s funeral?”
“I took care of it, J.J.”
“Good. That union should be easier to deal with now. He was a sonofabitch. Well, I guess that’s it. If I think of anything else, I’ll call from the car or plane. You know where to phone me in Chicago and St. Louis. I’ll be back in town Sunday night, so you can reach me at home then if anything comes up.”
He inspects himself in a full-length mirror. He’s wearing a black suit of raw silk, white shirt, regimental striped tie. His black kilties are polished to a high gloss. His only jewelry is a gold wedding band.
“Okay, Esther,” he commands, “check me out.”
“Wallet?” she says. “Keys? Handkerchief? Sunglasses? Reading glasses? Credit cards? Pen? Cigarettes? Lighter? Pillbox?”
As she enumerates all these items, he taps trouser and jacket pockets. “Got everything,” he reports. “Esther, take my case out to Tim. I’ll be along in a minute.”
They move into his outer office, a baronial chamber paneled with bleached pine. It is dominated by an enormous desk-table: a solid slab of polished teak supported on chrome sawhorses.
Mrs. Giesecke carries his attaché case into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Dempster puts his back against it and beckons. Eve Bookerman comes into his arms: a long, fervid embrace, lips mashed, tongues seeking.
She pulls away, gasping. “You’ll call me tonight, Jack?” she asks.
“Don’t I always? That ear of yours still giving you trouble?”
“It’s better. The drops are helping.”
“Good. I better get moving.”
“Jack, you be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” he says. “See you on Monday.”
Tim, his bodyguard, is waiting at the executive elevator. The two men ride down forty-two floors to Wall Street.
“Nice day, Mr. Dempster,” Tim says cheerily. “Good flying weather.”
“Too bloody hot. But we’ll be going from one air-conditioned cocoon to another.”
A gray Lincoln limousine is at the curb. Bernie is behind the wheel. He hops out to open the back door, and Dempster slides in. Tim walks around to the traffic side to get in next to his boss.
A black Kawasaki motorcycle is idling about twenty feet to the rear of the limo. It starts up, moves forward so slowly that the man in the saddle drags his steel-toed boot on the pavement. Both driver and the man on the pillion are wearing blue nylon jackets, jeans, massive crash helmets with tinted visors that extend to their chins.
The bike pulls up alongside the Lincoln and stops. The rear rider unzips his jacket. He pulls out an Uzi submachine gun, stock folded down. Firing the weapon with one hand, he sprays the three men in the limousine, shooting through the opened door and the closed windows.
The chauffeur and bodyguard die first, their bodies riddled, jerking as the 9mm slugs cut them open. The muzzle is turned to Dempster. He throws up both hands in angry protest, but the bullets slice through. He is slammed back on the seat, then toppled onto the floor.
The assassin coolly empties the thirty-two-round magazine, then slips the gun back into his jacket. The Kawasaki accelerates, roars away, weaving through traffic. In a moment it is gone.
And so is John J. Dempster.
News headline: MASSACRE ON WALL STREET!
Post headline: WALL STREET BLOODBATH!
Times two-column head: Executive and Two Aides Slain by Motorcyclists in Financial District.<
br />
Photographs were gory, but facts were few. Knowledgeable witnesses identified the bike as a black Kawasaki Ltd. 650, and the weapon as a 9mm Uzi submachine gun with folding stock. Descriptions of the killers were meager: two young male Caucasians, medium height, medium build, wearing blue jackets, jeans, visored helmets, boots.
Shortly after the murders, three New York newspapers received phone calls from an organization calling itself “Liberty Tomorrow,” and claiming responsibility for the killings. More attacks against “corporate America” were promised, and the callers warned that assassinations of business executives would continue until the “people sit in the seats of the mighty.”
The New York Police Department, the FBI, CIA, Interpol, and antiterrorist organizations of foreign governments reported they had no information on a revolutionary group called Liberty Tomorrow, but all cautioned that such anarchic cells formed frequently, were usually short-lived, and sometimes consisted of no more than a half-dozen members.
The police investigation concentrated on finding the Kawasaki and checking all the threatening letters that John J. Dempster, like many business executives, received over the years. Detectives also sought to determine who was aware of Dempster’s schedule, knew of his projected flight to Chicago, and was able to direct the killers to the right place at the right time, enabling them to commit their crime quickly and escape with ease.
John J. Dempster was buried on Friday, but even before his funeral (attended by a Deputy Under-Secretary of Commerce), the Board of Directors of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., met in emergency session and appointed a subcommittee to search for and recommend a possible successor to Dempster. Meanwhile the responsibility for keeping the conglomerate functioning was assigned to Chief Operating Officer Eve Bookerman.
On the day of the murders, the common stock of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., was listed on the New York Stock Exchange at $155,250 per share. By the following Monday, it was trading at $119,625.
And on Monday afternoon, at precisely three o’clock, Eve Bookerman is ushered into the private office of Hiram Haldering on John Street.
“My dear lady,” he says, taking both her hands in his and twisting his meaty face into a suitable expression of grief, “may I express my extreme sorrow at your loss and my horror at this tragedy.”
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