Timothy's Game

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Waiting for someone, honey?” Cone says softly. He settles down, knowing it’s going to be a long night. He figures he’ll stay double-parked as long as he can, and if a prowl car rousts him, he’ll drive around the block and take up his station again.

  One cigarette later, a beige Jaguar Vanden Plus pulls up in front of Dempster’s townhouse. It double-parks, a guy gets out, locks up, goes into the building. In a few minutes, Cone sees the shadows of two men moving behind the thin curtains on the third floor.

  He hops out of his car, trots across the street, walks purposefully past the Jaguar, and eyeballs the license plate. Back in his Ford, he jots the number on the inside cover of his matchbook. He’s no sooner done that when a dark blue, four-door Bentley pulls up behind the parked Jaguar. Guy gets out, locks up, hurries into the townhouse. Then Cone can spot three shadows moving back and forth on the third floor.

  He goes through the same drill: crosses the street, takes a long look at the license plate, returns to the Escort to jot down the number. One more and it’ll be a poker game, Cone thinks.

  But he has to wait almost fifteen minutes before the fourth visitor appears. He arrives in a chauffeured black Daimler that pulls in ahead of the Jaguar. Man gets out, enters the townhouse. Cone doesn’t even glance at the third-floor-windows; it’s a good bet the Daimler owner is going to join the crowd.

  Rut the Wall Street dick has another problem: The chauffeur steps out of the car, slouches against a fender, lights a cigar, and inspects the night sky. Cone decides to give it a try. He crosses the street, glances at the car, then stops as if entranced.

  “Wow,” he says to the lounging chauffeur. “What kind of a car is that?”

  The guy inspects him coldly. He’s a big bruiser with shoulders so wide he’d have to go through a door sideways.

  “Daimler,” he says.

  “Expensive?” Cone asks.

  “Nah,” the guy says. “Just save your bottle caps.”

  Cone laughs appreciatively. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks.

  “Look but don’t touch,” the guy says.

  So the Wall Street dick walks slowly around the Daimler, eyeballing the license plate.

  “Beautiful job,” he says. “Who’s so rich he can afford something like this?”

  The chauffeur stares at him. “I thought everyone had one.

  Cone knows he’s not going to get anything from this tight-mouth, so he returns to his car and adds the Daimler’s license number to his list. There’s no movement behind the third-floor curtains, and he wonders if it really is a poker game, or bridge or tiddlywinks, and the whole night is going down the drain.

  He opens his jar of vodka, takes a sip to lower the level, and tips in two cubes and some ice water from the plastic bag. As he drinks, he adds more cubes and more water, stirring with a forefinger until he’s got the mix just right. Then he slouches down, keeping an eye on the townhouse entrance and hoping for action.

  It doesn’t take too long. In about twenty minutes, three men come out. They stand a few moments on the sidewalk, talking, laughing, gesturing. Under the streetlight they all look well-fed, well-dressed, well-fixed. Pinkie-ring guys, Cone figures, or maybe the blow-dried type. They all shake hands, real pals, and go to their cars. The Daimler pulls away first, then the Jaguar, then the Bentley. Cone watches them go.

  Now what the hell was that? he wonders. Obviously not a poker game. And too short a time for them all to get fixed by a call girl in a back bedroom or watch a porn flick on Dempster’s VCR. Is the guy dealing crack? Just what in God’s name is going down to bring three apparent richniks to Dempster’s apartment on a Saturday night? Clients on business? If that’s what it was, why three of them at one time? And why couldn’t they have met in Dempster’s Cedar Street office or consulted by phone?

  It’s getting close to 10:30, and Cone sits patiently, still watching those third-floor windows. Suddenly the lights go out and Timothy straightens up. Too early for beddy-bye; the guy has to be on his way out. And he is. He leaves his building, walks swiftly toward Park Avenue. He passes under the streetlight and Cone definitely makes him as David Dempster. He starts the Escort and moves slowly after his target.

  David Dempster turns south on Park Avenue. Cone pulls up to the corner and stops as if he’s waiting to make a turn. He watches, hoping the guy isn’t just out for an evening stroll. He isn’t. About halfway down the block he pauses under the marquee of a residential hotel. The doorman comes out. The two men talk a moment. Dempster takes out his wallet, plucks a bill, slips it to the doorman. Then he unlocks and gets into a white Cadillac Seville sitting in the No Parking zone in front of the hotel.

  The action is obvious to Cone: Dempster is greasing the doorman to “rent” a convenient parking space. When the Seville pulls out, Cone completes his turn and follows. There’s enough traffic so that chances are good Dempster won’t spot a tail even if he’s looking for one.

  They go west, they go north, farther west, farther north. For a few moments Cone fears the Seville might be heading for the Lincoln Tunnel. The prospect of a late-night hegira through the wilds of New Jersey doesn’t fill the Wall Street dick with glee. But no, Dempster drives north on Eighth Avenue to 45th Street, turns west, slows down in the block between Tenth and Eleventh avenues. Awesome neighborhood for anyone in a white Cadillac at night.

  But Dempster knows exactly what he’s doing. A tenement has been demolished, the vacant area paved, and it now serves as a narrow parking lot. It’s completely dark, with a heavy chain across the entrance. Cone stops well back in the shadows and watches. The Cadillac pulls up. A guy comes out of a little hut. Dempster hands him a bill. The chain is unlocked and dropped, the Seville enters.

  By the time Dempster comes walking out, Cone has parked alongside a fire hydrant and doused his lights. He isn’t worried about a ticket—the client can take care of that—but the possibility of being towed away is a real downer. But he figures he’s got no choice. So he gives David Dempster a good lead, then sets off after him on foot.

  The tailee walks quickly down the deserted street to Eleventh Avenue. Just as Cone makes the corner, Dempster disappears into a grungy saloon with a spluttery blue neon sign outside: Paddy’s Pig.

  Cone saunters up, peers through the flyspecked window. He spots David Dempster seated at the bar talking earnestly to a fat guy who’s wearing a seaman’s watch cap and a T-shirt that was white a long time ago. Cone can’t figure Dempster’s choice of a drinking companion. Could the guy be a closet faigeleh? Not likely.

  There’s no way he can enter the bar; Dempster would make him for sure. So Cone spends the next half-hour meandering up and down the block, stopping at Paddy’s Pig occasionally to look through the window and make certain his quarry is still inside. There’s a faded menu taped to the inside of the window that Timothy finds interesting. It advertises “Turkey dinner with all the tremens.” Of the delirium variety, Cone has no doubt.

  He’s a half-block away, on the corner of 46th Street, when he sees David Dempster come out of the bar and walk quickly toward 45th, probably to reclaim his car. The Wall Street dick lets him go, waits a few minutes, then returns to Paddy’s Pig. Unexpectedly, it has a fine front door of oak, inset with panels of beveled and etched glass.

  But the tavern itself is a swamp. The bar is gouged and burned mahogany. The sawdust on the floor dates from Year One, being liberally mixed with peanut shells and cigar butts.

  Cone looks around as if he’s trying to locate a pal. The scarred bar is on his left. There’s a line of booths on the right, and down the middle is a double row of flimsy wood tables and fragile chairs. The tables are crowded with Saturday night boozers who look like seamen, longshoremen, thieves, and over-the-hill ladies of the evening. Noise slams down from the tin ceiling, and there’s a stink of scorched grease and phenol.

  The booths on the right are occupied by a different breed. Mostly youngish guys dressed for flash. Some are with women, but all look like hardcas
es. Cone reckons a few have got to be Attica alumni; they’ve got that lag look about them: talking without moving their lips, eyes constantly on the qv.

  He moves up to the bar, one empty stool away from the fat guy in watch cap and T-shirt. He has faded blue tattoos on his flabby arms and a long, pale scar across his chin as if someone went for his throat with a straight razor and he ducked just in time.

  On Cone’s right, practically rubbing elbows, is a tall dude with the jits. He’s either scratching his acne or probing an ear with a matchstick. Both his little fingers have been lopped off at the second joint, and he’s got a greasy black ponytail bound with a rubber band.

  A mustachioed bartender wanders up and stands in front of Cone.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  Cone looks around. Everyone seems to be drinking boiler-makers, but he includes himself out.

  “Vodka,” he orders. “On the rocks.”

  The mustache looks at him. “Bar vodka?” he asks.

  “No, no,” Cone says hastily. “What have you got?”

  “Bar vodka and Smirnoff.”

  “Give me the Smirnoff,” Cone says. “And there’s an extra buck in it for you if you open a fresh bottle.”

  The bartender stares at him. “We don’t water our booze in here, mister.”

  “Didn’t say you did. Do you want the buck or don’t you?”

  The mustache looks over at the watch cap.

  “Give the man what he wants, Tommy,” fatso says. “The customer is always right.”

  Grumbling, Tommy fishes out a fresh bottle of Smirnoff from under the bar and uncaps it in front of Cone.

  “Okay?” he says truculently.

  “Fine.”

  He’s taking his first gulp when the tall dude on his right leans toward him.

  “Hey,” he says, “I like the way you handled that. You got class.”

  Cone shrugs, turns away. He sees tubby is giving him the double-O. He seems to approve of what he sees because he pushes his boilermaker closer to Cone and shifts his bulk onto the barstool next to him.

  “You from around here?” he asks in a raspy voice.

  “Used to be,” Cone says. “I been away for a while.”

  “Yeah,” the guy says. “Ain’t we all. Need anything? Boom-boom? Wanna be a winner? Check it out?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Merchandise?”

  Cone stares at him. “That fell off the truck?”

  “That’s right. Cassettes, TV sets, VCRs, microwaves. You name it. All in the original cartons. Sealed.”

  The Wall Street dick considers that a moment, takes another swallow of his drink. “A motorcycle?” he suggests. “I got a buddy looking for a good buy.”

  “You’re talking to the right man. You name it—make and model—and you got it.”

  “I’ll send him around,” Cone says. “You hang here?”

  “Every night. I own the joint. Name’s Louie.”

  Cone nods, finishes his drink. He slaps a finif on the bar, turns to go. The tall gink has disappeared. Suddenly there’s a great crash behind him and he whirls. A wild, drunken fight has erupted between two men and two women seated at the tables. Screaming curses, they go at each other with fists, feet, elbows, weighty handbags. The melee grows more vicious, with bottles swung, tables upset, chairs splintered.

  “Tommy,” the fat guy calls, and points under the bar. He’s handed an aluminum baseball bat. He slides off the stool and waddles into the donnybrook. He starts bouncing the bat off the skulls of everyone within reach. The hard guys in the booths are spitting with merriment. Timothy decides it’s time to leave.

  He’s heading back to his car, walking along 45th Street, when someone calls, “Hey, mac.” He stops and turns slowly. The tall, jittery cat from Paddy’s Pig comes up close. He’s got a knife in his hand that looks to be as long as a saber.

  “Let’s have it,” he says in a whispery voice.

  Cone backs up a step. “Have what?” he asks.

  The guy sighs. “Whaddya think? Money, credit cards, whatever you got.”

  “Oh, my God!” Cone cries, clutching at his chest. “My heart! My heart!” He doubles over as if in agonizing pain, bending low. When he comes up, he has the S&W .357 in his fist. “Here’s what I got,” he says.

  The man looks at the gun. “Hey,” he says, “wait a minute.”

  “Drop the toothpick,” Cone says. “Drop it!”

  The knife clatters to the sidewalk. The Wall Street dick steps in and kicks the stupe’s shin, just below the knee, as hard as he can. The mugger screams, bends, and Cone cold-cocks him behind the ear with the short-barreled Magnum. The guy goes flat out on the pavement, but Timothy takes him with his heavy work shoes, heeling the kidneys and family jewels.

  He finally gets control of himself, tries to breathe slowly and deeply. He picks up the knife and drops it through the first sewer grating he comes to. He drives home to the loft, deciding he shouldn’t have given the guy the boot. That was overkill, and it wasn’t nice.

  “Not nice?” he asks aloud, and wonders if he’s ready for the acorn academy.

  “What did you do last night?” Samantha Whatley asks.

  “Nothing much,” Cone says. “Had a few drinks, went to bed early.”

  “Liar,” she says. “I called you around midnight; you weren’t in.”

  “Was that you?” he says. “I was sacked out. I thought I heard the phone ringing, but by the time I got up it had stopped.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says.

  It’s Sunday afternoon, they’re lying together in her fancy bed, and she really is reading the Real Estate Section of the Times, the rest of the paper scattered over the sheet. She’s sitting up, back against the headboard, heavy, horn-rimmed glasses down on her nose. Cone is just lying there lazily, not caring if school keeps or not.

  “Will you listen to these rents?” Sam says. “A studio for twelve hundred a month. A one-bedroom for fifteen hundred. How does that grab you?”

  “It’s just money,” he says.

  “Just money? Don’t try to be so fucking superior. You like it as much as anyone else.”

  He turns his head to look at her. “Sure I do. But I wouldn’t kill for it. Would you?”

  “You’re the only one I want to kill, and you don’t have all that much gelt.”

  “Bupkes is what I’ve got. No, seriously, would you kill for money?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Ever talk to a homicide dick about why people kill?”

  “I dated a guy from Homicide for a while, but I had to give him the broom. Whenever he got bombed he started crying. But no, I never talked to him about why people kill.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Cone says. “Subtract the weirdos who murder because God told them to. And subtract the ones who kill because they find hubby or wifey in the sack with someone else. Those are impulse murders.”

  “Crimes of passion,” Sam says.

  “If you say so. Well, subtract those cases and just consider the murders that are premeditated—sometimes for a long while—and carefully planned. Now you’re dealing with two main motives. One is revenge, which isn’t too important unless you’re a Sicilian.”

  “And the other is money,” she says.

  “Bingo,” Cone says. “I’d guess that greed tops everything else. It may be for a couple of bucks in a muggee’s pocket or for a couple of billion in a corporate treasury.”

  “Oh-ho,” Whatley says, peering at him through her half-glasses. “Now I know why I’m getting this lecture on mayhem on a nice, bright, Sunday afternoon. You’re brooding about the Dempster case, and you think greed was the motive for the industrial sabotage.”

  “And for John Dempster’s murder. What else could it be?” he says fretfully. “I’m not saying other motives might not be involved, but it was greed that sparked the whole thing.”

  “How do you know?” she asks.

  “I don’t,” he says. “And that’s what’s sendi
ng me up the wall. I thought I had it figured, but I struck out.”

  Then he tells her about his great inspiration: a corporate raider trying to put Dempster-Torrey into play, and conniving to reduce the price of the stock by sabotage and, eventually, assassination.

  “Good thinking, Tim,” she says.

  “Not good,” he says mournfully, shaking his head. “Simon Trale, the CFO, checked it out for me, and there’s no evidence at all, not even a rumor, that some pirate is making a move. So that’s that. Ahh, the hell with it. Let’s forget about it.”

  “Should I heat up the pizza?” Sam asks. “You getting hungry?”

  “Yeah,” he says, looking at her. “But not for pizza.”

  “Oh, you sweet-talking sonofabitch,” she says. “Can we fornicate on top of the Sunday Times? Isn’t that sacrilegious?”

  “What’s the worst that could happen—you get a headline printed backwards on your ass? Leave your glasses on. I’ve never balled a woman while she’s wearing specs.”

  “You’re depraved,” Sam says.

  “Just a mood. It’ll pass.”

  “Oh, God!” she says. “I hope not.”

  A few hours later, after a lukewarm shower during which they take turns picking up the soap, they have their pizza, salad, and wine.

  Cone gets back to the Dempster case; he just can’t get rid of it.

  “Of course,” he says, “it’s garbage to claim anyone kills from one motive alone. Usually it’s a tangle of reasons, justifications, and past history.”

  “Who are you talking about?” she demands.

  “Oh … just people,” he says darkly.

  “You’re closing up again,” she says. “I know that shriveled brain of yours is going ’round and ’round like a Roller Derby, and you’re not going to tell me about it.”

  “Nothing to tell,” he mutters, head lowered. “You got any more salad?”

  “That’s it,” she says. “Sorry I ran short.”