“Drugs?” Sam suggests.
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Stanley and Lucinda have to protect their reputation as public-spirited citizens and world-class partygoers. No, it’s not something as heavy as drugs, but it’s a scam, no doubt about it. And Clovis and Clovis must be aware of it.”
They’re in Samantha’s gentrified apartment in the East Village. You’d think, wouldn’t you—considering the woman’s hard, edgy personality—that her home would be high-tech, with white walls and furniture of stainless steel and glass.
But no, her studio is one big bouquet. Lots of bright, flowered chintz, ruffles, a French doll in lace on the bed. The walls are covered with paper in a trellis and vine design, oval rag rugs scatter the polished wood floor, and there, over a fake marble mantelpiece in a place of honor, is a big, framed reproduction of Wyeth’s “Christina’s World.”
They’ve had supper—grilled knockwurst, baked beans, and cold sauerkraut with caraway seeds—and are now working on chilled bottles of Heineken dark. They’re lying on one of the rag rugs, mostly because Samantha’s chairs are so bloody uncomfortable. “Designed for midgets,” Tim once growled, and Sam had to agree. But she likes them; they’re so pretty.
“Did you read the paper today?” she asks him.
“Of course I read the paper. I keep up.”
“Sure you do,” she says. “The front page and the financial section.”
“Don’t forget the obituaries. I always turn to that first, looking for my name.”
“You should read the society pages occasionally. Maybe you’d learn something.”
She takes a folded newspaper clipping from the breast pocket of her blue denim shirt and hands it to him. He reads swiftly. It’s a short account of a charity bash held at the Parker Meridien. The article lists several well-known guests.
“‘Also present,’” Cone reads aloud, “‘were the socially active Lucinda and Stanley Clovis, dressed to the nines and holding hands as usual. And where was the beauteous Mrs. Grace Clovis’?”
He looks at Sam. “What the hell does that mean?”
She shrugs. “Beats the shit out of me. I just thought you’d be interested.”
“Yeah,” he says, “thanks. Can I keep it?”
She nods, and he stuffs the clipping into his hip pocket.
“Getting anywhere?” she asks him.
“This guy Anthony Bonadventure …” he says. “I told you about his record. Well, I checked with our legal department, and they found out he’s listed as treasurer of New World Enterprises, Inc. Now you know that anything he’s connected with has got to be dirty.”
“Who are the other officers of the corporation?”
“Stanley Clovis is president, Lucinda is vice-president, and in addition to Bonadventure being treasurer, there’s a secretary, Constance Figlia. I just feel in my bones she’s the short, dumpy broad I saw at New World and then later with Bonadventure at the press conference. They’re all in it together.”
“In what?”
“How the hell do I know?” he yells at her, then calms. “I’m sorry,” he says contritely. “I just feel I’m getting the runaround, and I don’t like it. Tomorrow I’m going to call Neal Davenport, the city dick, and ask him to run a trace on Constance Figlia. Maybe the computers can turn up something.”
“And you want something from me, too, don’t you?” Samantha asks.
“How can you tell?”
“You’re acting so fierce.”
“Fierce?” he says with his quirky smile. “I haven’t been fierce since the age of eight when a kid tried to steal my best aggie. Well, yeah, Sam, I want something from you. I need wheels. Trying to requisition the company Toyota a few hours at a time just won’t do. I need a car so I can run the job. I mean I’ve got to get around, and subways and buses and even cabs just won’t do.”
“H. H. won’t approve.”
“Sure he will. Tell him I’m on to something hot. Tell him it’s going to make him King Jesus on Wall Street. Tell him anything. But also tell him it’s not going to cost him a cent; he can always charge Evanchat for the expenses.”
“I’ll try,” she says.
“That’s my own dear shithead,” he says, patting her cheek.
“Okay,” she says, “enough shoptalk. Were you planning to spend the night?”
“I was planning,” he admits. “All right with you?”
“All right,” she says, “you smooth, sweet-talking son of a bitch.”
“You want me to take a shower first?” he asks her.
“Every time I walk into this perfumed boudoir of yours, I figure you want me to be squeaky clean.”
“Fuck you,” she says.
“I hope so,” he says.
He gets his wheels—a little black Honda that he wouldn’t select for a high-speed chase but does just fine in city traffic. What’s on his mind—something he didn’t mention to Samantha—is the role being played by Mrs. Grace Clovis. He figures that wobbly lady is on the sauce, or stoned, and might be willing to gabble if the time is right.
So, in the morning, he drives to the residence of Stanley Clovis. It’s a triplex penthouse atop one of the Clovis & Clovis properties on Third Avenue near Eighty-fifth Street. Cone has to drive around the block three times before he finds a parking space that gives him a good view of the entrance. Then he settles down with the Times, a container of hot coffee, and a pumpernickel bagel.
He looks when a long blue Mercedes pulls up on the curved driveway. He watches as Stanley and Lucinda Clovis come out, both carrying attaché cases, and step into the chauffeured limousine. So Lucinda lives with her brother and sister-in-law, does she? That’s interesting. Cone stays right where he is, crossing his fingers because he’s a superstitious man.
His luck pays off in about a half hour. Grace Clovis comes out alone, wearing a sheath of something that sparkles and carrying a silver fox stole carelessly looped over one arm. The doorman moves out into the street to whistle up a cab, and Timothy Cone drops his newspaper and starts up the Honda. Half of the bagel is still clamped between his teeth.
Eventually a taxi stops and Mrs. Clovis climbs in, with a flash of thigh Cone can see, and appreciate, from across the street. He follows the cab downtown, almost bumper to bumper because traffic is so jammed up; there’s no way Grace or the hack driver is going to spot a tail.
When they get below Forty-second Street, Cone guesses where Grace is going. Sure enough, the cab pulls up in front of a handsome converted brownstone on East Thirty-seventh Street, just off Park Avenue: the last known home address of Anthony Bonadventure.
“Well, well,” Cone says aloud.
He drives by, then double-parks just long enough to watch Grace stalk across the sidewalk and enter the brownstone. Then Cone pulls away and heads for Brooklyn. Traffic is murder, but he doesn’t mind; he’s got a lot to think about.
He parks in front of the New World warehouse and gets out of his car. The same guard comes limping from the hut.
“Me again,” Cone says cheerfully. “Is Constance Figlia in?”
“She’s in,” the guard says grudgingly, “but you gotta have an appointment. You got an appointment?”
“Well, no, but I’m sure she’ll see me.”
“No appointment, no see,” the guard says. “Them’s my orders.”
“Okay,” Cone says breezily, “I’ll give her a call. If you happen to see her, will you tell her Mr. Javert was asking for her.”
“Javert?”
“That’s right. J-a-v-e-r-t. Thank you very much.”
Cone drives back to Manhattan, satisfied with the long journey. He’s a methodical man, and he’s established, to his satisfaction, the presence of Constance Figlia at New World headquarters. Now he’s got the cast identified; he can concentrate on the plot.
In his office, it takes three calls to locate Detective Davenport.
“Thanks for sending that stuff over,” Cone says. “It’s been a big help.”
“How about this …” the Wall Street dick says. “Anthony Bonadventure is treasurer of New World Enterprises, Inc. In the past year or so, the company has made a profit of more than fifty million with absolutely no record of any business activity. No building, no renovation, nothing.”
“Oh-ho,” Davenport says, “the worms are squirming, are they?”
“I’d say so. Something is going down, but I haven’t a clue—yet. Can you do something for me?”
“Depends.”
“The secretary of New World is a woman named Constance Figlia. F-i-g-l-i-a. She’s dark-haired, olive-skinned. I make her as five-three, one-twenty, maybe around thirty-eight years old. She dresses like she buys her clothes at a thrift shop.”
“It takes one to know one,” the Department man says.
“Could you see if you’ve got anything on her?”
Silence.
“Davenport?” Cone says. “Are you there?”
“I’m here. You think this Figlia dame is mixed up in whatever’s going on?”
“Oh, yeah. Has to be.”
“All right. I’ll see if we’ve got anything on her and get back to you.”
“Great. I may not be at the office. Do you have my home phone number? It’s unlisted.”
“I’ve got it,” Davenport says. “I know a lot about you. Why didn’t you tell me you have all those medals from the Marine Corps?”
“I hocked them,” Cone says.
The detective laughs. “You’re a flake, you know that?”
They hang up and then, just because he feels he’s on a roll, Cone calls Clovis & Clovis and asks to speak to Miss Constance Figlia.
“Just a moment, please,” the receptionist chirps, “I’ll connect you with her department.”
Click, click, click. Another operator comes on.
“Comptroller’s office,” she says.
“May I speak to Miss Figlia, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir, she isn’t in today. Would you care to leave a message?”
“Just tell her Mr. Javert called,” Cone says. “I’ll try her tomorrow.”
He sits for almost an hour in his cramped office, smokes three Camels, stares at the wall, and runs scenarios through his mind like videocassettes in living color. But nothing makes sense. He just doesn’t know enough.
Sighing, he pulls a yellow legal pad toward him and starts working on his weekly progress report. Progress, he thinks dourly—it is to laugh. He puts nothing in his report that Samantha Whatley doesn’t already know.
He’s home, he and Cleo have dined royally on pastrami sandwiches and cole slaw, and he’s still running those videos through his mind and still coming up with zilch. It’s past eleven o’clock when his phone rings.
“Did I wake you up?” Neal K. Davenport asks.
“No, but you woke up Cleo.”
“Tough shit,” the detective says. “I need sleep more than that cat. As soon as I hang up, I’m packing it in and going home for eighteen straight hours of shuteye.”
“Where do you live?”
“Staten Island. You know the place?”
“No.”
“There’s nothing to know. About that lady of yours, Constance Figlia, we got nothing on her, she’s got no record. But I talked to a pal of mine in the Organized Crime Unit, and he made her. She’s a niece of Vincent Figlia. You know who he is?”
“Never heard of him.”
“A lower-echelon mafioso who works out of Long Island,” Davenport says, giving it the correct pronunciation: “Longuyland.” “This Vincent is small-time stuff: some minor loan-sharking, bookmaking, shakedowns—things like that. But he’s got connections with Brooklyn Families. And, like I say, that Constance is his niece.”
“Well,” Cone says, “that’s something. But not much.”
“Uh-huh, but here’s what makes the cheese more binding: Remember my telling you that Anthony Bonadventure was mixed up in a counterfeit green-card scam? The Feds got close and broke it up, but were never able to put the thumb on Bonadventure. Well, it turns out that Vincent Figlia was one of the guys supplying the illegal aliens. Figlia and Bonadventure did business together. So your lady, the niece, Constance Figlia, probably knew Bonadventure before this New World deal, and knows he isn’t a straight arrow. That’s interesting—don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Cone says slowly, “interesting.”
“One more thing,” Davenport says. “My pal at Organized Crime tells me that Constance is supposed to be a computer whiz. Good night and pleasant dreams.”
They hang up. Cone starts playing more videocassettes through his mind. New ones, as senseless as the old. Finally he gets undressed, turns out the lights, and lies down on the mattress. After a while Cleo comes padding up and curls into the bend of his knees.
“What’s it all about, you stupid cat?” he asks.
Cleo growls and nuzzles closer.
“Something screwy happened this afternoon,” Samantha Whatley says. “Stanley Clovis himself called H. H. and asked if we have someone named Javert working for us.”
“Javert?” Cone says. “Who he?”
“That’s what H. H. wanted to know. Clovis said a guy named Javert has been harassing one of his execs, and he thought it might be a Haldering employee. So H. H. got huffy—you know how he can be—and said Haldering people do not, repeat not, harass anyone. He said there is no one named Javert working here and never has been. That seemed to satisfy Clovis, and he apologized.”
Sam is in her office, heavy brogues parked atop her desk, denim skirt pulled demurely down over her knees. Cone lounges in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. As usual, he is sucking on a cigarette, tilting his head to keep the smoke out of his eyes.
“You know who Javert was, don’t you?” she asks, looking at him closely.
“Nope. Never heard of the guy.”
“He was the policeman in Les Miserables.”
“Les Miserables?” Cone says. “Is that French for ‘lousy fuck’?”
“You know,” she says, “when you get that innocent look on your ugly mug, I know you’ve been up to something. Anyway, the reason I called you in is this: After Clovis and H. H. got over their little squabble, Clovis invited him or his representative to an open house tonight in the ballroom of the Hotel Bedlington on Madison Avenue. Stanley and Lucinda are having a cocktail party so a friend of theirs can announce his candidacy for Congress. Free booze and Swedish meatballs. From five till seven. I thought you might want to stop by.”
“I might,” Cone says. “The free booze doesn’t interest me, but I go ape for Swedish meatballs.”
“Get the hell out of here,” Sam says roughly.
Cone stops at Joe Washington’s office and sticks his head in.
“How you coming with my stuff?” he asks.
“Bore-ring,” Joe says. “Nothing but phone calls and visits to the public library.”
“How would you like to go to a cocktail party tonight? From five to seven. Free booze and meatballs.”
“I can live with that,” Washington says. “What’ll I be—the token spade?”
“Nah,” Cone says. “This is a political shindig. East Side liberals. They’ll be delighted to see you there. You may even get two meatballs.”
“I could use them,” Joe says. “According to my wife.”
“I’ll brief you on the way up.”
“Ah-ha. So this isn’t purely a social occasion?”
“Not exactly.”
“Got something to do with Ed Griffon’s death?”
“Maybe.”
“Let’s go,” Joe Washington says.
In addition to being cantankerous and superstitious, Timothy Cone is also secretive. He isn’t about to tell anyone anything they don’t need to know. When he has it all wrapped up in a package, he’ll deliver it.
So on the long, stop-and-go ride uptown, all he tells Joe is that there are probably going t
o be five people at the party he’d like to keep an eye on. Since he can’t cover them all, Joe can take two of them: the brother-and-sister act—Stanley and Lucinda.
“I’ll point them out,” Cone says, “but they’re the host and hostess; you won’t be able to miss them. Both short, dark, expensively dressed. Charm kids.”
“What am I supposed to look for?” Joe asks.
“I just want your take on them. How they act in public towards each other. If you get a chance, try to talk to both of them.”
“Should I tell them I’m with Haldering?”
“Don’t volunteer it, but if they ask where you’re from, tell them.”
The ballroom is already crowded when they get there, and jammed elevators keep bringing up new mobs. The room is filled with flags, balloons, streamers, confetti; it already looks like a victory celebration. A big banner over the dais proclaims: A NEW BEGINNING!
Cone and Washington push their way to the bar where two sweating bartenders are doing their best to quench the freeloaders’ thirst.
“There,” Timothy says, “over in the corner; the short couple talking to the tall guy in the seersucker suit.”
“I got them,” Joe says. “Now I’ll get me a drink and I’ll be all set.”
“I’ll see if I can find the others. You stay as long as you like, then take off. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow and we’ll compare notes.”
He drifts away, sliding through the crowd. A lot of young, noisy yuppies are wearing big badges that also proclaim: A NEW BEGINNING! That slogan doesn’t cut much ice with Cone. He prefers TIPPECANOE AND TYLER, TOO.
Timothy doesn’t like people much, and he dislikes them most in crowds.
He moves through the happy crash with an idiot grin donned for protective coloration. But his sharp eyes are searching for a target. He spots one: Grace Clovis, standing erect in a short cocktail gown that seems to have been chiseled from one enormous rhinestone. She’s not speaking, but listening to a man with three chins, two stomachs, and thighs that threaten to pop the seams of his designer jeans.
Cone watches as Grace finally staggers away, leaving the guy in the middle of a gesture with his mouth open. She moves to the bank of elevators. Cone follows. He doubts very much that she’ll remember him from the press conference, but just to play it safe, he doesn’t get on the Down elevator with her but waits for the next, hoping he’s not going to lose her.
Timothy Files Page 5