Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Some swanky homes out that way,” he observes.

  “So?” Cone says. “I can do swanky. Just keep your fly zipped up—right?”

  He goes back to his office and calls the Figlias’ residence.

  “Yeah?” A man’s voice answers, sounding like a laryngitic frog.

  “Could I speak to Miss Constance Figlia, please.”

  “Who’s this?” the frog demands.

  Cone decides he can keep the Javert scam going a little longer, and also get Haldering & Co. off the hook.

  “My name is Javert,” he says. “J-a-v-e-r-t. I’m with the Old Glory Insurance Company, and I was hoping to interest Miss Figlia in our single-premium annuity plan, with interest compounded monthly and tax-deferred until the time of withdrawal.”

  “Forget it. She ain’t interested.”

  The phone is slammed down, connection broken. But Cone is satisfied; now he knows where she lives. He digs out an old, scuffed briefcase and stuffs it with outdated office memos and other junk to give it bulk. Then he sets out for Long Island, wondering how many insurance salesmen wear corduroy suits and black leather caps.

  Traffic is murder, and it’s almost noon before he locates Figlia’s home. As Louis Kiernan said: swanky. The place looks like a Virginia horse farm, with a wide lawn and shrubs that appear to have been trimmed with manicure scissors.

  There’s a white picket fence around the property, with an unlocked gate leading to a flagged path to the portico. When Cone gets to the steps, carrying his bulging briefcase, the front door opens, a man steps out, closes the door behind him.

  “Yeah?” he says—the frog himself.

  Judging by the voice, Cone had envisioned a short, squat guy with no neck, plenty of suet, and the appearance of a thug with maybe a bent nose and a wet cigar stuck in his kisser.

  But this man could be a mortician or an economist. He’s tall, skinny as a rapier, wearing a black silk suit, white shirt, narrow black tie. His jacket is beautifully tailored. Cone thinks maybe he’s just imagining the slight bulge under the left arm.

  “Good morning!” he says brightly. “Is Miss Constance Figlia at home?”

  The guy looks down with stony contempt.

  “You the guy who called earlier this morning?”

  Cone nods. “That’s me.”

  “I told you she ain’t home, and even if she was, she wouldn’t want to talk to you. Now beat it.”

  Cone shrugs apologetically. “You know how it is: I get a list of insurance prospects from my supervisor, and I’ve got to check out each one personally and file a report. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “I couldn’t care less,” the tall one says. “All I can understand is that you’re trespassing on private property. So take a walk, sonny, while you can still walk—which might be hard to do with busted kneecaps.”

  “You know,” Timothy says pleasantly, “it’s been my experience that tough guys don’t threaten. Tough guys do it, fast, and take advantage of surprise. I don’t think you’re as tough as you think.”

  “Want to try me?” the guy says, but something changes in his face, a shadow of doubt appears.

  “What are you going to do?” Cone says. “Kill me? I honestly don’t think you’ve got the balls for it. That hunk you’re carrying under your left arm is all bluff; it’s going to stay right there. And just to prove it, I’m going to turn my back to you and walk slowly down the path to my car. You want to plug me in the back, be my guest. It would be your style.”

  The tall man is trembling now, not just his hands but his entire body. Cone wonders if he’s pushed it too far, but he can’t stop now. He turns and begins to stroll toward the gate. The frog shouts something after him, two words, and not Happy Birthday.

  In the Honda, Cone looks at his own hands. No shakes—which pleases him. He drives back to Manhattan, listening to the news on the radio. Something about a tropical depression north of Bermuda that might develop into a full-fledged hurricane and strike New York. Cone couldn’t care less.

  Back in the office, he phones out for a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. While munching, he calls New World headquarters. No answer. Then he tries Constance Figlia at Clovis & Clovis. She isn’t in, the receptionist in the comptroller’s section tells him, but is expected within an hour.

  Cone spends fifty minutes finishing his lunch, smoking two cigarettes, and leaning on Sidney Apicella again.

  “Tim,” Apicella says, groaning. “Can’t you leave me alone? I’ve got my own work to do, you know.”

  “I know, Sid. I know. But this will only take a minute. Have you got a snitch at Merchants International Bank?”

  “Well …” Apicella says cautiously, “we’ve got a contact there who owes us one.”

  “Very simple request,” Cone says. “Try to find out if Constance Figlia—that’s F-i-g-l-i-a—has a personal account at the bank. That’s all. Give me a call when you get the answer, will you? I’ll be in my office.”

  He’s lighting another Camel when his phone rings, and he grabs it up.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “Tim? This is Sid. Merchants International has no customer named Constance Figlia.”

  So now Cone knows that Constance Figlia’s visit to Merchants International was not to make a deposit or withdrawal from a personal account. It’s a fair assumption that she was depositing or withdrawing funds for New World.

  He tries her at Clovis & Clovis again; she’s still out. But a second call gets through, and suddenly he’s talking to the lady herself.

  “Miss Figlia?”

  “Yes. Who is this speaking?” Her voice is husky and unexpectedly stirring.

  “Miss Figlia, my name is Jeffrey B. Robbins, and I’ve recently been assigned to the Madison Avenue branch of the Manhattan Central Bank—with a promotion to assistant vice-president, I might add in all modesty.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. Anyway, I’ve been here less than a week, and am just getting my feet wet, so to speak. One of the accounts handed to me for supervision is Clovis and Clovis.”

  “What happened to Fred Hartle?” Constance Figlia asks.

  “Oh, onward and upward,” Cone says smoothly. “He’s been transferred to our trust department. Miss Figlia, the reason I’m calling is that there seems to be a discrepancy in your last deposit. Quite frankly I think it’s our teller’s error, but the amount involved is so large, I’d like to get it straightened out. Would it be too great an imposition to ask you to stop by in the next day or so? I’m sure we can get the whole thing resolved in a few minutes.”

  “A discrepancy?” she says. “How much?”

  “A six-figure number,” Cone says. “I suspect it’s a matter of inverted digits, but I would like to get it cleared up.”

  “I would too,” she says sharply. “Suppose I come over right now? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Excellent,” Cone says. “I’m looking forward to meeting you personally. Clovis and Clovis are very valued clients. Please ask for Jeffrey B. Robbins.”

  “I’ll be there,” she says and hangs up abruptly.

  “Lots of luck,” Cone says softly, replacing his phone.

  So now he knows Constance Figlia is handling funds for both Clovis & Clovis and its subsidiary, New World Enterprises. But whether that’s significant or not Cone hasn’t the slightest idea.

  That’s the first day. He spends the next two trying to tail the damned woman and making, he admits, a miserable job of it. She’s either at Clovis & Clovis in Manhattan or at New World in Brooklyn. But she’s hard to locate, seems to have no set schedule, and he still hasn’t figured out how she gets from her Long Island home to the city. Train? Bus? Car? He doesn’t know.

  He sees her with Anthony Bonadventure several times. The two of them go to the banks together, but as far as Cone can tell, there’s nothing personal to their relationship. Bonadventure treats her with respect, opening doors, assisting her down curbs, helping her get a
speck out of her eye. But neither appears to have an overwhelming passion for the other.

  It’s business, Cone decides. Strictly business.

  On the third day, something odd happens. He is lurking around the Clovis building on East Fifty-seventh Street when Constance Figlia gets out of the elevator, talking animatedly with Stanley and Lucinda. Cone dodges behind a pillar like Inspector Clouseau, peering out now and then to watch them. They’re obviously waiting for someone and lo and behold, who should finally arrive but Grace Clovis with Anthony Bonadventure. Noisy greetings, hugs, and cheek kisses. Then the group, laughing and chattering, moves out onto Fifty-seventh Street. A stretch limousine is waiting, a white Cadillac, and away they go.

  Cone, who has parked his Honda on Fifty-fifth Street and can’t possibly get to it in time, searches about desperately for a cab. No luck. So he has to watch the white Cadillac disappear into traffic, traveling westward, and wonder where the five little elves are heading. Cocktails? A dinner? Maybe a party. Birthday? Anniversary? Or perhaps just to celebrate the frustration of Cone-Javert-Robbins.

  He finds the nearest bar, on Lexington, bellies up and treats himself to a double Absolut on the rocks, figuring he can continue fiddling his expense account until Samantha Whatley lowers the boom.

  He stands there, foot up on a genuine brass rail, and tries to make sense out of what he’s just seen. All five exchanging hugs, kisses, giggles. A merry crew. Which probably means that whatever’s coming off, they’re all involved—or have guilty knowledge.

  Maybe it’s the vodka, maybe it’s his misanthropy, but he gets some wild ideas. Perhaps the precious five are engaged in an orgy-type activity: the men stripped down to black socks and shoes, the women flaunting garter belts and mesh stockings, and all of them wearing masks—like those old blue movies.

  Or they’re in the counterfeiting game, with some good plates churning out quality twenties or fifties or hundreds, laundered by cash deposits at Merchants International and Manhattan Central.

  Or maybe Grace Clovis isn’t the only one hooked on nose candy. It’s possible all five are sniffing up a storm, snickering while they soar up into the wild blue yonder. It’s possible.

  Anything is possible, Timothy Cone grumpily admits, and he’s no closer to discovering what these people are up to than he was the day G. Edward Griffon died.

  That, he decides, is what he’s got to keep in mind and never forget. Ed got scratched, and it had something to do with those ha-haing, hugging, ain’t-we-got-fun people. But it isn’t a romp; it’s the deliberate killing of a guy who tried to be a friend. And if Cone lets that slide, he doesn’t want to think of what the rest of his life will be like … remembering …

  “It’s all shit,” he says to the bartender, paying his tab.

  “You’re telling me?” the guy says, scooping up his tip. “Have a nice day.”

  “I’m going to make a feast for you,” he tells Samantha Whatley on the phone Friday night.

  “Oh, God,” she says despairingly. “The last time you made a feast for me, I had the runs for two days.”

  “Not this time,” he promises. “You’ll love this feast.”

  He spends Saturday morning buying this and that: peeled shrimp, hot Italian sausage, mushrooms as big as yarmulkes, a small filet mignon, green pepper, scallions, a crown of garlic. And a jug of California zinfandel.

  It’s a blustery day. That approaching storm never did develop into a hurricane, but it’s still strong enough to kick up forty-knot winds with the prediction of three to five inches of rain over the metropolitan area by nightfall. The sky already has a phlegmy look, and clouds are scudding.

  He gets home with his treasures and sets to work making what he calls a “hunters’ stew.” It’s sautéed chunks of filet and sausage, cooked up with the garlic, green pepper, mushrooms, and scallions. The shrimp will be added when he’s reheating this concoction just before serving.

  As he labors, helped along by a jar of zinfandel, he tosses Cleo bits of beef fat, a raw shrimp, a slice of sausage, even a nibble of garlic. That crazy cat eats everything. Afraid his creation might prove too bland, Cone adds salt, pepper, Italian seasoning, Worcestershire sauce, a dollop of wine, a dash of Tabasco and, just for fun, a couple of chopped-up jalapenos. Everything smells good.

  Samantha shows up a little before five o’clock. Her trench coat is soaked, umbrella dripping. She brings a small frozen Sara Lee cheesecake for dessert.

  “What a night this is going to be,” she says. “Lightning to the east. Did you hear the thunder?”

  “I wasn’t listening,” Cone says.

  “No,” Sam says, “you never do. Something smells good.”

  “Cleo likes it. When we’re ready to eat, I’ll pop in the shrimp for a few minutes.”

  “What are we having?”

  “A kind of stew. I learned to make it in Nam. But with different ingredients. I won’t tell you what we put in over there.”

  “Please don’t. Will you, for God’s sake, offer me a drink?”

  “Sorry,” he says. “Wine, beer, or vodka. And some brandy I’m saving for later.”

  “Wine’ll be fine. Wow, listen to the thunder. You heard that, didn’t you?”

  “I heard it,” he says. “Sounds like one-oh-fives. But we’re in a dry, warm place with a hot meal coming up. What more can life offer?”

  “Not a whole hell of a lot,” she admits. “Can we eat soon? I’m famished.”

  They sit on the wooden kitchen chairs pulled up to Cone’s desk. He serves the meal, with a baguette of French bread to be torn into chunks and used for the gravy. Cleo perches on a third chair, waiting patiently for scraps.

  Samantha samples her bowl. “Jesus,” she says, exhaling, mouth open, “do you think you put enough pepper in it?”

  “Too much?”

  “Not if you’ve got a flannel tongue. But I can live with it. How about a couple of ice cubes in my wine?”

  All in all, the feast is a success. Even Cleo seems satisfied. Then they pile the emptied bowls into the sink and start on Sam’s cheesecake.

  “How was it?” Cone asks.

  “It tasted just fine after my tonsils got numbed. How you coming with the Clovis-Evanchat buyout?”

  “Okay,” he says. “I think. Something very unkosher is in the works, so you better tell H. H. to keep stalling Isaac Evanchat.”

  “But you haven’t pinned it down?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How long?”

  He shrugs. “Another couple of weeks maybe. Of course I could be whistling ‘Dixie.’”

  She looks at him thoughtfully. “You really think something stinks, don’t you?”

  “To high heaven.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “No,” he says. “Not till I’ve got it wrapped up.”

  She accepts that. “Do it your way,” she tells him. “Just don’t take too long. I’m not sure Evanchat is going to stand still for the expenses you’re running up.”

  “Screw him,” Cone says, pouring them more brandy.

  Samantha inspects him. He’s wearing blue jeans that have been washed so often, they’re a frayed pearly gray and a T-shirt that says SAVE THE WHALES.

  “God,” she says, “you’re such a scruffy character. I can’t for the life of me understand what I see in you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I have my virtues.”

  “Yeah?” she says. “Like what?”

  He stares at her. “I’m faithful,” he says. “Since we’ve been rubbing the bacon, I haven’t looked at another woman.”

  She takes up his hand, kisses the knuckles, then looks up at him. “Talking about sleeping together …”

  “Yes?”

  “Lock Cleo in the John, will you? The last time she kept biting my toes.”

  “He,” Cone says. “Or it.”

  The storm really hits: thunder, lightning, a driving rain. They cuddle on the mattress, as if the flashy sky were a performance just for th
eir benefit.

  “Let’s talk about us,” Samantha says.

  “Do we have to?”

  “Yes,” she says firmly, “we do.”

  “Later,” he promises.

  She’s as bony as he, but Cone can’t get enough of her long, elegant back. Her shoulder blades jut and her spine is a rope of stones, but there’s a rhythm and delicacy there, all subtle curves and sly shadows.

  “I want to eat you up,” he tells her.

  “Do,” she says.

  They’re like two rough hawsers, braided, rasping against each other and welcoming the scratch. In no way are they gentle or tender, because they are both hard, hurt people, wanting to get out. And this is the only way they know.

  So there are no proclamations of love or undying passion. Instead there is a gritty intenseness, both of them serious and hoping. Their coupling is a partnership of two bankrupts, as if all their liabilities combined might show up in black ink and make them wealthy.

  “I’ve asked you a hundred times,” she says, touching a fingertip lightly to a pink seam running along the back of his left thigh. “How did you get this scar?”

  “I was born with it.”

  “Liar. I told you about my scars. This one was from an appendectomy, and this one I got when I was a kid. I fell against an iron railing while I was playing volleyball in the school gym. Come on, tell me: How did you get it?”

  “I zigged when I should have zagged.”

  “My poor, wounded hero,” she says, kissing the pink seam. “And all the time you were trying to make the world safe for democracy—right?”

  “Something like that.”

  She lies back, and they both stretch out, apart but holding hands. The thunder has rumbled off, but they still hear the drumfire of hard rain, and occasionally the darkened loft is set ablaze by a distant lightning flash.

  “About us …” she says. “How long do you think we’ve got?”

  “Together? As long as you want. You’re the boss.”

  “In the office maybe. Not in this dump.”