Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

“When we started,” he reminds her, “we agreed: no strings and no connections.”

  She stirs restlessly. “Aren’t you ever going to buy a bed?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Someday. But not while I know you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll put ruffles on it.”

  They both laugh, turn to each other, embrace.

  “Okay,” she says, “I won’t lean on you.”

  “You haven’t,” he says. “So far. And I haven’t leaned on you, have I?”

  “No, you haven’t, you bastard. Because you just don’t care.”

  “Oh, I care,” he assures her. “In my own way.”

  “And what way is that?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she says. “That makes a girl feel very secure.”

  “Is that what you want—security? Forget it, babe. There ain’t no such animal.”

  She snuggles closer to him. “All right,” she says, “now I’ll tell you the truth. Big confession—but you might as well know. All you are to me is a sex object. A good lay, and nothing more. I worked my evil way with you. All I want is your damp, white body—covered with freckles. I’ll get tired of you eventually, I know, and trade you in for a new model.”

  He shakes with silent laughter. “You’re as nutty as I am,” he tells her. “The only thing we have in common.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she says, moving his hand between her legs. “Surely we have other things in common.”

  “Uncommon,” he says, squeezing. “Damned uncommon.”

  “I’m ready,” she says. “Has the hunters’ stew given you enough strength for an encore?”

  “It’s the garlic,” he says.

  “You could have fooled me,” she says. “I thought you’ve been gargling with Arpége.”

  And that’s the extent of their intimate discussion of their relationship. They’ve done it before, never taking it too far, never digging too deeply. Because both are afraid of what they might find, what they may admit. So it’s a hard, surface thing with these two invalids, neither willing to be the first to cry, “Nurse!”

  They really do get out with each other, as attuned as a duo of violinists, bowing and scraping in unison and losing themselves in mutual harmonies. Carried away and lost with closed eyes and seraphic smiles, loving life and its surprises.

  “You’re not going home in this shit,” he says later.

  “No,” she agrees, “I’m not going home in this shit. Let Cleo out of the john.”

  And, still later, she says, “I suppose we should shower.”

  “I suppose,” he says. “Go ahead if you want. I’m too lazy.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” she says. “Right now I like the way I smell—all garlicky and peppery and sexy. I’ll keep till morning.”

  So they slump at the desk, bare feet up, their nakedness minimally covered with grungy T-shirts and Jockey shorts. They sit in silence, replete, sip a little brandy, and have no desire to talk, amazed that they can be content with each other’s silent presence.

  Cleo chases a ball of aluminum foil across the linoleum, and they watch the cat fondly, amused by its leaps and gallops. Cleo slaps the toy here and there, whacking it, chasing it, never biting but just playing, then suddenly collapses to lie quietly, breathing heavily.

  “Just like us,” Samantha says. “It’s a game.”

  “Is it?” Timothy Cone says.

  Without telling Sam about it or getting permission from H. H., Cone enlists Joe Washington in the investigation of the Clovis-Evanchat deal. Joe is easy to persuade; the guy is bored with the routine cases he’s handling, and he’s just as anxious as Timothy to nail the person or persons responsible for the death of Griffon.

  Cone doesn’t tell Washington everything—just enough to hook him. He gives Joe short biogs of the characters involved.

  “Crazy people,” the black says, shaking his head.

  “And greedy,” the Wall Street dick says. “Anthony Bonadventure seems to be the only heavy, but that Constance Figlia comes from a family who play rough, so it makes sense to figure she’s not in it just for laughs. The others—the Clovises—I can’t figure their motive. They seem to have all the money they need—but that doesn’t mean they don’t want more.”

  Washington brings in his own beat-up Plymouth with rusted fenders, and between Joe in his clunker and Cone in his Honda, they begin to get a better idea of Constance Figlia’s daily routine.

  She usually takes the train at the Hicksville station. Sometimes she goes to Brooklyn and cabs over to the New World warehouse, but always gets out of the cab a few blocks away. Sometimes she rides the train into Penn Station, and takes a taxi to the Clovis & Clovis office on East Fifty-seventh, again getting out of the cab a few blocks away.

  “Now why in hell is she doing that?” Joe Washington says.

  “Standard operating procedure,” Cone says. “Someone’s taught her. If you think there’s a possibility of your being tailed, you never lead the hunter directly to your home base. Walking the last few blocks away gives her a chance to look around and maybe spot a shadow. She’s playing it cozy.”

  “She went to the bank again today,” Joe reports. “Merchants International. Bonadventure was with her. That’s the third time this week.”

  “And on Monday,” Cone says, “she and Bonadventure went to the Manhattan Central branch on Madison Avenue. If they’re making deposits, I’d sure as hell like to know where the loot is coming from. Listen, Joe, you stay on Constance for another couple of days. I’m going to switch over to Bonadventure and see if I can find out where that gonzo spends his idle hours.”

  He doesn’t discover a whole hell of a lot. Anthony seems to rise late, usually has a leisurely lunch at an expensive East Side restaurant (twice with Grace Clovis), and then frequently makes his way to the Clovis & Clovis office where he accompanies Constance Figlia to the bank.

  “Goddammit it!” Cone explodes to Joe. “What’s he up to?”

  In the evening, Bonadventure usually meets with a bunch of pals at an uptown steak house or a downtown spaghetti joint. All the chums are heavy, florid-faced, middle-aged gents, well-dressed, with French cuffs and pinkie rings. Their gatherings look to Cone like a reunion of the Class of ’65, Attica College—or maybe Leavenworth U.

  One afternoon Anthony has lunch with Grace and the two of them go back to Bonadventure’s brownstone. So they’re shacking up. So what else is new? Cone goes back to Haldering & Co., almost convinced he’s wasting his time. He finds Detective Davenport waiting for him.

  “You keep lousy office hours,” the city dick says, chomping on his Juicy Fruit. “I didn’t snoop into anything. Besides, your desk is locked. Let’s you and me have a talk.”

  “Why not?” Cone says, flopping into his battered swivel chair. “I wish I had something big to tell you, but I don’t. Just a lot of little bits and pieces.”

  “Let’s have them,” Davenport says. “Something is better than nothing.”

  Cone tells him most of what he’s learned, holding back a few items as bargaining chips. For instance, he doesn’t tell the detective about the Anthony-Grace connection or the more than brother-sister relationship between Stanley and Lucinda.

  The cop listens intently, his fingers laced over his belly.

  “My, my,” he says when the Wall Street dick finishes, “you’ve been a busy little boy, haven’t you? How do you figure all those trips to the bank?”

  “I don’t,” Timothy says miserably. “I don’t know what’s going on. I can understand retailers wanting to make frequent deposits if they have a heavy cash flow. What the hell, you want your money to be working for you. So naturally you deposit your cash as soon as possible. But New World isn’t a retailer, and has no cash flow.”

  “All right,” Davenport says, “now let me give you some food for thought. New World was started and capitalized by Clovis and Clovis for one-three-five million�
��right?”

  “Right.”

  “Who owns the stock?”

  “The four officers of the corporation: Stanley and Lucinda Clovis, Constance Figlia, and Anthony Bonadventure. They each own twenty-five percent. I got that from our resident CPA.”

  “Okay. And supposedly the purpose of New World is to renovate brownstones and maybe develop and build small residential and commercial properties—right?”

  “Right again.”

  “So why do they need a hundred and thirty-five million? My God, you can fix up a brownstone for a couple of mil—at the most. And what can a small commercial parcel cost? Nowhere near what Clovis and Clovis put into New World. That outfit is overcapitalized. They were given far, far too much cash to do what they allegedly were set up to do.”

  Cone can feel his face reddening, and he slaps his desk wrathfully. “Goddamnit!” he shouts. “Why didn’t I see that? I’ve been closer to this than you have, and it slid right by me.”

  “Take it easy,” Davenport says soothingly. “Maybe you’ve been too close to it. Sometimes that happens. But what I said makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course it makes sense. I could kick myself for having missed it.”

  “But what does it add up to?” Davenport goes on. “New World was given too much loot by its parent company. So what? That’s no crime.”

  Cone takes a deep breath and blows it out. “Yeah, it doesn’t tell us anything. But thanks anyway. It might turn out to be something—you never know.”

  “All right,” the detective says, “now I’m going to give you another gift. Maybe it’ll convince you to open up with me.”

  They stare at each other a moment, two poker players not wanting to reveal their hand.

  “A couple of days ago the narcs busted the biggest dealer on Wall Street,” Davenport says. “You know how the kiddies down there like to snort a line of coke on their lunch hour. This guy who got busted was King Shit in the dope biz on Wall Street. They said he was actually operating in the Trinity graveyard. Anyway, the narcs grabbed his little black book of customers and credit accounts. Most listings were just initials or abbreviations. One was ‘Ant. B.’”

  “Bonadventure?”

  “Who else? Now do you want to tell me anything?”

  Cone is silent a moment, swinging back and forth in his swivel chair, considering.

  “Yeah,” he says finally. “I’ve got a trade-off for you.”

  “Jesus,” Davenport says, “I’ve got to pry things out of you with a crowbar. What have you got?”

  “Mrs. Grace Clovis is snorting. Bonadventure is her candy man.”

  “That’s interesting. The Department wants that guy bad, and maybe we can nail him for dealing. What else have you got?”

  Cone doesn’t respond.

  “Look, sonny,” Davenport says patiently, unwrapping another stick of chewing gum, “I’m not one of your glory-boys. I’m never going to make lieutenant or captain; I know it. All I want is to do my job and make a good bust. But you, you’re all screwed up with ideas of revenge. You’re the Lone Ranger gunning for the villain who knocked off your pal—right?”

  “Something like that,” Cone mutters. “Griffon tried to be a friend. I just can’t let it slide.”

  “I can understand that. But don’t get so involved or you’ll find your brain turning to gravel. Now I’ve given you two choice items, so you still owe me another. Let’s have it.”

  Cone looks at him with admiration. “You really know how to deal, don’t you? All right, here’s something. The gossip around town is that Stanley and Lucinda Clovis are more than brother and sister; they’re making it together.”

  Davenport stares at him. “You believe that?”

  Cone nods.

  “But the guy is married.”

  “I know. With two kids. But the sister lives in the same apartment. And the wife is hooked on happy dust and playing bed games with Bonadventure. Go figure it.”

  The city detective sighs and heaves himself to his feet. “Sometimes I think I’m getting too old for this business.” He starts out, then stops at the doorway and turns back. “You gave me two for two. Fair enough. Now I’m going to give you a bonus. You remember my telling you we had a halfass witness to the murder of Griffon?”

  “Sure, I remember. A guy who doesn’t want to get involved.”

  “That’s right. He was hazy about everything, said he just couldn’t remember. But we talked him into going under hypnosis—and guess what? While he’s in a trance, he says it was a woman who pushed your friend off the subway platform. How does that grab you?”

  3

  IN THAT HOT AND humid climate, he developed a rash in his armpits and around his scrotum, and a fungus infection of his fingers, palms, and between his toes. His fair, freckled skin was in a cruddy condition, and the docs’ wonder drugs didn’t help a bit. Then an old Marine gunnery sergeant told him what to do.

  He was to scrub his entire body with one of those stiff-bristled brushes used on barracks floors. The soap was yellow carbolic stuff that stung like hell. After he scoured every inch of his hide and rinsed, he dried thoroughly, then rubbed on cornstarch. Crazy remedy, but it got rid of the prickly heat.

  After he got home, it took two years for the fungus infection to disappear in a more temperate climate. But once a month he still gave himself the brush-yellow soap-corn-starch treatment. Samantha Whatley watched him do it once, him standing up in the tub, brushing away furiously, and shook her head in disbelief.

  “Why don’t you wear a hair shirt?” she suggested. “Or whip yourself with barbed wire?”

  On the night after he talked to Detective Neal Davenport, Cone goes through the ceremony once again, with Cleo staring in bemused puzzlement. Scrubbing away religiously, not neglecting the places where the sun don’t shine, Timothy reflects on what he’s learned and what it might mean.

  He ponders the possibility of a woman having pushed G. Edward Griffon to his death from the Union Square subway platform. But it’s not until he’s carefully dried and is rubbing cornstarch on his raw pelt, as if he’s thickening himself for wonton soup, that he asks the question he should have asked weeks ago:

  What was Griffon doing in Union Square?

  It’s obvious Ed knew New World was a dummy corporation. But Clovis headquarters are on East Fifty-seventh, and New World is in Brooklyn. So how come the guy got chilled on Fourteenth Street? What in God’s name was he doing there, with his snappy three-piece suit, fedora, and empty attaché case?

  Cone is still wrestling with that puzzle the next day when Sidney Apicella clumps into his office. The CPA is pulling worriedly at his swollen, roseate nose.

  “Oh-ho,” Timothy says, “the mountain comes to Muhammad.”

  “Yeah,” Sid says, frowning, “something like that. Listen, Tim, you keep asking me questions about this Clovis-Evanchat deal, so I’ve got to figure you think there’s something there that smells. Correct?”

  “Correct,” Cone says.

  “I more or less gave the buyout a clean bill of health in my PIE, and I don’t want to get my balls caught in the wringer. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Sure. Very painful.”

  “So I took the file home last night and spent a couple of hours going through it line by line. There’s something there I didn’t see before, and it bothers me.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Well, you know that in addition to New World, Clovis and Clovis owns three other companies. They’re in general contracting, plumbing and electrical supplies, and foundations and underpinning. All those three corporations are headquartered in the New York area. But one of them banks in Newark, one in Chicago, and the third in San Diego.”

  The two men stare at each other.

  “What does that mean, Sid?” Cone asks finally.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Apicella says angrily. “You can bank wherever you like. But I’d call this situation highly unusual.”


  “Highly unusual,” Cone repeats. “You accountants do have a way with words. So what happens now?”

  “Let me look into it. I’d like to find out if those three corporations have been banking out of state since they were formed or if they switched banks recently. This may take some time, Tim.”

  “I can understand that. Let me know as soon as you get something.”

  “Of course.”

  “I love you, Sid,” Cone says solemnly.

  “And I love you, too,” Apicella says, “you miserable bastard. I spent two hours last night doing your work when I could have been watching Dallas.”

  Cone stays in his cramped office, feet up on the desk, and smokes up a storm while he reviews what he knows and what he doesn’t know. He’s still brooding when Joe Washington slouches in and slumps into the extra chair.

  “Enough already,” Joe says.

  Cone pushes his pack of Camels across the desk, but Washington shakes his head and lights up one of his own lowest-tar, lowest-nicotine cigarettes.

  “I’ll live longer with these,” he says.

  “Lots of luck,” Cone says. “What’s with the ‘Enough already’ crack?”

  “How many times can I tail that Constance Figlia to the bank?” Washington says. “Now she’s there two or three times a day.”

  “With Anthony Bonadventure?”

  “Sometimes with, sometimes without.”

  “Any pattern to her bank visits?”

  “Not that I can spot. Tim, am I doing any good?”

  “Sure you are,” Cone says. “Joe, you know where Griffon got whacked, don’t you?”

  Washington stares at him. “Of course I know. On the Union Square subway platform.”

  “Yeah. Now tell me this: What was he doing on Fourteenth Street?”

  “He was investigating the Clovis-Evanchat deal at the time?”

  “I think he was. The other stuff he was handling was just routine research and phone calls.”

  “Then I don’t know what the hell he was doing in Union Square. Not eating a brown-bag lunch on a park bench, that’s for sure.”

  Cone nods. “I think he was tailing someone. Griffon was the kind of man who’d never go below Twenty-third Street except to come into the office or do a job. I mean he was an uptown kind of guy.”