Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  “What should we do?” she asks finally.

  “No use writing a letter or phoning,” he says. “That’ll get you nowhere. This Francis of yours—can he come on hard? I mean can he yell, threaten, really lay on the muscle?”

  “Oh, no,” she says. “Francis is the dearest, sweetest man who ever lived. He’s very quiet and mild. I’ve never heard him raise his voice in anger.”

  “Oh, boy,” Cone says. “You’re sunk.”

  Pace, turn, pace in silence. Then he stops. She stops. He turns to face her.

  “Unless …” he says, “unless you can do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Collect Francis, and the two of you get down to Laboris Investments as fast as you can. Demand the return of Francis’s hundred thousand. They’ll try to stall, tell you to write them a letter, and all that. But you scream and shout and insist on a check immediately. There will probably be potential investors in the outer office, so if you create enough of a scene, they’ll probably give you your money to get rid of you. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll do it,” she says decisively, “if I have to.”

  “You have to,” he tells her. “And the moment you get the check, take a taxi to Francis’s bank and deposit it. Even then there’s no guarantee; Laboris may stop payment the moment you leave. But it’s the only chance you’ve got. If it doesn’t work, you’ll be listening to your mother say, ‘I told you so,’ for the rest of your life.”

  “I’ll go right now,” she says determinedly. “I won’t even tell mother where I’m going.”

  “Atta girl,” he says. “Remember to come on strong. Yell and stamp your foot and even squeeze out a few tears if you have to. Just don’t leave Laboris without your boyfriend’s money.”

  “My fiancé,” she says.

  “Whatever. Where’s his office?”

  “Sixth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street.”

  “I’ll get you a cab. Pick up Francis and go straight to Wall Street. Let me know what happens.”

  He puts her in a taxi, raises a hand in farewell and benediction. Then he stops another empty cab and rides down to John Street.

  The first thing he does is phone Laboris Investments. Ingmar is out, which is another lucky break; Cone figures he’s on a roll. He leaves a message with Ingmar’s secretary:

  Please tell Mr. Laboris that Timothy Cone of Haldering & Co. called, and the investment they discussed that morning has been approved by the client. The funds will be in Mr. Laboris’ hands within two days.

  Cone hangs up, satisfied that he’s done all he can to protect the client’s interest. Or rather, the client’s daughter’s interest. The two are not necessarily identical.

  He reckons that when Ingmar hears he’s getting a quarter of a million in a couple of days, he’ll be more inclined to sign a 100-G check for Lucinda Hepplewaite’s fiancé.

  It takes a con man to con a con man.

  Later in the afternoon, Lucinda Hepplewaite calls him, all excited. She did just as he instructed, created a rambunctious scene at the Wall Street offices of Laboris Investments, and eventually her fiancé was issued a check for a hundred thousand.

  “Just now. We got to Francis’s bank a few minutes before it closed.”

  “Good for you,” Cone says. “Now if Laboris doesn’t stop payment, you’re home free. Lots of luck.”

  He starts on his progress report, opening a fresh pack of Camels—second of the day. By four o’clock he’s ready to call it quits and wander home. As a matter of fact, he’s halfway out the door of his office when his phone rings again, and he returns to his desk.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “Petey Alvarez, you crazy sonnenbitch,” the narc says, laughing. “That stuff in the statue’s asshole tested out as high-grade smack. We got a make on Laboris Importers’ warehouse. It’s over on Eleventh Avenue. We haven’t got enough guys for a twenty-four stake, but we’re covering the place from midnight till eight. Listen, you wanna have some fun?”

  “Sure,” Cone says. “I like fun.”

  “I’m taking the watch from midnight to four. How about coming along and keeping me company?”

  “Okay. Should I bring what’s left of the rum and Seven-Up?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Petey says happily. “Yeah, bring it. We can have a few and chew the fat while we’re planted there. How’s about I pick you up at your loft around eleven-thirty. All right by you?”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Cone says.

  He goes home, feeds Cleo, changes the cat’s water, and has a belt of vodka before he lies down, fully clothed, on the floor mattress. He figures if he’s going to be awake from midnight to four, he better get a start on his shut-eye.

  He rouses a little after ten-thirty, fixes himself a salami sandwich with a dry slice of greenish Swiss cheese. He wolfs that down with another vodka, wondering how long his gut can take the punishment. He puts the rum and 7-Up in a shopping bag, then adds his own jug of Popov and a couple of empty jelly jars. He also adds a plastic bag of ice cubes. Timothy Cone knows how to live.

  He waits outside on the sidewalk for almost ten minutes before Alvarez drives up. He’s behind the wheel of a clunker so old and battered that Cone isn’t sure what it is: a ’74 Dodge, he thinks, or maybe a ’73 Chrysler.

  “Don’t let the looks fool you,” Alvarez says. “Plenty of horses under the hood. This baby can move when it has to.”

  “And nothing falls off?” Cone asks.

  “What’s to fall? The lights and bumpers are stuck on with picture wire and masking tape. Don’t worry, sonny boy; it’ll hold together.”

  They head north, and Alvarez fills Cone in on what he’s learned, which isn’t much. The heroin in the Kali statuette tested out as almost pure, probably from Thailand. The Laboris Importers’ warehouse is owned by a company named Sirobal, Ltd.

  “Sirobal,” Cone says. “Laboris spelled backwards.”

  “You got it,” Petey says. “The schmucks!”

  He tells Cone the Customs guys have no rap sheet on Laboris, but they do a big business by ship and air. The warehouse is busy during the day, but at night there’s only one watchman. The building has an alarm system, but it’s self-contained, not wired to a security agency or local precinct.

  “Oh, they’re bringing the stuff in,” Petey says. “No doubt about it. If we can’t get evidence of them dealing, we’ll have to tell the Feds to clamp down with dog searches and all that shit. But I wouldn’t like that; I want to engineer this bust myself.”

  “Why not,” Cone says. “You’re entitled.”

  They park in the shadows on Fifty-third Street where they have a good view of the Laboris warehouse. It’s a squat, ugly building with stained brickwork and blacked-out windows above the ground floor. But there are interior lights on the street level, and they can see figures moving about inside.

  “Hey-hey,” Petey Alvarez says, “what’s this? The place is supposed to close at six o’clock when the night watchman comes on. Maybe they’re having an office party.”

  “Yeah,” Cone says. “Maybe.”

  They settle down, and Cone mixes a rum and 7-Up for Petey, and pours himself a jelly jar of vodka on the rocks. They drink slowly, and for almost two hours the narc regales the Wall Street dick with stories about the wild ways dope is brought into the country.

  In sealed condoms swallowed by couriers. In small metal containers shoved up the rectum or pushed into the vaginas of female mules. In tubes of toothpaste and jars of cosmetics. In kids’ teddy bears and cripples’ hollow crutches. Under toupees and inside sanitary napkins.

  “How about this one,” Alvarez says. “They dissolve coke or heroin in a tub of water. Then they dunk a woman’s fur coat in it. Let the fur dry. She waltzes through Customs carrying the fur coat over her arm. Once she’s in, they soak the fur coat again and extract the dope from the water. Isn’t that beautiful? The bastards are always one step ahead of us.”

  But as he’s talking, Cone note
s, the narc rarely takes his eyes from the Laboris Importers’ warehouse.

  “I don’t get it,” Alvarez says fretfully. “The place is supposed to be closed with just a night watchman on duty. But I make out two guys moving back and forth. You see them?”

  “At least two,” Cone says. “Maybe three. One’s a hulk. The others are small and skinny.”

  “Yeah,” Petey says. “So what the fuck’s going on at this hour?”

  It’s almost two A.M. when a long, silver-gray Cadillac limousine glides to a stop in front of the warehouse.

  “Oh-oh,” the narc says. “We got some action. Scrunch down a little. Just in case.”

  They watch as two men get out of the Cadillac and look around before walking up to the dimly lighted doorway of the warehouse.

  “Sonnenbitch,” Alvarez says softly, “I make those guys. The short one in the black leather coat is Simon Juliano, a hotshot drug dealer in East Harlem. He’s a real kink. Digs little Chinese girls—and I mean little. The monster in the plaid mackinaw is his muscle, Ollie Jefferson. He’s got feta between his ears, but he’s fast.”

  The two men look around again, then ring the bell. In a moment the warehouse door opens and they disappear inside.

  The narcotics cop drums on the steering wheel with heavy fingers. “Something’s going down,” he says. “It’s a buy; I swear it’s a buy.”

  They straighten, stare at the lighted ground floor of the warehouse. But there’s no movement, nothing to see.

  “Listen,” Petey says to Cone, “you loaded?”

  “Yeah. A short-barreled Magnum in a shinplaster.”

  “Good enough. Well, those two shtarkers weren’t carrying anything when they went in, were they?”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “So if they come out with a suitcase or bag or whatever, I’ll know it’s a buy. I’d like to bust their asses. You game?”

  “Sure,” Cone says. “Why not.”

  “Okay,” Petey says, “here’s how we work it. … If they come out with a package, we let them get in their yacht and drive away. We follow them. Because I don’t want to spook Sven Laboris—not yet I don’t. Then, when they’re a few blocks away, we cut them off and see what they picked up at the warehouse.”

  “It’s legal?” Cone asks.

  “Hell, yes. I’ve got probable cause. Both those pricks have drug sheets.”

  “No,” Cone says, “I mean my being in on the bust. I’m a civilian. I’m ready, willing, and able, but won’t it put your ass on the line in the Department?”

  “Fuck it,” Alvarez says roughly. “I’ll scam my way out of it. I’ve done it before.”

  “Then let’s do it,” Cone says.

  He slides his .357 out of the ankle holster and holds it on his lap. Petey Alvarez pulls a cannon from a shoulder holster and places it on the seat beside him. It’s the biggest handgun Cone has ever seen.

  “What do you use that for?” he asks. “Elephants?”

  “It’ll crack an engine block,” Petey says proudly. “Once I knocked off a guy standing behind a half-inch steel door. Jesus, was he surprised.”

  They wait in silence. It’s almost fifteen minutes before the warehouse door opens again. Several men can be seen shaking hands. Then Juliano and Jefferson start back to their limousine, looking about carefully. The muscle is carrying a small suitcase.

  “That’s it,” Alvarez says. “They made a buy. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  The Cadillac pulls away. In a moment, the narc starts up his clunker and follows the big car. They go south for a couple of blocks, then the limousine makes an illegal U-turn and heads north. Alvarez follows, keeping a block back. The avenue is deserted; only the two cars are moving.

  “They’re going to get antsy in a minute,” Alvarez says. “They’ll spot us on their tail and speed up. I think we better move in. You set?”

  “I’ll never be setter,” Cone says.

  The old car leaps forward. The narc wasn’t lying about the power under the hood. In moments they’re alongside the Cadillac, and then ahead. Petey wrenches the wheel sharply to the right.

  “Wheel” he screams.

  Screech of brakes. Squeal of skidding tires. Thud of crumpling metal. The limousine is forced up onto the sidewalk. It crunches to a stop, the front end digging into the tin shutters of an abandoned store.

  The narc is out of the car, howitzer in his fist. Cone is close behind, Magnum gripped tightly. They rush the big car. Alvarez jerks open the door on the driver’s side.

  “You’re dead!” he yells. “Out, out, you fuckers!”

  But it’s not that easy. Juliano, driving and apparently stunned, sits slumped with his head bent forward, pressed against the steering wheel. But Ollie Jefferson piles out the other side, fumbling at his hip. Cone circles behind the Cadillac and aims, crouched, with a two-hand grip on his shooter.

  “Don’t do it,” he says, not recognizing his own voice.

  But, as Alvarez said, the muscle has no brains. He pulls a revolver from a hip holster. Cone pumps off two. The first misses. The second shatters Jefferson’s left kneecap, spins him around, dumps him. Cone moves in fast, kicks the revolver away. He stands over the fallen man, Magnum still gripped in both hands.

  “This fink is out,” Alvarez calls. “How’s yours?”

  “No problem,” Cone says.

  “Beautiful!” Petey says. “I love it!” He digs into the limousine, hauls out me suitcase, snaps it open. “Three kilos,” he reports gleefully. “Everything’s coming up roses. Keep an eye on these two cocksuckers, will you, while I call for backup.”

  The Wall Street dick stands motionless, gun still aimed, while the narc goes back to use his radio. Then Alvarez returns to his side and looks down at the fallen Ollie Jefferson, now writhing in pain, clutching his shattered knee.

  “Suffer, you scumbag,” Petey says. Then he claps Timothy Cone on the shoulder. “I love you, baby,” he says. “You did real good. But look, I think you better take off. It’ll make things a lot easier for me if you’re gone when the brass arrive.”

  “Sure,” the Wall Street dick says. Then: “Thank you for an enjoyable evening.”

  “You nutty sonnenbitch!” Alvarez cries, embracing him. “You like action—no? Me, too. Shoot ’em up! Bang-bang!”

  “Keep in touch,” Cone says.

  He walks over to Ninth Avenue and after waiting ten minutes gets a cab heading downtown. He’s still wired, on a high, waiting for his adrenaline to drain away. He tries to breathe deeply and slowly. But he’s still surging inside, half-sick, half-drunk with sorrow and pride.

  He left his vodka jug in Petey’s car, but he’s got some California brandy in the loft. He has a beefy slug to calm the jits while he recalls what happened that night: what Petey said, what he said, what Alvarez did and what he did.

  He lets Cleo lick a brandy-dipped finger, and the cat’s purr and lazy movements help him thaw and remember his philosophy.

  “Just don’t give a damn,” he advises Cleo. “That’s the secret.”

  He’s still awake, lying in his skivvies on the mattress, and it’s almost four A.M. when his phone jangles. Oh-oh, he thinks, Petey’s in trouble.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “You bastard!” Samantha Whatley wails. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling all night.”

  “I worked late at the office,” he says, happy to hear her voice.

  “Bullshit!” she says. “You never worked late at the office in your life. You’ve been out tomcatting around.”

  “Nah,” he says, “I wouldn’t do that. Where are you—back in town?”

  “Coming back tomorrow,” she says. “But it’ll be late in the afternoon so I won’t show up at the office. How are things going?”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s all—just okay? How you doing on the Laboris thing?”

  “All right,” he says. “Coming along.”

  She sighs. “What a chatterbox
you are. Come over to my place tomorrow night?”

  “Sure,” he says. “How’s about a big pizza and a jug of red ink?”

  “Sounds great. I haven’t had a decent pizza since I left. See you tomorrow. Good night, asshole.”

  “Good night, shithead,” he says, and hangs up.

  “Sam is coming home,” he tells Cleo, and goes back to the mattress, content.

  “Sergeant Terry MacEver to see Mr. Timothy Cone,” the receptionist says primly.

  “Yeah,” Cone says, “send him in.”

  He hangs up the phone, stands, brushes croissant crumbs off his corduroy jacket. He drains the dregs of his black coffee, crumples the container, and tosses it at his waste-basket. Misses, and leaves the garbage on the floor.

  MacEver, a dandy, enters wearing a black bowler with a curved brim. He looks at the littered office with some distaste and declines Cone’s offer to take his hat and coat.

  “Just stopped by for a minute,” he explains. “Good news: I think Erica Laboris has taken the bait.”

  “Hey,” Cone says, “I like that.”

  “She called Fugelmann Insurance in Dallas, and they got back to me. So I phoned the lady, pretending I was deep in the heart of Texas. She says she’s got an iron sword that she thinks would make a splendid addition to the collection of J. Ransom Bailey. Then she proceeds to describe, almost exactly, the blade that was stolen from the Beirut museum. It’s hand-forged, Assyrian, and dates from around the sixth century B.C. I’m betting she’s already got the loot in her hot little paws.”

  “Sounds good,” Cone says. “When are you going to see her?”

  “Tomorrow,” the sergeant says. “I didn’t want to be too anxious, d’ya see. So I told her I’d fly up from Dallas and meet her in the gallery in the afternoon to inspect the merchandise. You want to be there?”

  “Hell, yes,” Cone says. “If it’s the genuine article, you’re going to cuff her?”

  “What else?” MacEver says. “I’ll arrange for some backup in case we have a hassle. I’ll give you a call tomorrow morning and we’ll synchronize our watches. I’m really high on this thing, Cone; I think we’re going to score.”

  The sergeant leaves, and Cone lights a cigarette, feeling perky. Alvarez made a nice bust last night that will probably lead to the indictment of Sven Laboris. And now Terry MacEver has a good shot at putting Erica Laboris in the slammer. The Laboris cousins are being decimated.