Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  "He cut a deal?" Rita suggested.

  "Right. By ratting on his pals. This is not a standup guy. The other thing to remember about him is that he's a womanizer. It helps him hook those female mooches, but he also plays around when there's no profit involved."

  She stared at him a long moment. Finally: "I'm beginning to get the picture. You expect me to ball this

  guy."

  Harker slammed a palm down on the desktop. "I expect you to do your job," he said angrily. "How you do it is up to you. I want to know how he's rolling his victims and I want to know what his buddies at the Grand Palace are up to. You want out?"

  She considered for two beats. "Not yet. Let me make a few moves and see what happens. Do I call you here?"

  "No," he said. "And don't come back to this building again. These people we're dealing with are bums but they're not stupes. You could be tailed. Here's a number you can call, day or night. Leave a message if I'm not in. One other thing: What are you carrying?"

  "Thirty-eight Smith and Wesson. Short barrel."

  "A cop's gun," he said, holding out his palm. "Let me have it."

  She hesitated, then took the handgun from her shoulder bag and handed it over. Harker put it in his desk drawer and gave her a nickel-plated Colt.25 pistol. She examined it.

  "What am I supposed to do with this peashooter?" she asked.

  "Carry it," he said. "It's more in character. And leave your ID and shield with Mr. Crockett's secretary on your way out. Here's something else."

  He withdrew a worn, folded newspaper clipping from his wallet and passed it to her. It was a two-paragraph story about Rita Angela Sullivan being arrested in a Tallahassee specialty shop for shoplifting. According to the clipping, charges were dropped for lack of evidence.

  She read the story twice, then looked up at him. "How much did it cost to have this thing printed up?" she asked.

  "Plenty," he said. "It looks like the real thing, doesn't it? Don't lose it. It might come in handy."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "If Rathbone goes through your purse, he'll find your dinky little gun and this clipping. It'll help you con the con man."

  "Uh-huh," she said. "Pretty sure of me, weren't you?"

  "I was hoping," Harker said.

  She tucked pistol and clipping into her shoulder bag and stood up.

  "Thanks for the lunch," she said.

  "My pleasure."

  She paused at the door. "You can call me Rita if you like," she said.

  "I'll think about it," he said.

  3

  The Grand Palace was located on the north side of Commercial Boulevard between A1A and Federal Highway in an area known to local law enforcement agencies as Maggot Mile. The restaurant advertised Continental Cuisine, which in south Florida might include broiled alligator and smoked shark.

  The main dining room, decorated in Miami Hotel Moderne, attracted a regular clientele of well-heeled retirees and tourists during the season, October to May. The shadowy back room, called the Palace Lounge, had its own side entrance opening directly onto the parking lot. The Lounge was decorated with fishnets, floats, lobster traps, and a large preserved sailfish over the bleached pine bar.

  David Rathbone left his black Bentley in the care of the parking valet in front of the Grand Palace, then walked around to the Lounge entrance. He was wearing a suit of raw white silk with a knitted mauve polo shirt, open at the throat. His white bucks were properly scuffed. His only jewelry was an identification bracelet of heavy gold links, a miniature anchor chain.

  The Lounge was empty except for Ernie polishing glasses behind the bar. Ernie was an ex-detective of the NYPD, cashiered for allegedly shaking down crack dealers. In addition to his barkeeping duties, he booked bets and served as a steerer for pot and coke dealers. He could also provide the phone number of a young call girl who happened to be his daughter.

  "Good evening, Mr. Rathbone," he said. "How you doing?"

  "Surviving," Rathbone said, and removed a five-dollar bill from his money clip. "Will you do me a favor, Ernie?"

  "You name it."

  "Put this fin in your cash register. Later in the evening I'll ask you for a five. Be sure to bring me this one. Got it?"

  Ernie examined the bill, running his thumb across the surface. "Queer?"

  "No," Rathbone said, "it's the real thing."

  The bartender stared at him. "Is this a scam?"

  "Nah, just a little joke."

  "Uh-huh. What's in it for me?"

  "The five."

  "Okay," Ernie said, "I'll play. You want the usual, I suppose."

  "You suppose correctly. With a wedge of lime, please."

  The Lounge had tables of fake hatch covers poly-urethaned to a high gloss. Most of them seated two or four patrons comfortably. But in the most shadowed corner was a giant table set about with nine mate's chairs. This table bore a small card, reserved, and it was there Rathbone carried his vodka gimlet. He lighted his first Winston of the day and settled down.

  He didn't wait long. Ten minutes later Mortimer and Nancy Sparco came in, stopped at the bar, then brought their Scotch mists over to the big table. Rathbone stood up.

  "Nancy," he said, "you look ravishing, and if Mort wasn't here, I would."

  "Be my guest," Sparco said and flopped into the chair next to Rathbone's.

  "Mort's in a snit," Nancy said. "He didn't win the lottery-again."

  "You still playing that?" Rathbone asked. "It's a sucker's game; you know it. Look at the odds."

  "Look at the payoff," Mortimer said. "Millions! It's worth a hundred bucks a week."

  "What numbers do you play?" Rathbone asked idly.

  "He plays anything with a seven in it," Nancy said. "Claims it's his lucky number. Some luck!"

  "It'll hit," Mort said. "Seven has always been very good to me."

  "That's where you're making your mistake," Rathbone said. "Look at the winning numbers over the past year. You'll find that most of them have five in them. Like five, fifteen, twenty-five, and so on."

  Sparco looked at him. "You're kidding."

  Rathbone held up a palm. "Scout's honor. I've studied random number frequency on my computer and believe me, five turns up more often than seven or any other number."

  "I don't believe you," Mortimer said.

  Rathbone shrugged. "It's even true for the serial numbers on five-dollar bills. You'll find that the digit five occurs most frequently."

  "David, you're nuts."

  "Am I? Would you like to make a small bet?"

  "Mort," Nancy said, "don't do it."

  "I'll make it easy on you," Rathbone said. "I'll bet you twenty bucks that the first five-dollar bill we examine will have more fives in the serial number than any other digit."

  "All right," Sparco said, "I'll take your bet." Then, when he saw Rathbone reach in his pocket for his money: "Oh no, not your five! You've probably got a ringer all ready for me."

  Rathbone shook his head. "What a suspicious bastard you are. You're my friend; I wouldn't cheat you. All right, we'll do it this way." He called over to the bar: "Ernie, you got any fives in the register?"

  "Sure, Mr. Rathbone," the bartender said. "How many you want?"

  "Just one. Pick out any five-dollar bill you like and bring it over here for a moment, will you?" Then, to Sparco: "Satisfied it's on the up-and-up now?"

  "I guess so."

  Ernie brought the bill to their table. They bent over it and examined the serial number.

  "There you are!" Rathbone said triumphantly. "Three fives. Now do you admit I'm right?"

  "Son of a bitch," Mortimer said, and handed a twenty to the other man. "You've got the luck of Old Nick."

  "It's the science of numbers," Rathbone said. "You can't fight it."

  "Mort, I told you not to bet," Nancy said morosely. "David always wins. I need another drink."

  James and Trudy Bartlett joined them, and a few regulars came through the side entrance to sit at the s
maller tables. A noisy party of four tourists entered from the dining room, headed for the bar. Sidney and Cynthia Coe arrived, and then Ellen St. Martin and Frank Little. More regulars came in; the tables filled up; someone fed the jukebox; the joint began to jump.

  At the big table, the talk was all about a three-year-old filly, Jussigirl, who had won all her eleven starts. Then the conversation turned to the recent run-up in the price of precious metals. Sid Coe, who owned a boiler room on Oakland Park Boulevard, announced his intention of switching his yaks from gemstones to platinum.

  Ernie came from behind the bar, leaned over Rathbone, whispered in his ear.

  "That guy at the end of the bar, dressed like an undertaker, he says he's a friend of yours, wants to talk to you. Okay, or should I bounce him?"

  Rathbone turned his head to stare. "Yes, I know him. Is he sober, Ernie?"

  "He's had a few, but he's holding them."

  Rathbone excused himself and joined the man standing at the bar. He was tall, skinny, almost cadaverous, wearing a three-piece black suit of some shiny stuff. The two men shook hands.

  "Tommy," Rathbone said, "good to see you. When did you get out?"

  "About a month ago."

  "Hard time?"

  "Nah. I can do eighteen months standing on my head. Just the cost of doing business."

  "They sure as hell didn't fatten you up."

  "The food in that joint is worse than hospital slop. The warden's on the take."

  "Need some green?"

  "No, thanks, David; I'm doing okay. I had a safe deposit box they never did find. You got anything going?"

  "This and that."

  "I got something that could be so big it scares me. But I don't know how to handle it. You interested?"

  "Depends," Rathbone said. "What is it?"

  Tommy leaned closer. His breath was 94 proof. "I shared a cell with an old Kraut who was finishing up five-to-ten. He was in for printing the queer. Not pushing it, just manufacturing fifties and hundreds and selling them to the pushers. He told me a lot about papers, inks, and engraving. The guy really knows his stuff*. He claimed that when he was collared, he had just come up with an invention that could make a zillion if it was handled right. Well, you know how old lags talk, and I thought he was just blowing smoke. He got out a couple of months before I did and told me to look him up and maybe we could work a deal together. So when I was sprung, I decided to do it. Right now he's got a little printshop in Lakeland. We killed a jug one night, a bottle of schnapps that tasted like battery acid, and he showed me his great invention."

  "And?" Rathbone said. "What was it?"

  Tommy withdrew a small white envelope from his inside jacket pocket, lifted the flap, took out a check. "Take a look at that."

  Rathbone examined it. It appeared to be a blank check printed with the name and address of a California bank. "So?" he said.

  "Got a pen?"

  Rathbone handed over his gold Montblanc ballpoint. Tommy made out the check to David Rathbone for a thousand dollars, dated it correctly, then signed "Mickey Mouse." He slipped the check back into the white envelope, sealed it, handed it to Rathbone.

  "Keep it for a week," he said, "then open it. I'll come back here in ten days or so and we'll talk about it. Okay?"

  "If you say so, Tommy, but why all the mystery?"

  "You'll see. Just leave the check in the envelope for a week and then open it. David, this could be our ticket to paradise. See you around."

  Tommy left a sawbuck on the bar, then went out the side entrance. Rathbone put the sealed white envelope in his side pocket and rejoined the crowd at the big table.

  "Who was that?" Jimmy Bartlett asked. "The guy you were talking to at the bar."

  Rathbone laughed. "You didn't recognize him? That was Termite Tommy."

  "Never heard of him."

  "He organized a great gig in south Florida. Guaranteed termite extermination. Traveled around in a van offering free termite inspection to homeowners. He also carried ajar of live termites and a bag of sawdust. After he made his inspection, he showed the mooch how his house was about to collapse unless he signed a contract for total termite control. Then Tommy would pocket the up-front deposit and take off. He had a nice thing going for almost three years until the gendarmes caught up with him. He drew eighteen months. But as he said, it's just part of the cost of doing business."

  "What's he up to now?" Cynthia Coe asked.

  "Who knows?" Rathbone said. "Probably selling earmuffs to south Floridians. The guy's a dynamite yak."

  Frank Little leaned across the table. "Hey, David," he said, "catch who just came in. Ever see her before?"

  4

  Rita Sullivan figured that if she dressed like a flooze, Rathbone would make her for a hooker arrived in south Florida for the season, and he'd be turned off. At the same time she didn't want to look like Miss Priss. So she settled for a rip-off of a collarless Chanel suit in white linen with a double row of brass buttons. The newly shortened miniskirt showed a lot of her long, bare legs. Her white pumps had three-inch heels.

  When she got out of her rented Honda Civic, the parking valet caught a flash of tanned thigh and said, in Spanish, "God bless the mother who gave birth to you."

  "Thank you," Rita said and, chin high, marched into the Grand Palace.

  The maitre d' came bustling forward, giving her an admiring up-and-down. "Ah, madam," he said, "I am so sorry but the kitchen is closed."

  "That's all right," she said. "I just wanted a nightcap. You have a cocktail bar?"

  "But of course!" he cried. "The Palace Lounge. Through that back doorway, if you please."

  The Lounge was jammed, noisy, smoky. Rita swung onto a barstool, turned sideways, crossed her legs. She ordered a vodka stinger from the baldy behind the bar.

  It was served in a glass big enough to float a carp. She took a sip.

  "Okay?" Ernie asked.

  "Just right," she said. "Busy night."

  "It's always like this. On Saturday we have a three-piece jazz combo."

  "I'll have to catch that."

  "You can't go wrong," he told her.

  "In that case I'll skip it," she said, and he gave her a knowing grin.

  She turned and surveyed the Lounge casually. It wasn't hard to spot David Rathbone. He was seated at the head of a big table in the corner. He was even better-looking than his photograph, a golden boy, and he was staring at her.

  She turned back, waited until baldy was down at the other end of the bar, then opened her shoulder bag and took out a pack of Virginia Slims. She kept rooting in her bag as if looking for a match. It was a corny ploy, but she reckoned if the guy was on the make he'd catch the signal and come running. He did. A gold Dupont lighter was proffered.

  "May I?" he said.

  She liked his voice. Deep, throaty, with a burble of laughter.

  "Thank you," she said, and lighted her cigarette.

  He looked at the pack. "You've come a long way, baby," he said.

  "So they tell me," she said.

  "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.

  "I've hardly touched this one."

  "So? The night's young. May I join you?"

  "If you like."

  He took the barstool alongside her, not too close.

  "First time here?"

  She nodded.

  "You'll like it. Good crowd. Big drinks."

  "Uh-huh. And not exactly cheap."

  "They're expensive," he acknowledged. "But there are a lot of fringe benefits." He gave her a dazzling smile. "I'm one of them."

  She laughed and worked on her stinger.

  "Where are you from?" he asked her. "I've been in Florida for years and I've never met anyone who was born here. Everyone's from somewhere else. I'm from Boston originally, then New York. You?"

  "New Orleans originally, then Tallahassee."

  "Work down here?"

  "Hope to. I just arrived. I'm a schoolteacher."

  "Oh? And what do you
teach?"

  "Spanish."

  ' 'A otro perro con ese hueso. ''

  Rita laughed again. "Do you know what that means?"

  "Not really. But I once told a Spanish lady that I loved her, and that's what she said. I always thought it was the Spanish equivalent of 'And I love you, too.' "

  "It's the Spanish equivalent of Tell it to the Marines.' "

  Then he laughed. "I better stick to English. Ready for a fresh drink? I am."

  "Sure," Rita said. "Why not."

  Ernie brought them a vodka gimlet and a stinger and left them alone.

  "I love your Chanel suit," Rathbone said.

  "It's a cheap copy."

  "You're joking." He examined one of the brass buttons. "It even has the insignia." He shook his head.

  "Those rip-off artists are really something. Do me a favor, will you?"

  "What?"

  "Never cut your hair. It's glorious."

  "Thank you. But it's a pain in the ass to wash."

  "I'll help," he said, and they stared at each other.

  "My name is David Rathbone," he said.

  "My name is Rita Sullivan," she said, and they shook hands.

  "Where do you live, Rita?"

  "I just got in a few days ago. I'm staying at the Howard Johnson in Pompano Beach."

  "You want to go back to HoJo tonight?"

  "Not particularly."

  "You have a car?"

  "Yes."

  "So do I. I also have a town house on the Fourteenth Street Causeway. The drinks are free. Will you follow me there?"

  "All right," she said, "I'll follow you."

  They rose to leave. Ernie, watching covertly from the end of the bar, wondered who was hustling whom.

  Rathbone's home was between A1A and the Waterway. They stood on the lawn and looked up.

  "It's enormous," Rita said.

  "Not really," he said. "Two bedrooms and a third I use as an office. Three and a half bathrooms. Florida room. Terrace. The pool is for the entire development, but no one uses it; they walk to the ocean."