Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  The man who opened the door was a short roly-poly with a wispy mustache that didn't quite make it. He was wearing Bermuda shorts that revealed pudgy knees, and his fat feet were bare.

  "Mr. James Bartlett?" Ullman asked.

  He got no answer. "Who're you?" the guy said, giving him a slow up-and-down.

  "Sam Henry from Madison, Wisconsin, sir. I'm with the First Farmers' Savings and Loan up there. I'm sure you don't remember me, but I met you at the Milwaukee convention years and years ago."

  "Oh? The one where I gave the keynote speech?"

  Ullman wasn't about to get tripped up by a trick question like that. "To tell you the truth," he said, laughing, "I was so smashed for the entire convention, I don't remember who gave the speeches or what they talked about."

  The man smiled. "Yes," he said, "it was rather wet, inside and out. Sure, I'm Jim Bartlett. What can I do for you?"

  "The wife's got arthritis bad, and the doc thinks she'd do better in a warm climate. So I came down to south Florida to scout the territory. I hear it's booming."

  "It's doing okay. This year."

  "Well, I heard you had relocated here, and I thought I'd look you up and chew the fat awhile."

  "I'd ask you in," Bartlett said, "but the house is full of relatives down for the season."

  "That's okay," Ullman said. "This won't take but a minute. If we move down here, I'll have to find a slot. I was wondering if you know of any local banks looking for experienced officers."

  "What's your specialty?"

  "Home mortgage loans."

  Bartlett shook his head. "I don't know of anything open at the moment, but I'll ask around. If I hear of anything I'll let you know. How do I get in touch with you?"

  Ullman fished in his pocket. ''Here's the card of the motel where I'm staying. It's a ratty place, and I'm looking for something better. If I leave, I'll give you a call. All right?"

  "Sure," Bartlett said, taking the card. "Sam Henry of the First Farmers' S and L in Madison-right?"

  "You've got it," Ullman said.

  Bartlett nodded and pumped the big man's hand. "Nice to see you again, Sam," he said, and closed the door softly.

  Ullman drove back to the office and asked Tony Harker for ten minutes. He related the details of his meeting with James Bartlett.

  "He's a cutie," he said. "I'll bet he's on the phone right now calling First Farmers' in Madison. But that's okay; I set up my cover with them. They were happy to cooperate with the Secret Service. Here's what I've got on Bartlett so far: He did a year and nine for bank fraud. He's only been in south Florida for seven years, but his most recent tax return shows an adjusted gross of more than eight hundred thousand, and that house he lives in has got to go for a million, at least. He lists himself as a bank consultant, but no one in banking down here has ever heard of him. Or so they say. Something ain't kosher."

  "Yeah," Tony said, and pondered a moment. Then: "Hank, that business of Rathbone having our agent open a phony account at the Crescent Bank in Boca-how do you figure that?"

  "I don't. A scam of some kind, but it's hard to tell what's going down."

  "So what's your next move?" Harker asked. "Tail Bartlett?"

  "I don't think so," Ullman said. "In that neighborhood he'd spot my dusty Plymouth in a minute. How about if I take a different angle. According to that transcript, Bartlett has Mike Mulligan of the Crescent Bank in his hip pocket. Suppose I drive up to Boca and get a look at this Mulligan. I'd like to know what the connection is."

  "Sounds good to me," Harker said. "Maybe you can turn Mulligan. The only way we're going to flush this gang is by getting someone to sing."

  "I'll give it the old college try," Hank said, rose to leave, then paused at the door. "By the way, Bartlett is married. Three kids. The oldest, a girl of nineteen, OD'd on heroin about two years ago."

  They stared at each other.

  "You better get up to Boca as soon as possible," Tony said.

  "I think so," Ullman said.

  12

  He explained to her that once a month the five men in the Palace gang met for a night of poker. The party was held in their homes, on a rotating basis, and tonight was Rathbone's turn.

  "It's strictly stag," he told Rita. "No women allowed. I had Blanche make up a dozen sandwiches, and we'll mix our own drinks. The guys will be over around six o'clock. The rule is that no matter who's winning or losing, or how much, the game ends promptly at midnight. So I want you to take off at six and don't come back until after twelve. All right?"

  "And what am I supposed to do for six hours?"

  "Go shopping. Have dinner at some nice place. Take in a movie. Spend! You like to spend, don't you? Here are two yards; go enjoy yourself."

  "Okay," she said. "Have a good time and win a lot of money, hon."

  "I intend to," he said.

  After she left, he put all the bottles of booze out on the countertop in the kitchen, along with containers of lemon peel, lime wedges, pearl onions, and some fresh mint for Jimmy Bartlett, who had a fondness for juleps. Glasses were lined up, and there was a big bucket of ice cubes with more in the freezer.

  The doorbell rang a little before six o'clock, and

  Rathbone put on a pair of rose-tinted sunglasses before he opened up.

  "Good evening, girls," he said, giving them his high-intensity smile. "Thank you for being so prompt."

  Their names were Sheila and Lorrie, and both were dancers at the Leopard II, a nudie joint on Federal Highway. They were in their early twenties. Sheila did two lines of coke a day, and Lorrie had a four-year-old dyslexic son.

  David took two envelopes from the inside pocket of his suede sports jacket and handed one to each woman. "Payable in advance," he said, still smiling. "And a nice tip before you leave if you do a good job."

  "But no push?" Lorrie said.

  "Absolutely not. If you want to make dates with these guys to meet them later, that's your business. But not in my home. Now come with me and I'll show you where to undress."

  The two women stripped down in the pantry and left their jeans and T-shirts in a jumbled heap on the floor. Rathbone led them back into the kitchen and showed them the bar, the sandwiches in the fridge.

  "You told me you could mix drinks," he said, "but if you have any problems, ask me. Help yourself to a sandwich if you get hungry.''

  "How about a drinkie-poo?" Sheila said.

  "Of course," Rathbone said. "Just don't get plotched. That I don't need."

  Frank Little was the first guest to arrive. He immediately pointed at David's sunglasses. "What's with the shades?" he asked.

  "A mild case of conjunctivitis," Rathbone said. "The doc says I've got to avoid bright light."

  "Tough shit," Little said. "Hey, I could use a drink."

  "Why don't we wait for the others to show up. I've got a surprise for all of you."

  James Bartlett and Sidney Coe arrived together. Then Mortimer Sparco came bustling in. When they were all seated in the living room, Rathbone told them he was tired of serving himself food and mixing his own drinks at their monthly get-togethers, so he was going to try something new.

  "Sheila!" he called. "Lorrie! You can take our drink orders now."

  The naked women came smiling out of the kitchen. The guests, startled, stared at them, then looked at their host, burst out laughing and climbed awkwardly to their feet.

  "Sit down," David said. "These ladies are here to wait on us."

  "David," Frank Little said, "you're too much."

  "What would you like, sir?" Lorrie asked, bending over Mort Sparco, her pointy breasts almost touching his beard.

  "If I told you," he said, "you'd slap my face. So I'll settle for a Scotch mist."

  Everyone gave their drink orders, interspersed with ribald comments.

  "The hell with poker," Sid Coe said after the waitresses went back to the kitchen. "I know a better game."

  "Not in my home," Rathbone repeated. "What you do after midnight is u
p to you."

  "Hey, David," Jim Bartlett said, "what's with the cheaters?"

  He explained again about his mild case of conjunctivitis and how he had to avoid bright light. Everyone bought the story.

  After the second round of drinks, the men moved into the dining room and sat at a big round table of bleached pine covered with a green baize cloth. Rathbone had set out two new decks of Hoyle playing cards.

  "Dealer's choice," he said, shoving a deck at Sidney Coe.

  "Five-card stud," Coe said. "Jacks or better to open. And just to separate the men from the boys, spit in the ocean."

  He took out his wallet and dropped a hundred in the center of the table. The others followed suit. Coe broke the seal on the deck of cards, discarded the two jokers, and shuffled, shuffled, shuffled. Then he slapped the deck in front of Sparco.

  "Cut your heart out," he said.

  The playing cards were a forged deck and so cleverly marked that it required rose-tinted glasses to read the code printed on the backs. Rathbone bought them from a talented artist in Miami who also supplied the sunglasses. David knew that with his wiseguy pals, it was strictly a one-time gimmick, but worth the risk. The naked waitresses were his edge-to keep his guests distracted enough not to question his incredible luck.

  He played craftily, folding when he saw he couldn't win, plunging when he held a winning hand. He deliberately lost a few small pots, but as the evening progressed the stack of bills in front of him grew steadily higher.

  Meanwhile, the naked girls hustled drinks and sandwiches and held lights for cigars. Their presence had the desired effect; even Mort Sparco, the best poker player of the group, found it difficult to concentrate on his game. And, Rathbone noted, his guests were drinking a lot more than usual.

  The session ended at midnight with David ahead almost four thousand, and all the others losers.

  "You did all right," Jimmy Bartlett said, watching him pocket his winnings.

  "It's about time," Rathbone said. "I've been a loser all year. Now I'm just about breaking even."

  The other three men went into the kitchen to schmooze with the women. Bartlett and David stayed at the table, smoking cigars and sipping their drinks.

  "How did you make out with Mike Mulligan at the Crescent in Boca?" Jimmy asked. "Any problems?"

  "Not a one. Thanks for setting it up."

  "I don't suppose you want to tell me what's going down."

  "Not yet," Rathbone said. "If it works, I will. It could be a sweet deal, and I'll cut you in. Is Mulligan one of your laundrymen?''

  "On a small scale-so far. Things are getting a little warm in Miami, so I've been trying to expand: Lauderdale, Boca, Palm Beach."

  "Business good?"

  "So-so. The demand is always there, but right now the supply is so plentiful that prices have dropped. One of these days my clients will get smart and set up a cartel like OPEC, just to stabilize prices."

  "Is it all coke?"

  "Coke, pot, heroin, hash, mescaline-you name it. I've even got one guy handling nothing but opium. With all the Asian immigrants in the country, he's doing all right. David, why are you staring at me like that?"

  "I just had a wild idea," Rathbone said. "So crazy that it might work. Look, what you're talking about are

  commodities-right? The prices rise and fall just as they do with grains, metals, livestock, foods, and everything else they trade in the Chicago pits."

  "That's correct."

  "Well, what if we set up a commodity trading fund that would deal only with drugs, buying and selling futures and options?"

  Bartlett drained his drink and set the empty glass down with a thump. "You're right: It is a wild idea. What are you going to do-advertise the fund in The Wall Street Journal?"

  "Of course not. But what if we have Mort Sparco set up a penny stock in the fund, and have Sid Coe push the shares in his boiler room."

  Jimmy rubbed his chin. "Now it doesn't sound so crazy. You could organize it for peanuts, and there's a possibility it could actually turn a profit on the fluctuation of drug prices. Some of my clients would probably be willing to sell kilos for future delivery in three months or six months at a set price. David, let me think about this awhile and talk to a few people."

  "If there's a Ponzi payoff up front," Rathbone pointed out, "you know the mooches will be fighting to buy stock. They don't have to know what the fund is dealing in; just that it's commodities."

  "It might go," Bartlett agreed. "Don't say anything yet to Coe or Sparco. Let me figure out how we can finagle it."

  "Don't take too long," David warned, "or some other shark will think of it and get it rolling. It could be a world-class scam."

  "You're right," Jimmy said. "And the best part is that you're not dealing with the drugs themselves. Just with contracts: pieces of paper using code names for

  coke, heroin, and so forth. David, I'm beginning to think it's doable. Now I need a drink."

  "Let's go in the kitchen and see how my waitresses are making out."

  "How much did you pay them?"

  "An arm and a leg," Rathbone said. "But it was worth it."

  "That Sheila turns me on. Great boobs."

  "Come on, Jimmy; you're married."

  "My wife is," Bartlett said. "I'm not."

  13

  They were walking on the beach, carrying their shoes. A gleaming crescent cast a silver dagger across the sea. The breeze was from the southeast, smelling strongly of salt. There were a few night swimmers splashing about, yelping in the chilly surf.

  "He's having his pals over for a poker party," Rita reported. "Strictly stag. I can't go back till midnight so we have plenty of time. Did you eat?"

  "I worked late," Tony said, "and had a pizza sent in. How about you?"

  "I did some shopping at the mall and then grabbed a Caesar salad. Lots of garlic. Can't you smell it?"

  "Smells good. These guys Rathbone's having over- the gang from the Grand Palace?"

  "That's right. They're as thick as thieves, that bunch."

  "Rita, they are thieves. Has he sent you back to the bank in Boca?"

  "Not yet. I haven't the slightest idea what's going on there."

  "Anything else?"

  "Not much. He's got a new client, a retired professor with mucho dinero. "

  "Damn!" Harker said. "I can't get a handle on how his swindle works. I had the SEC take a look at his accounts with Mortimer Sparco, who's a discount broker. Sparco runs a lot of penny stocks, but so far he's clean. Anyway, Rathbone has accounts for all his clients. But they're all holding blue chips like IBM and AT amp;T. But I know, I know Rathbone is skimming. I just don't know how."

  She told him the story of how David got a refund from Hunneker's on a jumpsuit he didn't like. Tony laughed.

  "A crook is a crook is a crook," he said. "The guy is making at least six hundred thousand a year, but he can't stand the thought of someone taking him, even for two hundred."

  "In some ways," she said, "he's very generous."

  "You already told me that."

  "Well, he is! I bet if I asked him for a thousand, he'd hand it over and not even ask what I wanted it for."

  "He's getting his money's worth," Harker said in a low voice.

  She stopped walking, making him stop, and turned to stare at him. "That was a shitty thing to say. Let's you and I get something straight, buster. I'm not a total bubblehead, you know. I have very good instincts about people, especially men. I know David is a conniving thief and belongs in the pokey, but I happen to like the guy. Okay? I happen to think he's sweet."

  "Sweet?" Harker said with an explosive snort. "He's a bum!"

  "So he's a sweet bum. All right?"

  They turned around and continued their stroll back to his motel.

  "You claim you have a good instinct about men," he said. "What about me?" "You? A straight arrow. Uptight. If you could learn to relax, you could be quite a guy."

  "Well, if it'll make you feel any better, si
nce I met you I've stopped using my inhaler and tonight I had a pepperoni pizza."

  "Bed therapy. Stick with me, kiddo, and you'll be tanning your hide in the sun." She hugged his arm, adding, "We've got till midnight."

  His bedroom window was open wide, and they could smell the sea. The ghostly moonlight was all the light they needed. Her body was a hot shadow on the white sheet.

  "Hand and glove," she said dreamily.

  "What?"

  "That's how we fit."

  He was enraptured, lost and gone. He surrendered totally. I must never lose this woman, he vowed. Never.

  Later, she took his face between her palms. "You're getting there," she said.

  "Thank you, Dr. Sullivan," he said. "Would you like a cold beer?"

  "I'd love a cold beer."

  They sat up in bed, sipping. She rested the dripping can on his belly, and he winced.

  "Mama told me," she said, "that I should never talk to a man about another man-especially in bed-but this is part of our job, so I figure it's okay."

  "What is?"

  "David Rathbone. You said he's a bum, and he is. He cheats his friends; I know that for a fact. But I've had a lot of experience with hard cases, and I've learned one thing about them: none are completely bad. A rapist can be devoted to a sick mother. A safecracker can help support his church. Even a murderer can drag a kid out of a burning house. None of us is one-dimensional. So when you call David a con man, a swindler, a thief, I know you're right. But he's more than that."

  "If you say so," Tony said.

  She left a little before midnight, and he went to sleep smelling the garlic on his pillow and smiling.

  The next morning he gave Crockett an update. The chief listened intently, fingers laced across his vest. He looked as broody as an Easter Island statue. Harker knew he was bossing a half-dozen concurrent investigations; the man's brain must be churning.

  Crockett stirred when Tony finished his recital. "Can't you move any faster on this?" he asked.

  "No, sir. The two new men are coming in today. But I had to set up their legends first. I've established cover stories that'll back them up. I'll put one on Sidney Coe and one on Mortimer Sparco."