Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  The five men were served drinks and cigars by Jacques, Little's Haitian houseboy. Jacques was nineteen, olive-skinned, sloe-eyed. He would last a year. Little replaced his houseboys annually, all clones of Jacques.

  Rathbone waited until all five had drinks and Jacques had left the room. Then he said, "Here's what this is all about."

  He outlined the proposed commodity trading fund, dealing only in "controlled substances," meaning marijuana, cocaine, heroin, and other illicit drugs. The fund would buy and sell options and futures, making a profit by the spread between buy and sell orders, and from the investors, who would, of course, be unaware of the true nature of the commodities being traded.

  Bartlett would sign buy contracts with his clients. Little would sign sell contracts with his customers. Mort Sparco would organize the fund and peddle shares of the penny stock to his local accounts. Sid Coe would push the shares in his boiler room. Rathbone would serve as comptroller and chief executive officer.

  "But none of us risks his own money," he said. "Start-up cash comes from Mort's suckers and Sid's mooches. We start out small and see how it goes. If it looks like a winner, we tie up with bucket shops all over the country and with penny stock brokers in Denver, giving them a piece of the action. All profits are split evenly five ways. How does it sound?"

  "Let me get this straight," Frank Little said. "You want me to get my customers to sign contracts to buy?"

  "Right," Rathbone said. "The drugs will be given code names, and you'll set a price for delivery in three, six, nine, and twelve months. Jimmy will do the same with the imports. The only way this is going to work is by analyzing what the future market will be like: how big the supply, how big the demand."

  "I think you got a hot idea," Sparco said. "But take my advice and forget about trying to push options and futures. My pigeons just don't understand them. Buy low and sell high-that they can understand. But not the mechanics of future and option trading."

  "Ditto the suckers on my lists," Coe said. "My yaks have a limited time to close a deal. They've got to keep their pitch short and sweet."

  "That's what I told David," Bartlett said. "My clients work on a simple business principle: make a sale, get cash on delivery. They're willing to sign contracts at preset prices, but they know nothing about options."

  "All right," Rathbone said, "then let's stick to basics. We set up the fund financed by sucker money. We pull a Ponzi to keep the early investors eager. But we invest the bulk of the cash in purchases for future delivery. Jimmy, can you trust your clients to honor signed contracts?"

  "Some of them, sure. I know which ones we can trust. But buying the stuff is less a risk than selling it. Frank, will your customers honor a signed contract if, say, the price drops before you deliver? You follow? I mean if you promise H at 18K a kilo in six months, and then in six months the going price falls to 16K a kilo, will your guys ante up the 18K or will they renege?"

  "Some of them will welsh," Little said. "But some I deal with have this big macho honor thing; they'll pay what they agreed on even if they have to take a bath."

  They all fell silent as Jacques padded in with a tray of fresh drinks. They waited until he left the room before resuming their discussion.

  "What about timing on this?" Rathbone asked. "Mort, how long will it take to set up the fund and get the shares printed?"

  "A week or ten days. No more than that. My paper-man works fast, and he turns out beautiful stuff. Old engravings on the shares. They really look legit."

  "And what about you, Sid?" David' said. "It shouldn't take long to write a script for your yaks on the new fund."

  "I could do it tonight," Coe said, "if I knew what the name was. What are we going to call this thing?"

  They stared at each other a moment.

  "How about the Croesus Commodity Trading Fund?" Bartlett suggested.

  Rathbone shook his head. "It won't fly," he said.

  "The mooches aren't going to know who Croesus was."

  "How about this," Frank Little said. "The Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund."

  Everyone smiled.

  "A winner," Sparco said. "And if the suckers think we're dealing in gold, so much the better."

  The name decided, they then discussed their first deal. Bartlett urged that they start small with limited contracts for the purchase and sale of cocaine in three months' time.

  "You've got to remember that I've never bought on my own," he said. "I just provide banking services. Being an importer is new to me, and I want to go easy at first."

  "Same with me," Little said. "I'm just a trans-shipper and live off fees. My customers do their own buying."

  "But if you can shave the price and deliver high-quality stuff," Rathbone said, "they'll buy from you, won't they?"

  "No doubt about it. These are bottom-line guys."

  "Good," David said. "I'll get to work on a standard contract and draw up a list of code names for the commodities we'll be handling. I'll also get some new software for my computer. Maybe a spreadsheet. If we're going to do this thing, let's do it right."

  "The way I figure is this," Mort Sparco said. "What's the worst thing that could happen? That we lose all our money-right? Only it's not our money. So we've really got nothing to lose, and everything to gain. If we call the prices right and make a nice buck, we'll just pay the investors enough to keep them coming back-and pocket the rest. This could be a sweet deal."

  "Yeah," Coe said, "even better than the Gypsy Handkerchief Drop." And they all laughed.

  They had another round of drinks and discussed where and how to set up a checking account for the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. They talked about the advisability of renting a small office, hiring a secretary, and having letterheads and business cards printed. Then the gathering broke up. Before they separated, they all shook hands as serious entrepreneurs starting a daring enterprise with exciting possibilities.

  Rathbone had picked up James Bartlett at his home and had driven him to Frank Little's. Now, on the ride back to Bayview Drive, the two men briefly discussed the meeting.

  "I was surprised at how easily it went," Rathbone said. "I didn't have to use the hard sell at all. Well, they're shrewd guys and could see the potential. Jimmy, it could be a bonanza if we have luck analyzing the future market."

  "I think I know the man who can evaluate the supply and demand picture for us," Bartlett said. "He knows the drug scene inside out, from Bogota to the South Bronx."

  "Sounds good," David said. "Is he a dealer?"

  Bartlett laughed quietly. "No," he said, "he's a federal narc who turned sour about four years ago. Now he's got accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands I helped him set up. He'll be happy to help us."

  "You sure? If he turned once, he can turn again."

  Jimmy shrugged. "That's a risk we'll have to take. But I don't think it'll happen. He's in too deep."

  "Well, tell him what we need and see what he comes up with. If he works out, we can always cut him in for a point or two. Jimmy, there's something else I want to talk to you about. You'll love it."

  "Will I?" the other man said. "Try me."

  Rathbone told him all about Termite Tommy, the old German printer in Lakeland, the self-destruct paper, and how he had passed a forged check at the Crescent Bank.

  Bartlett didn't speak for a moment after David finished. Then: "You saw Termite Tommy's sample check after it had disintegrated?"

  "With my own eyes. Believe me, it turned to confetti in about four days."

  "No way he could have pulled a switch on you?"

  "Come on, Jimmy; I'm no rube. That check just fell apart."

  "And since Rita deposited the fake Treasury check, you've heard nothing about it? No cops knocking on your door at midnight?"

  Rathbone rapped his knuckles on the walnut dash of the Bentley. "So far, so good," he said. "We got the cash, and Treasury has a handful of fluff."

  "So what's your problem?"

  "How to capitalize
on this. I could keep buying new ID for Rita-or anyone else-and pulling the same scam on other Florida banks. But the take wouldn't be big enough. I thought of franchising the whole operation: selling pads of blank checks to paperhangers all over the country. But that wouldn't work; the checks would destruct before they got through the mail. You got any ideas?"

  "I know a little about counterfeiting," Bartlett said, "and I can tell you one thing: That German never made the paper. Making paper is just too difficult and complex an operation for one guy. It would take forever.

  So counterfeiters buy standard grades of paper and doctor them to suit their needs. A lot of them soak paper in black coffee to give it a weathered look, like their fake bills have been handled. I knew a hustler who spent hours with a one-hair brush painting his paper with those tiny threads you see in U.S. currency."

  "Well, if the German didn't make the paper himself, how did he get the checks to fall apart?"

  "My guess is that he bought paper of Treasury check weight and stiffness, and then treated it with chemicals. Probably an acid. You know, David, the wood-pulp paper used in most books and magazines is acidic and will crumble to dust in about thirty years. I think the Kraut found a chemical that speeds up the process."

  "Well, all I know is that it works, and I've been racking my brain trying to figure how to make the most of it."

  "David, why did you use the trick paper in a check?"

  "Why? I guess because Termite Tommy gave me a sample of the stuff in check form, and that got me thinking of how to turn a profit from self-destroying checks."

  Bartlett sighed. "You know, you're one of the best idea men in the game. You've got a lot of creative energy. Like that commodity trading fund you came up with. But sometimes you go sailing ahead without thinking things through. You're so eager to cash in, you don't stop to wonder if there might be a less risky or more profitable way. One of these days your love affair with lucre is going to do you in."

  "I don't see you passing up any surefire rackets, old buddy."

  "I don't-if they are surefire. But I spend a lot more time than you do calculating the risk-benefit ratio.

  Look, David, you can go on hanging queer checks, hiring more pushers, buying more fake ID, but as far as I'm concerned, the risk outweighs the benefit. The banks are sure to be alerted by the Federal Reserve, and sooner or later they'll get to you."

  "So you think I should just drop it?"

  "I didn't say that. But there's a better way. You said this Lakeland printer did time for counterfeiting?"

  "That's what Termite Tommy told me. He met the guy in the pokey. The German was doing five-to-ten. Tommy said he had been printing and wholesaling the queer, not pushing it."

  "Well, there's your answer. Get him back to making twenties and fifties, using the self-destruct paper. Then anyone-you, me, the man in the moon-can deposit the queer cash in any bank account. If it gets by the teller, you're home free because in a couple of days those bills are going to be gone, and there'll be nothing to point to who made the deposit. How are they going to arrest you for pushing forgeries if there's no evidence? The only things left will be your deposit slip and the credit to your account."

  Rathbone lifted one palm from the steering wheel to smack his forehead. "Now why didn't I think of that? It's a great idea. But maybe we should wholesale the stuff instead of pushing it ourselves. How do you feel about that?"

  "Wholesaling is what put the Kraut behind bars, and he might be a little gun-shy about trying it again. There's another possibility that occurs to me. You know, in my laundering deals, the cash is brought to the banks' back doors in shopping bags or suitcases. Sometimes the banks don't even bother counting; they weigh it. And they certainly don't inspect every bill to make sure it's le-git-"

  By that time they were parked in the brick driveway of Bartlett's home. Rathbone switched off the engine and turned to stare at the other man.

  "Jimmy," he said, "let me guess what you're thinking. If we wholesale the queer self-destruct bills, we'll be lucky to get twenty percent of the face value. But if you can switch the fake bills with your clients' genuine bills, we'll get full face value."

  "That's right," Bartlett said, "and so will my clients. They'll be credited for the correct total deposited. It's the banks that'll take the loss when the queer turns to dust."

  "But won't the banks scream when their twenties and fifties fall apart?"

  "Scream to whom?" Jimmy asked. "If they call in the law, they'll have to explain why they were accepting shopping bags full of cash at the back door. No, they'll take the loss and keep their mouths shut. They'll figure it's just the cost of doing business, and the profits are so enormous they'll keep on dealing. So it really ends up a win-win game."

  "Brilliant," Rathbone said.

  22

  The bullpen was on the second floor of Sidney Coe's office building, and although the ceiling and walls were soundproofed, the place was bedlam.

  Almost twenty yaks worked in that madhouse, their splintery desks cramped side by side. On each desk was a telephone, script, sucker list, and overflowing ashtray. The air conditioner was set at its coldest and operated constantly, but the smoky air in that crowded room rarely got below 80°, the humidity was a fog, and some of the men stripped to the waist.

  The yaks were currently hawking platinum, selling ounce bars of the metal with "free insurance and storage" included in the sales price. At the moment, the price was $500 per troy ounce (ten ounces minimum purchase), and any mooch could consult the financial pages and see he was buying at $23 per ounce under the market price.

  "Because we have an exclusive source of supply that's liable to dry up any minute, the demand is so great. Now's the time to get in on the greatest money-making opportunity we've ever offered. Here's the chance of a lifetime, but you've got to get in on it NOW! Tomorrow may be too late. How much can I put you down for? Mail in your check today, and then go shopping for a new Cadillac because you're going to be rich, rich, RICH!"

  Twenty yaks made this pitch, talking into their phones as rapidly and loudly as they could so the mooch was confused, didn't have time to think, heard only the shouted NOW! and RICH! and decided he better get in on this bonanza before the exclusive source of cheap platinum was exhausted.

  Checks arrived daily from all over the country, so many in fact that Sid Coe made two trips to the bank every day, hoping the checks would clear before the mooches had second thoughts and stopped payment. Few did. Even more remarkable, suckers who had lost money with Instant Investments, Inc., on precious gems, uranium, rare coins, and oil leases, sent in checks for platinum, hoping to recoup their losses.

  "They like to suffer, Cynthia," Sid opined to his wife. "I tell you it's pure masochism. For some reason they feel guilty and want to be punished."

  "Thank you, Doctor Freud," she said.

  Coe stalked the boiler room like a master lashing on his galley slaves. "Close the deal!" he kept yelling. "Close the deal, get a meal! Get the cash, buy the hash! Get the dough or out you go!"

  He hung over their sweaty shoulders, nudging them, spurring them on. Occasionally he grabbed the phone from their hand and demonstrated his version of the hard sell: raucous, derisive, almost insulting.

  "Go ahead," he'd shout. "Put your money in CDs and savings accounts. Take your lousy eight percent. Haven't you got the guts to be rich? Does it scare you to make real money? I'm offering you a chance to get out of that rut you're in. Do you want to live like a man or do you want to play kids' games all your life?"

  Invariably he closed the deal.

  Manny Suarez loved the place, couldn't wait to get to work in the morning. It was eight to twelve hours of noisy action, right up his alley. Coe assigned him one of the few vacant desks, gave him a script and sucker list, and turned him loose. Manny imitated the other yaks, with a few significant changes.

  He picked out the Hispanic names on his list, and although he made the pitch rapidly in Spanish, he never shouted. Inste
ad, his voice was warm, friendly. Their health? The health of their family? And how did they like the United Sta'? Then, after a few moments of his intimate chitchat, he launched into the spiel.

  He discovered he had a real talent for bamboozling. He closed the deal on almost half his calls, a percentage that rivaled that of the most experienced yaks. And during the second day he was on the job, he sold $25,000 of nonexistent platinum to a mooch in Los Angeles, a coup that impelled Sid Coe to give him a $500 bonus on the spot.

  Payday was Saturday afternoon. The yaks filed into the ground-floor office, one by one, and were paid their commissions in cash from a big stack of bills on Coe's desk, alongside a brutal.45 automatic. For his first week's work, Manuel Suarez earned over $900, including his five-yard bonus.

  "You're doing real good," Coe told him. "You like the job?"

  "It's hokay," Manny said. "But I need more Hispanic names."

  "You'll get them," the boss promised. "I buy our sucker lists from a guy in Chicago who supplies most of the boiler rooms in the country. I called him, and he's going to run his master list through a computer and pull every Spanish-sounding name for us. He says it's a great idea, and he's also going to get up an Italian list, a French list, and a Polish list. Apparently no one ever thought of ethnic sucker lists before. It could help the whole industry."

  Suarez pocketed his earnings and drove down to headquarters. It was then late Saturday afternoon, but Anthony Harker was still at his desk, working on a big chart that he covered up when Manny came into his office.

  "Hey, man," Suarez said, flashing a grin, "I got a small problem."

  "Yeah?" Tony said. "How small?"