Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  "That Birdie Winslow you mentioned?"

  "Oh, did I mention her? Yes, it probably was. She demands a lot of attention. Really more trouble than she's worth. I may have to drop her."

  "How old is she?"

  "Older than you, believe me. And heavier. Much, much heavier."

  "Pretty?"

  He fluttered a hand back and forth. "So-so. Passable, but not my type."

  "Who is your type?"

  "You. How many times do I have to tell you?" "I never get tired of hearing it," she said, squeezing his arm. 4 4 What're your plans for today?"

  "I have to see my travel agent. I've got to go to England for a few days. Tomorrow if I can get a flight."

  "Me, too?"

  "Nope. Not this time."

  "'That's what you said last time."

  4"You'll get your chance," he assured her. "Maybe sooner than you think. We'll have to visit Irving Donald Gevalt and get you fixed up with ID and a passport."

  "Why can't I use my real name?"

  "I don't think that would be wisfe," he said.

  He spent the morning in his office, reviewing the accounts of his clients and drawing up a schedule of investments each would make in the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. Birdie Winslow called shortly before noon.

  "I phoned you all day yesterday," she complained. "I suppose you were gallivanting around."

  "I wish I had been," Rathbone said. "But I had to attend a seminar in Boca on zero-coupon bonds. Very dull stuff."

  "Can we have lunch today?"

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said. "I have a luncheon appointment with a Palm Beach banker. He's probably on his way here right now, so I can't cancel."

  "Then how about dinner?"

  "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm flying to Germany tonight. Just for a few days. Maybe we can get together when I get back."

  "David, you're not avoiding me, are you?"

  "Of course not. It's just that I've been so busy. Making money is hard work, you know."

  "Uh-huh. Well, I have something very important to talk to you about. I could come over to your office."

  "Oh, it's in such a mess right now," he said, "I'd hate to have you see it. Tell you what: I have to stop at my travel agent after lunch to pick up my ticket. Suppose I come by your apartment for a short time at about three o'clock."

  "Divine!" she said. "I'll have your vodka gimlet all ready for you."

  "Wonderful," he said.

  He had lunch with Jimmy Bartlett at an outdoor cafe on the Waterway. They sat at an umbrella table and watched the big boats coming south for the winter.

  "I had a visit from Termite Tommy," Rathbone said. "He claims the German doesn't want to engrave new plates for the bills. Says his hands aren't steady enough. Which is probably true; the old guy was half in the bag when I met him in Lakeland."

  "So the deal is off?"

  "Not yet. The printer wants to buy one of those new color laser copiers, an office machine. He says it does beautiful work. Sharper than the original. If he can use his self-destruct paper to pick up copies of twenties and fifties, we're in business."

  "Worth a try," Bartlett said. "Even if it's a half-ass reproduction. We're going to salt it in with the drug cash anyhow. And from what you say, it'll disintegrate before anyone has a chance to spot it as queer."

  "Right. But I told Tommy to bring me a sample before I go ahead on this."

  "He still thinks you're going to deposit the funny money in bank accounts?"

  "That's what he thinks. Which brings me to our big problem. To get this thing rolling, I had to promise

  Termite Tommy a third and the printer a third. But that would leave only a third for you and me to split. Not enough, considering the risk we're running."

  "I agree. And the idea was ours."

  "Yours. The German is the producer and worth a third. But Tommy is just a go-between, a messenger. He's not contributing anything. So the problem is how to cut him out of the loop."

  "Finished your lunch?" Bartlett said. "Then let's move to the bar and have a real drink."

  They sat close together at the thatched bar and ordered margaritas.

  "What kind of a guy is this Tommy?" Bartlett asked.

  "A boozer," Rathbone said. "A natural-born loser. I thought he was out on parole or probation, and it would be easy to set up a frame and send him back to the clink for a while. But now I find out he served his full time. So, as they say, he's paid his debt to society and he's home free."

  "He could still be framed," Jimmy observed. "It doesn't have to be anything heavy; just get him sent back for a year or two. Our operation isn't going to last any longer than that."

  "I know," David said, "but there's another factor. The guy's psychopathic about going back behind bars. I'm afraid that if he's even arrested for speeding, he'll rat to save his ass. Then I'm down the tube."

  Bartlett looked at him with a crooked smile. "And if you go, I go-is that what you're saying?"

  "Something like that," Rathbone admitted.

  From where they sat they could watch an enormous yacht moving slowly toward the Atlantic Boulevard bridge. There was a small helicopter lashed to the top deck, and on the afterdeck two older men in white flannels and blue blazers were horsing around with three tanned young women in bikinis. They all had drinks, and their laughter carried across the Waterway.

  "From the way you describe it," Bartlett said, "there's only one solution."

  The bridge rose, the shining yacht disappeared down the Intracoastal.

  The two men turned to stare at each other.

  "Let me ask around," Jimmy said.

  "How much would it cost?" Rathbone asked in a low voice.

  "Not much," Bartlett said.

  They finished their drinks in silence, rose, lifted hands to each other, and separated. Rathbone returned to his car and lighted a Winston. He was startled to see that his fingers were trembling slightly. He smoked slowly, and by the time the cigarette was finished, his jits had disappeared. He drove two blocks to his travel agent.

  He could have saved money by flying directly to San Jose from Miami. But he elected to go first to San Juan, then to Panama City, and finally to Costa Rica. He reasoned that if, for some reason, he was dogged, it would be easy to spot a tail making the same plane changes he did. He had learned to trust his instincts, and right now they were telling him to play it cozy.

  "Need a hotel room in San Jose?" the agent asked.

  "No," Rathbone said, "I'm staying with friends."

  He glanced at his gold Rolex, saw it was time to be heading for Birdie Winslow's apartment. He considered bringing her a gift, then decided not to; it would be smart to chill that relationship.

  She met him at the door wearing lounging pajamas in psychedelic colors that made him blink. She threw her meaty arms about him in a close embrace that stifled him.

  "You bad boy!" she cried. "Never home when I phone. Never come to see me."

  "I've really been busy, Birdie," he said. "And then this trip to Spain came up unexpectedly."

  "I thought you said you're going to Germany."

  "Spain and Germany. And I haven't even started packing yet. So I'm afraid I can't stay very long. You said you had something important to talk about."

  "Something very important," she said. "But first you sit yourself down, and I'll serve you a vodka gimlet just the way you like it."

  This one had two ice cubes, but he postponed tasting it, fearing the worst.

  "Now then," he said, "what's this all about?"

  "Come over here and sit near me," she said, patting the couch cushion. "You're so far away."

  Obediently he heaved himself out of the armchair where he had hopefully sought refuge and sat next to her. She put a heavy hand on his knee.

  "David, you told me you live in this cramped one-bedroom apartment, and today you mentioned how messy your office is. I really don't like this apartment all that much, and my lease will be up in a few months. So my wonderful
idea is this: Why don't the two of us take an apartment together? A really big place with enough room for your office and a nice living room and terrace where we could do a lot of entertaining. I think it would be fun, don't you?"

  He lifted his drink slowly and swallowed half, not tasting it.

  "Birdie," he said, "that's a heavy decision to make. You know, we're the best of friends now, but living together is something entirely different. I've known couples who have tried it, and within a week or so they're at each other's throat."

  "I just know that could never happen with us because we get along so well together. David, you're not involved with anyone else right now, are you?" 44Oh no," he said. 44No, nothing like that." 44Well, there you are! You're by your lonesome and so am I-which is really silly when you think about it. I mean paying two rents and keeping two kitchens and all. If we lived together, we could share the rent and have this fabulous big apartment we could decorate just the way we want it. What do you think?"

  He finished his drink. 4'Birdie, first of all I want to thank you for suggesting it. It's quite a compliment to me. But I'm not sure we could make a go of it. Sometimes I work till midnight and even later. I have clients visiting and business meetings in my office. I even-" 44Oh, I'd respect your privacy," she interrupted. 4 4You don't have to worry about that. And we could have all your friends over for cocktail parties and dinners. I thought we might get a place right on the beach, with a terrace. And sometimes I'd make a nice, home-cooked meal when we didn't feel like going out. I'd even keep your office neat and all tidied up so you wouldn't be ashamed of it."

  44You make it sound very attractive," he said, trying to smile. 44But as I said, it's a big decision, and I think we should both consider it very carefully and talk more about it before we make up our minds."

  44Oh, I've already made up my mind," she said gaily. 44I think it would be divineV'

  44Well, I promise you I'll give it very serious thought."

  "And you'll let me know?"

  "Of course."

  "When?"

  "Suppose we do this: When I get back from Europe, we'll get together and discuss it in more detail. Meanwhile, I promise you, I'll be thinking about it very, very carefully. Neither of us wants to rush into something we might regret later."

  She swooped suddenly to kiss his lips. "I'd never regret it," she said breathlessly. "Never!"

  He drove home recklessly, speeding, jumping lights, cutting off other cars. And steadily cursing as he frantically devised scenarios to finesse his way out of this outrageous complication.

  He went directly to his office and revised his plan so that Birdie Winslow's total wealth would be invested in the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. Then he sat back and tried to figure out how this new development would affect his schedule.

  When Rita came home from work, he was seated on the terrace working on a big iced gimlet and staring out over the ocean.

  "Where's my drink?" she demanded.

  He looked at her a moment without replying. Then: "Remember this morning you asked when you were going on a trip with me, and I said it might be sooner than you think."

  "Sure, I remember," Rita said. "So?"

  "I was right. When I get back, we'll go to Gevalt and get you new ID and a passport."

  "Whatever you say, boss," she said. "Now can I have a kiss and a drink, in that order?"

  "Whatever you say, boss," he said, and felt better.

  35

  The rip-off of Sidney Coe's boiler room went pretty much the way Warren Fowler described it. Manny Suarez closed a deal with a mooch in Little Rock, Arkansas, for $2,000 in the Fort Knox Fund stock. He told the sucker to mail his check to the West Palm Beach office. Then he informed Fowler of the sale.

  "When do I get my moaney?" he asked. "And who pays me?"

  "You'll get paid as soon as the check clears," Fowler assured him. "Then I'll give you your seventy-five percent."

  "The check will be made out to Instant Investments, Inc. So how does your friend cash it?"

  Fowler shrugged. "That's his problem. Maybe he peddles the checks to another goniff at a ten-percent discount. That would still leave him fifteen percent clear. But I suspect he may have opened an account in an out-of-state bank in the name of Instant Investments. In any event, you'll get your money from me."

  "Just don't go out-of-state," Manny said, and both men laughed.

  Suarez took Saturday off and drove up to West Palm Beach. He had never been there before and it took him a half-hour to locate the office. It was in a grungy neighborhood, on the second floor over a gun shop.

  There was a card thumbtacked to the locked door. All it said was "Instant Investments. Please slide mail under door."

  Manny went downstairs to the gun shop and waited patiently while a clerk sold a semiautomatic rifle to a pimply-faced youth with a banner, Death before dishonor, tattooed on his right bicep.

  When the kid left, carrying his rifle in a canvas case, Manny approached the clerk. He was an oldish guy, heavy through the chest and shoulders. He was wearing a stained T-shirt that had printing on the front: 6uns don't kill people, people kill people.

  "The owner around?" Suarez asked.

  The beefy guy looked at him. "Who wants to know?" he demanded.

  Sighing, Suarez took out his shield and ID from the Miami Police Department. The clerk inspected them carefully.

  "You're outside your jurisdiction, ain'tcha?" he said.

  "Cut the crap," Manny said. "Where can I find the owner?"

  "I'm the owner," the guy said, "and I got all my permits and licenses, and you can look at my books anytime you want."

  "I'm not interested in your guns," Manny said. "Who owns the building?"

  "I do."

  "You rent the upstairs office?"

  "That's right."

  "Who rents it?"

  "Some outfit that does mail order."

  "What kind of mail order?"

  "I don't know and I don't care."

  "What's the name of the guy running it?" "Who the hell knows? I don't."

  "You must have some name. The name on the lease for the office."

  "There ain't no lease. It's rented month to month."

  "Who signs the rent checks?"

  "There ain't no rent checks. I get paid in cash."

  Manny stared at him. "You keep jerking me around," he said, "and you're in deep shit. I'll visit the locals and see what we can do about closing you down. Like is the fire exit clearly marked, is the toilet clean, do the sprinklers work, how do you handle your garbage, and so forth. Is that what you want?"

  "The guy's name is Smith."

  "Don't tell me it's good old John Smith."

  "Robert Smith. I got his home address writ down on a piece of paper somewhere."

  "Find it," Suarez commanded.

  It took him another half-hour to locate the address, or rather where it should have been. It was a weedy vacant lot next to a small factory that made novelties such as whoopee cushions, dribble glasses, and plastic dog turds. Manny drove back to the gun shop.

  "You again?" the owner said.

  "Me again," Manny said. "This Robert Smith, does he come to his office every day?"

  "Nah. Two, three times a week."

  "To pick up his mail?"

  "I guess."

  "What does he drive?"

  "A black BMW."

  Manny whistled. "The mail order business must be good," he said. "Tell you what: I'm going to phone you every day next week. I want you to get the license number of that BMW. I'll keep calling until you get it.

  Hokay? I know you want to cooperate with your law enforcement officers."

  "Oh yeah," the guy said. "Sure I do."

  "Uh-huh," Suarez said. "Well, here's your chance."

  "This Robert Smith, what's he wanted for?"

  "He's been cheating on his girlfriend. She claims he's been sleeping with his wife."

  He called the gun shop on Monday. Robert Smith hadn't show
n up. But he was there on Ttiesday morning, and the owner gave Manny the number on the BMW's license plate. Suarez phoned Tony Harker.

  "The guy who has that office in West Palm Beach," he said. "The one who's ripping off Sid Coe. He calls himself Robert Smith and he drives a black BMW. Here's the license number."

  "Got it," Harker said. "I'll check it out with Tallahassee. Call me back tonight."

  Manny phoned him at his motel, a little before midnight.

  "Well?" he said. "Is it David Rathbone?"

  "No," Harker said, sounding disappointed. "It's Mortimer Sparco."

  36

  They were slouched in armchairs in Harker's living room, bare feet up on the shabby cocktail table. They were nursing beers. It was cool enough to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows. They heard the scream of a siren speeding by on A1 A.

  "That's the 911 truck," Rita said. "You know what they call this stretch of road? Cardiac Canyon."

  "I'm liable to have one," Tony said, "if I don't get a few days off to unwind."

  "So?" she said. "Take them."

  "Can't," he said. "Too much happening. Things are really heating up. Right after you called I put a man on Rathbone at the Miami Airport, and we got a look at his ticket. He thought he was being cute, going to Costa Rica by way of Puerto Rico and Panama. So I had to arrange for a different agent to pick him up in San Juan, and another at Panama City. So he wouldn't spot the tail. A lot of phone calls, a lot of work to coordinate all that in a short time."

  "And he's in Costa Rica now?"

  "The last I heard. He got off the plane in San Jose, where a fourth agent took up the trail. This is costing Uncle Samuel a mint."

  "He can afford it. What do you suppose David is up to?"

  "You want me to guess? I'd guess he's preparing to make a run for it sometime soon. He probably has fake ID from that Gevalt guy, and he's been building up his offshore bank accounts. Maybe he's bought a house or hacienda, whatever they call it, in Costa Rica, and he's planning his retirement. Taking all his loot with him, of course. Has he said anything to you about leaving the country?"

  Rita took a swallow of her beer. 4 'Not a word,'' she said.

  "Well, I'll bet he's working on it. If he follows the pattern, he'll stick around long enough to make one final killing, then take off. We'll have to move in on him before that. The agent tailing him right now in San Jose will try to find out what name he's using. Then we'll be able to check other property and bank accounts in the Bahamas and Cayman Islands. If we can nail him under RICO, we'll take everything but the fillings in his teeth."