"I also discovered," Clark went on, "that you've succeeded in turning several of Sid Coe's yaks. Although from what I understand about the man, it probably didn't take much persuasion. My informant tells me you've been clipping Sid Coe for about a hundred grand a month."
"What the hell's going on here?" Sparco cried.
"It's called blackmail," Clark said tonelessly. "I'm sure you've heard of it. Either I get my sixty thousand immediately or I leave your office, go directly to Coe's boiler room, and show him the evidence of how you've been jobbing him."
"What evidence? You've got no evidence!"
"A signed statement from your landlord in West Palm Beach who copied the license number on your black BMW. A Polaroid photo of the sign on the door
of your office up there. It says Instant Investments, the name of Coe's business. And I can finger the yaks who've been working this scam with you. I figure all that'll be enough to convince Sid Coe. Ten minutes after I leave him, he'll come busting in here with steam coming out his ears. What do you think he'll do to you, Mr. Sparco? I hear he carries a gun."
Sparco gnawed furiously at his thumbnail. "Suppose I pay," he said. "Just suppose I give you back your sixty grand. How do I know you won't hit me again?"
"Easy," Clark said. "You pay me. Then you close down that West Palm Beach office. Tell the yaks the picnic is over. Drop the steal and figure a new way to cheat your friends. I'll be up in Chicago and won't know a thing about it."
"I haven't got 60K in the office."
"Sure you have. All you chiselers keep bribe and getaway cash available."
"I've got maybe thirty grand. No more than that. I'll have to go to the bank."
"That's okay," Simon Clark said cheerfully, rising. "I'll go with you."
53
David Rathbone had a long, tiring day. He drove to Lakeland in the morning, picked up the fifty thousand in queer from Herman Weisrotte, then turned around and drove back to Fort Lauderdale. On the trip home he stopped for a club sandwich and a bottle of Rolling Rock.
He delivered the cash to Jimmy Bartlett, then dropped in at the Palace Lounge to pay his tab for New Year's Day.
He had one vodka gimlet at the Palace, then started home. On impulse, he pulled off Atlantic Boulevard on the east side of the Intracoastal and parked in the concrete area under the bridge. There were a few other cars there, a few night fishermen dipping their lines in the glimmering channel.
Rathbone lighted a cigarette and tried to unwind. He knew Rita was waiting for him, but at that moment he wanted to be alone, watch the boats moving up and down the Waterway, and think about where he had been, where he was, where he was going.
It had been in his early teens that he had suddenly realized, almost with the force of a religious experience, how stupid most people were. They were just dumb, dumb, dumb, and nothing in his life since that revelation had changed his conviction that the great majority of Americans had air between their ears.
Why, there were people who believed wearing a copper bracelet would prevent arthritis, people who believed they could beat a three-card-monte dealer, people who believed in astrology, flying saucers, and the power of crystals. There were even people who believed professional wrestling was on the up-and-up. How could you respect the intelligence of the populace when a con woman could travel the country collecting contributions by claiming to be the penniless widow of the Unknown Soldier?
Rathbone came to regard this mass stupidity as a great natural resource. Just like oil in the ground, gold nuggets in a stream, or a stand of virgin forest, it was there to be exploited. The ignorance and greed of most people were simply inexhaustible, and a man would be a fool not to harvest that bounty. It was no sin to profit from the mooches' need to believe what they wanted to believe, ignoring reason and common sense.
Now he was in south Florida, a paradise for con men and swindlers. Frank Little had once said that Ponce de Leon was looking for the Fountain of Youth but had found the Golden Mooch. The phrase had caught on with the Palace gang; they referred to Florida as The Land of the Golden Mooch. And best of all, hundreds of marks arrived every day, to live in a sunlit, semi-tropical climate, play shuffleboard, and listen to the siren song of the sharks-the human variety.
There just seemed to be no limit to the credulity of Florida mooches. They eagerly gulped the most rancid bait, and the saying amongst Florida sharpers was, "If the deal is so lousy that even a doctor won't bite, take it to a dentist." Deluding Floridians, Rathbone decided, was shooting fish in a barrel, and he questioned if he was doing the smart thing to leave the state in six months.
But he recalled the advice of an old slicker he had met when he first arrived in south Florida. This guy had been on the con for fifty years and had accumulated a nice pile for his old age, mostly by wholesaling counterfeit brand-name perfumes he concocted in his bathtub. But he had retired and now, just to keep himself busy, he was running a magic shop in Miami, selling tricks and illusions.
"Remembet, kid," he had rumbled to David, "Easy Street goes two ways. You're young now, and you think it'll last forever. It never does. The swindles don't die- the old ones work as well as ever-but eventually you'll get tired of the game. Too much stress, too much pressure, never knowing when a mark might turn nasty and cut you up. Do what I did: Save up a stake, and then take the money and run. The game is really for young guys with balls and energy. But after a while you get to the point where you want to live a straight life, quit looking over your shoulder, and start smelling the roses."
There was probably some truth in that, Rathbone acknowledged, but he couldn't buy it all because it meant the way he was living now would eventually prove to be unsatisfying.
In six months he might cash in, but he knew that moving to Costa Rica wouldn't be the end of his plots. He'd be a bamboozler till the day he died simply because that's the way he was.
And the opportunities never seemed to end.
Like the fifty thousand in funny money he had just delivered to Jimmy Bartlett, to be salted into a deposit at a Palm Beach bank.
"The German gets twenty percent of the face value?" Bartlett had asked.
"That's right," Rathbone said. "I had to lean on him-he wanted thirty-but he finally agreed after I told him there'll be bigger jobs coming."
"Good," Bartlett said. "You're an A-Number-One yak."
Actually, Rathbone had conned the printer into accepting fifteen percent of the face value of the queer. David planned to skim that extra five percent for himself.
But Jimmy Bartlett, friend and partner, didn't have to know that.
54
Mike Mulligan would have confessed to being Jack the Ripper if they had asked him. They read him his rights, but he said he didn't want an attorney present during his questioning. Lester Crockett gently suggested it might be a wise thing to do, but Mulligan insisted: No lawyer.
So they had him sign a statement that he understood his rights but didn't wish any legal assistance. Just to make sure, they videotaped the reading of the rights and the banker's disclaimer.
Then he started talking.
Crockett did the questioning, with Anthony Harker and Henry Ullman as witnesses. The entire session was videotaped, and later Mulligan read the typed transcript and signed it. All this took place over the Christmas weekend.
Mulligan confessed that as an officer of the Crescent Bank of Boca Raton, he had accepted deposits of cash in excess of $10,000 from James Bartlett for the account of Mitchell Korne Enterprises, Inc., of Miami. In return, he had been supplied with cocaine by Mr. Bartlett. Mulligan had never used the drug himself-he was insistent on that-but had given it away to "friends."
He described how the deposited funds were eventually moved out of the Mitchell Korne account to a bank in Panama. He named the other officers of the Crescent Bank who were aware of these deals. But he bravely accepted complete responsibility for the money-laundering scheme and stated his intention to take his punishment "like a man."
&nb
sp; "I think, Mr. Mulligan," Crockett said gravely, "that your punishment may prove to be milder than you anticipate. It all depends on your cooperation."
"You mean I won't have to go to jail?"
"Possibly not. What we want you to do is return to your job at the bank and carry on as before. Do not- I repeat, do not- inform your co-conspirators at the bank of your arrest. What we require is that you inform us promptly when James Bartlett calls to arrange for another deposit. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"You will agree to accept that deposit, and then tell us the date and time. Meanwhile, Mr. Ullman will move into your apartment temporarily. He will also accompany you to and from work. In other words, Mr. Mulligan, you will be under constant surveillance. Understood?"
The banker nodded.
"Good," Crockett said with a bleak smile. "We appreciate your assistance."
Ullman and Mulligan left the office, with the agent's arm about the banker's thin shoulders.
Crockett waited until the door was closed, then shook his head softly. "No fool like an old fool," he said. "But at least he seems determined to make amends."
"Yes, sir," Harker said, "but we may have a king-size problem. When we nail Bartlett making the deposit, we'll have to scoop up all the other perps at the same time. Otherwise they'll hear of Bartlett's arrest, and the roaches will disappear into the woodwork. I think we better start working on the logistics of the crackdown right away. We'll have to make sure every suspect is covered, plus have enough men to confiscate the records of Rathbone, Coe, and Sparco. We'll also want to arrange for a coordinated DEA raid on Frank Little's warehouse, and pick up Herman Weisrotte and Irving Donald Gevalt. Then there's the problem of Mitchell Korne in Miami."
"I'll inform the Miami DEA office about that gentleman," Crockett said. "I presume they'll want to initiate their own investigation. Yes, I think you'd be wise to begin planning the roundup immediately. Then when we get the word on the Bartlett deposit, we'll be able to move quickly." He paused, stared at the other man, then asked curiously, "What role do you have in mind for Rita Sullivan?"
"I don't know," Tony said. "I'll have to think about it."
Simon Clark came into Harker's office and dumped a thick file on his desk.
"That's it," he said. "Everything I've been able to dig up on Mortimer Sparco's penny stock swindles. I can't do more without subpoenas."
"Got enough for an indictment?"
"More than enough. But it's all raw stuff. It really needs a staff to organize it and follow the leads."
Harker thought a moment. "I've got plenty on my plate without this," he said. "Besides, as I told you, this penny stock scam is a sideshow. I want to nail Sparco for dealing drugs. He'll do heavy time on that."
"Good," Clark said. "He's a slimy character."
"What I think I'll do," Harker went on, "is ship this file up to my old buddies in the SEC. They've got the manpower and contacts to handle it."
"That makes sense," Clark said. "Can I go back to Chicago now?"
Tony looked at him in surprise. "In the middle of winter?" he said. "That doesn't make sense. Don't you like Florida?"
The agent shrugged. "It has its points, I guess, but I prefer the big city."
"Well, I have another job for you before you cut loose. There's an old guy named Irving Donald Gevalt involved in all this. He claims to be a rare book dealer, but he's really a paperman. He's supplied David Rathbone with phony ID, and I suspect the others in the gang use him, too. See what you can find out about his past history and present activities."
"You want me to try making a buy?"
"It wouldn't do any harm. And if Gevalt gets spooked and tells Rathbone, it might make him sweat a little. I'd like that."
"All right," Clark said, "I'll see what I can do. When are you going to bust everyone?"
"Soon," Harker said. "I'm working on the details right now. I'll probably want you to lead the team that takes Sparco."
Clark did a good job of covering his shock. "Whatever you want," he said casually. "Meanwhile I'll get to work on Gevalt."
"He's supposed to have a wife one-third his age," Harker said, smiling. "I hear she wears the world's smallest bikini."
"I couldn't care less," Simon Clark said. "I'm a happily married man."
They sat around a littered table in the Burger King and worked on double cheeseburgers, french fries, coleslaw, and big containers of cola, using up a stack of paper napkins.
"Jack Liddite is handling the file," Roger Fortescue said, "and he's not happy about our nosing around."
"You're a smoke and I'm a spic," Manny Suarez said. "Why should he be happy?"
Harker grinned at both of them. "Screw Jack Liddite," he said. "Whoever he is."
"A homicide dick," Fortescue said. "And he wanted to know what our interest was in Termite Tommy. I mumbled something about his being involved in pushing queer, but I don't think he believed me."
"Homicide?" Tony said. "So it was murder?"
"Well, Tommy had enough alcohol in him to put the Foreign Legion to sleep, and when he went into the canal, he smacked his head a good one on the dash. But what actually killed him was that someone stuck a sharpened ice pick into his right ear. It took the medical examiner awhile to find it, but that's what did the job."
Suarez started on his second cheeseburger. "It would be nice," he said, "if he was out cold from the booze before he got stuck."
"Yeah," Roger said, "that would be nice. So where do we go from here?"
Harker slopped ketchup on his french fries. "You said Tommy left Lakeland on New Year's Day?"
"That was the last his motel owner saw him."
"Could he have been murdered that night?"
"Possible," Fortescue said. "It falls within the ME's four- or five-day time frame. He couldn't be more exact than that. After all, the guy had been marinating in canal water awhile."
"Let's figure he drove down here from Lakeland and got it that night," Tony said slowly. "The last time he came down he went to the Palace Lounge on Commercial."
"Right," Fortescue said. "Met David Rathbone."
"Well, on the evening of New Year's Day, Rathbone got smashed in the Palace Lounge. So drunk that the bartender had to call Rathbone's woman to come collect him."
The agents didn't ask how he knew that. They munched their burgers in silence.
"It's theen stuff," Manny said finally.
"Sure, it's thin," Harker agreed. "But what else have we got?"
"Okay," Fortescue said, "so let's figure that before Termite Tommy ends up in the canal, he goes to the Palace Lounge and meets with David Rathbone. Then he leaves, and Rathbone stays and gets plastered. If that holds, then someone at the Palace might remember Tommy being there on New Year's Day. Maybe the parking valet. Maybe the bartender."
"The bartender's name is Ernie," Harker said.
"Ernesto," Manny Suarez said. "I like it. Roger, let's you and me go talk to Ernesto."
"Let's run a trace on him first," Fortescue said. "I like to know who we're dealing with."
"This is fun," Suarez said. "Better than selling pork bellies."
Tony said, "Just be sure to ask Ernie if David Rathbone met with Termite Tommy on New Year's Day."
Roger stared at him. "Regardless of how Ernie answers that, he's going to call Rathbone and warn him the moment we leave."
"I know," Harker said happily,
55.
It had chilled off to 59°F overnight, but the morning of Friday, January 26, was sharp and clear, and the radio weatherman predicted the afternoon would be sunny and in the low 70s.
They decided it would be too nippy on the terrace, so they came down to the dining room in their robes. Theodore served a down-home breakfast of fried eggs, plump pork sausages, grits, and hush puppies.
"No office for you today," David said. "I think we'll pay a visit to Irving Donald Gevalt and get you fixed up with a passport."
"In my own name?" Rita asked.
He thought a moment. Then: "No, I don't think so. We'll use the ID of Gloria Ramirez you used at the Boca bank. You'll have to provide a photo, but that's no problem."
She glanced around to make certain Theodore was out of the room. "David, will Blanche and Theodore be going with us?"
He shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. Too many complications. Right now they've got fake green cards Gevalt provided. If I can work a deal, they may be able to join us later."
"What are you going to tell your clients when we leave?"
He grinned at her. "Nothing. They'll find out eventually. But by then we'll be long gone."
"Poor Birdie Winslow," Rita said. "She'll be devastated."
Rathbone laughed. "Did I tell you she wanted me to move in with her? Scout's honor. She had visions of the two of us sharing a big condo on the beach."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her I already had a roomie."
They went upstairs to dress and, a little before noon, drove out to the Gevalt Rare Book Center. The old man seemed delighted to see them. He called into the back room, and a few moments later his wife, still wearing her fringed black bikini, came out with two wine spritzers for Rita and David.
"None for you?" Rathbone asked.
The gaffer shook his head sadly. "Even such a mild drink my stomach cannot stand. A glass of warm milk before I go to bed: That's my speed. This is a social visit, David?"
"Not entirely. You provided a package of paper for Rita in the name of Gloria Ramirez."
"I remember. Any problems?"
"None whatsoever. But now we need a passport in the same name. Something that looks used."
"Of course. Visa stamps and so forth. You have a photo?"
"We'll bring you one."
"Not necessary."
The young blonde went into the back room and came out carrying an old Nikon with an attached flashgun.
"The camera is ancient," Gevalt said with his gap-toothed grin, "but it does good work. Like me. David, could I speak to you a moment in private?''
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