Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Sure I will," Ernie said.

  "So we'll tell you some of what we've got. The clunk in the photograph was a two-bit con man who went by the moniker of Termite Tommy. We know he was here on New Year's Day. That night someone stuck an ice pick in his right ear. We're talking homicide, Ernie. We also know David Rathbone was here on New Year's Day. Now all we want to know is whether or not Rathbone and Termite Tommy met, maybe had a drink together, maybe talked awhile."

  "I don't remember," Ernie said.

  "Oh Ernesto," Suarez said sadly. "You are not cooperating, and you promised."

  "Listen, I can't tell you something I don't remember, can I?"

  "Try," Fortescue urged. "Surely you recall how Rathbone got drunk that evening and you had to call his woman to come get him. You remember that, don't you?"

  Ernie wiped the top of the bar with a rag, making slow circles, not looking at them. "Well, maybe he had a few too many," he said in a low voice. "Yeah, now I remember; he got smashed."

  "But you don't remember his meeting with Termite Tommy?"

  They waited, but Ernie was silent.

  "Why you protecting this guy Rathbone?" Suarez demanded. "He's your brother or something? You talk or you don't talk, he's going to take a fall. But you don't talk, you fall right along with him."

  "Me?" Ernie said indignantly. "Take a fall? What the hell for? I haven't done anything illegal."

  Manny sighed. "Tell him, Roger," he said. "Tell him the good news."

  "Well, first of all, Ernie, is the problem of your making book. That's not a capital crime, I admit, but you gotta agree it's illegal. And then we got the grass and coke you been peddling. Not pushing it exactly, but it's available here just for your friends-and from what we hear, you haven't got an enemy in the world. Then we have the stuff that 'fell off the truck' and the stolen credit cards. That adds up to quite a total, wouldn't you say, Manny?"

  "Oh yeah," Suarez said. "Years and years."

  "Now we haven't dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's on these things," Fortescue said to the bartender. "You've been a cop; you know the drill. We get a squeal or pick up a tidbit from a snitch, and then we go to work, turning over rocks to see what's underneath. That means pounding the pavement and ringing a lot of doorbells. You could save us all that time and trouble."

  Suarez tugged at his sleeve. "The puta, Roger," he said.

  Fortescue snapped his fingers. "Right, Manny," he said. "Thanks for reminding me. That hooker you're running," he said to Ernie with a bright smile. "Your daughter. We'll have to pick her up and take her in for questioning, of course."

  "The gossip sheets will love it," Manny said. " 'Ex-Cop's Daughter Accused of Soliciting.' On local TV, too."

  Ernie had listened to all this like a spectator at a tennis match, his head turning back and forth as each agent spoke. But when his daughter was mentioned, he froze and stared directly at Roger.

  "Listen," he said hoarsely, "maybe we can make a deal."

  "I don't see why not," Fortescue said.

  58

  Simon Clark imagined that having decided to flip from the side of the law to the side of the lawless, he might suffer guilt or shame. But he discovered that converting from a U.S. assistant district attorney to a south Florida shark was no more painful than switching jobs, going from one corporation to another.

  All it entailed was redirecting his energies and talents. His skills at organizing, managing, setting goals and achieving them-all that was still important. Even more crucial was his courtroom experience, the ability to convince and manipulate witnesses, judges, and juries. He called this "human relations," and he knew how vital they would be in his new business.

  Best of all, of course, was that he would now be self-employed, and no longer have to play the degrading game of office politics. To be one's own boss-that was exhilarating but scary. If the profits of success were to be all his, so would be the losses of failure. Still, he was convinced the risk-benefit ratio was in his favor.

  On Tuesday evening, January 30, he sat at a florid imitation of a Louis Quinze desk in his new condo and worked on his accounts: cash on hand, debts, expected income. He figured he could squeak by for six months without cutting a deal. But he was confident that long before his funds were exhausted, he would be flush with

  Other People's Money, and on his way to becoming wealthy.

  He had already made progress. He had learned, for example, that his real estate agent, Ellen St. Martin, would be willing to introduce him to potential mooches in return for a finder's fee. And he found that one of the best places to meet and cozen pigeons was at public seminars on investing hosted by legitimate stock brokerages. And, of course, to get him started, he had that copy of Mortimer Sparco's Super Sucker list.

  He was reviewing the list when his phone rang, and he knew that if it wasn't a wrong number, it was either Nancy Sparco or Ellen St. Martin. It was Nancy.

  "Hi, big man," she said breezily. "Feel like having company?"

  "At this time of night?" he said. "How come?"

  "Because my jerko husband is out playing poker with his crummy pals and won't be home till midnight."

  "All right," Clark said, "come on down."

  "Don't I always?" she said. "Be there in a half-hour."

  He had discovered her favorite drink was Pimm's Cup No. 1 with seltzer and a lemon slice, and he had stocked the makings. He had a drink ready for her when she arrived, and was working on his second gin and bitters.

  "I'm glad you called," he told her. "I've got something for you."

  "An erection?" she said. "Just what I wanted."

  "Even better than that," he said, and took two envelopes from the desk drawer. He handed the thin one to her. "Twenty-five hundred for the Super Sucker list." He thrust the plump one into her hands. "And twenty-five thousand for your new business."

  She opened the flaps frantically, and when she saw the green, she just squealed.

  "Oh you sweetheart!" she cried. "I love you, love you, love you!"

  He watched, amused, as she counted the money with nimble fingers. Then she looked up, still amazed.

  "You got your stake back from Morty?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "How did you manage that?"

  "Oh, I just persuaded him. He listened to reason."

  "Bullshit," she said. "You must have held a gun to his head. But I don't care how you did it; it's a whole new life for me."

  "Listen," he said, "don't stick all that money in your bank account. If a cash deposit is ten grand or over, the bank's got to report it to Uncle Sam."

  "I know that, dummy. Don't worry, I'll spread it around. Then it's ta-ta, Morty."

  "You're moving out on him?"

  "You bet your sweet ass. By this time tomorrow, my hubby will be frying his own calamari. I always hated that stuff."

  "Where are you going when you leave?" Simon asked.

  She shrugged. "Probably check into a motel temporarily until I can find a decent place."

  He drained his drink and mixed himself another. "How about moving in with me? Temporarily. I've got an extra bedroom."

  She looked at him shrewdly. "Expect me to pay half the maintenance, utilities, and food bills?"

  He was offended. "Of course not," he said huffily.

  She patted his cheek. "Simmer down, sport," she said. "I'm willing to pay my own way. But if you want

  to take it out in trade, that's okay, too. Tell me something: What are you going to be doing while I'm setting up my new business?"

  "Setting up my new business. I told you I'm going to join the game."

  "I thought you were just blowing smoke."

  "No, I meant it. I'm going to become an investment adviser."

  She looked at him doubtfully. "Don't you need a license for that?"

  "Nope. Anyone can call himself a financial planner or a money manager. You don't need a license to steal. All you need is a plentiful supply of mooches. When you get your escort service organized, m
aybe you'll be able to steer some marks my way.''

  "Of course I will, honey. After all you've done for me. . Hey, let's celebrate our new careers with a bang."

  She tugged him by the hand into the master bedroom, a flossy place. She stripped down swiftly. She was wearing white nylon panties with a red heart embroidered on the crotch.

  "See?" she said. "I've got a heart on, too."

  She flipped down the top sheet, then suddenly stopped.

  "Wait a minute!" she yelled.

  She ran into the living room, came back with the two envelopes of money. She dumped them around to make a green, crinkly layer, then threw herself naked on top.

  "I've always wanted to do this," she said throatily, and rolled around, burrowing into the money, eyes closed, mouth open, almost panting with pleasure.

  Then she opened arms and legs to him, and that's how they screwed, on a bed of cash.

  59

  At noon on Tuesday, David Rathbone drove over to Bartlett's home on Bayview Drive in response to Jimmy's phone call. The two men sat in the Bentley in the driveway, and Rathbone lighted a cigarette.

  "You're smoking too much," Bartlett observed.

  "And drinking too much," Rathbone added. "So what else is new? Why the hurry-up call?"

  "I'm making a deposit at the Crescent in Boca at noon on Friday. Mitchell Korne says it will be more than a million."

  "Wow," Rathbone said. "And you can quote me on that."

  "I think we can safely take out two hundred grand," Bartlett said, "and replace it with our funny money. Providing the German can print that much by Thursday night."

  "Printing isn't the problem," Rathbone said. "It's getting the stuff at the last minute, while the bills are still in one piece. Print it up too soon and we'll have a sackful of shit. How about this: I'll drive Up to Lakeland first thing tomorrow morning and tell Weisrotte we want the queer by late Thursday afternoon. Then on Thursday, I'll drive back to Lakeland again to pick it up."

  "That's a lot of driving."

  "For two hundred thousand I'd drive to LA and back."

  "All right then," Bartlett said, "let's do it your way. You get the stuff to me by late Thursday, and we're in business. I haven't read anything more about Termite Tommy, have you?"

  "Not since that first story. It just fell out of the news. I guess the cops figure he got drunk and drove into the canal. They have more important things to worry about than the accidental death of a lush."

  "Of course," Bartlett said.

  Rathbone drove back to the town house and went directly to his office. He jotted some numbers on a pad. Two hundred thousand dollars. Deduct the German's fifteen percent and Bartlett's forty. That left Rathbone with ninety thousand clear. He grinned at that. Not bad for two trips to Lakeland.

  He was working on his personal ledger when the office phone rang, and for a moment he was tempted to just ignore it until the caller gave up. But then he figured it might be Bartlett wanting to add more details on the deal. He picked it up.

  "David Rathbone Investment Management."

  "David!" Birdie Winslow said, and her laugh was a trill. "How nice to catch you in. I've been calling and calling."

  "I've been awfully busy, Birdie," he said. "How have you been?"

  "In seventh heaven," she said, "dreaming about our trip. I can't begin to tell you all the wonderful things I've bought. Luggage and dresses and hats and shoes and just everything."

  "Why not," he said. "You deserve it."

  "But that's not why I called. I just wanted you to know that I think I've won you a new client."

  "Oh?" he said, suddenly cautious. "How did you do that?"

  "Well, you know that man you gave my name to, that Anthony Harker, he stopped by last Saturday and asked a lot of questions about you and if I was satisfied with your services, and of course I said I was, and I think by the time he left he was convinced that you were the right investment adviser for him. He said he was going to have a talk with you. Have you heard from him yet?"

  "Anthony Harker? No, not yet."

  "Well, I'm sure you will. I showed him my last statement, and he was just amazed at how much money you were making for me. I told him you were the best in the business, and everyone said so. Aren't you proud of me?"

  "I certainly am," he said. "Thank you for the recommendation."

  He finally got her off the phone and sat awhile, staring at his big green safe. Then he dragged out his telephone directories and looked up the name. No Anthony Harker in Lauderdale, Boca Raton, or Pompano Beach. He sat back and lighted another cigarette with hands that were not quite steady. He recalled what Irving Donald Gevalt had told him, and wondered if Anthony Harker was interested in McGuffey first editions.

  He left for Lakeland early Wednesday morning, January 31. Rita was still asleep, so he scribbled a note saying he'd return in time to take her to dinner and maybe stop by the Palace for a few drinks with the gang.

  It was a cool, crisp morning, but he knew it would warm up later. He didn't wear a suit, just linen slacks and an aqua polo shirt with a bolo tie, the clasp set with a thirty-carat emerald-cut blue topaz.

  He drove with the windows down; the new world smelled sweet and clean. But he was in no mood to enjoy it; all he could think about was what Gevalt and Birdie had told him. Live like a jackal, he told himself, and you develop an animal instinct for danger. And right now he had the feeling he was being stalked, but by whom and for what reason he could not fathom.

  So intent was he on trying to puzzle it out that he was not aware of how fast he was driving until he was pulled over by a state trooper on Highway 27.

  "Know what you were doing?" the officer asked, writing in his pad.

  "To tell you the truth I don't," Rathbone said with a nervous laugh. "My wife's having our first baby in a hospital in Lakeland, and I'm in a hurry to get there."

  "Nice try but no cigar," the trooper said, handing him the ticket. "I clocked you at eighty, at least. Take it easy and maybe you'll live to see your first kid."

  "I'll do that," Rathbone said, and then, after the officer went back to his car, "Up yours!"

  He was in Lakeland by noon and was happy to find Weisrotte reasonably sober. He told the printer he wanted two hundred thousand in fake 100s by late Thursday.

  "Zo," the German said. "And when my share do I receive?"

  "Early next week," Rathbone promised. "You can count on it. You're the most important man in this operation, Herman, and we want to keep you happy."

  "Goot," Weisrotte said, and insisted Rathbone have a glass of schnapps with him before leaving. It was caustic stuff, and David wondered if the printer used it to clean his presses.

  On the drive home he tried to convince himself that he was foolish to worry; the guy at Gevalt's could have been a rube hoping to buy forged ID at an old-book store, and Birdie's Anthony Harker could have been a legit investor looking for an adviser. But none of that really made sense, and Rathbone felt someone closing in on him, a faceless hunter who came sniffing at the spoor, hungry for the kill.

  He was pulled over again for speeding; same stretch of highway, same trooper.

  "How's the wife?" the officer asked, writing out the ticket. "Have the kid yet?"

  "Not yet," Rathbone said with a sick smile. "False alarm.''

  "Uh-huh," the trooper said, handing him the ticket. "Have a nice day."

  He was in a vile mood by the time he got home, but after a vodka gimlet and a hot shower, he felt better, reasoning that he had been in squeezes before and had always wriggled out. The important thing was to keep his nerve.

  The sight of Rita helped lift him out of his funk. She wore a tight miniskirt of honey-colored linen and an oversized nubby sweater with a deep V-neck that displayed her coppery tan and advertised the fact that she was bra-less. Her gypsy hair swung free, and when they sauntered into an elegant French restaurant on the Waterway, she made every other woman in the place look like Barbie.

  They did the whole bi
t: escargots; a Caesar salad for two; rare tournedos with tiny mushroom caps and miniature carrots; Grand Marnier souffle; and chilled Moet.

  "This is living," Rita said. Then: "Why are you staring at me like that?"

  "Ever hear of a man called Anthony Harker?" he asked.

  She fumbled in her purse for a cigarette and signaled the hovering waiter for a light. "Nope," she said. "The name rings no bells with me."

  The bill arrived, and Rathbone offered his stolen credit card. It went through without a hitch, and he gave munificent cash tips to the waiter and maitre d'.

  They drove to the Palace and found everyone partying up a storm at the big table: Trudy and Jimmy Bartlett, Cynthia and Sid Coe, Frank Little, Ellen St. Martin, and, by himself, Mort Sparco.

  "Where's Nancy?" Rathbone asked him.

  "The bitch walked out on me," Sparco said glumly. "This afternoon while I was at work. Took most of her clothes, jewelry, and a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil I've been saving."

  "Don't worry about it," Rita consoled him. "She'll be back."

  "Damned right," Mort said. "Where's she going to go? She'll be lost without me."

  Rathbone went to the bar for drinks, but Ernie wasn't on duty; Sylvester, a waiter from the dining room, was filling in as bartender.

  "Where's Ernie?" David asked.

  "Called in sick, Mr. Rathbone. Hasn't worked for the past two days. He wants you to phone him. Here's his number. He said to be sure and tell you to call him from outside, not from here."

  "Okay," Rathbone said, stuffing the scrap of paper into his pocket. "Now let me have a couple of brandy stingers."

  "What's a stinger?" Sylvester asked.

  Rathbone went behind the bar and mixed the drinks himself.

  It was the kind of night he needed. He caught the bubbly mood of the others, and his premonitions disappeared in the noise, jokes, laughter, chivying, and just plain good fellowship of these splendid people. When he and Rita departed a little after midnight, they waited, hand-in-hand, for the valet to bring the Bentley around, and they sang "What'll I Do?"