Sullivan's sting

10

It was starting out to be a great season: balmy days and one-blanket nights. The tourists lolled on the sand, groaning with content, and later showed up at Holy Cross Emergency with second-degree burns. That noonday sun was a tropical scorcher, but the snowbirds bared their pallid pelts and wanted more.

Rathbone took the sun in small, disciplined doses, before eleven a.m. and after three p.m. And he spread his body with sunblock. Rita Sullivan was out on the terrace every chance she got, slick with baby oil, getting darker and darker.

"The back of the bus for you," David said, laughing. But he loved it, loved the contrast between her cordovan and his bronzy gold.

Then, one day at breakfast, he said to her, "Ready for that little job I told you about?"

"I'll never be readier."

"We'll leave at ten-thirty."

She showed up in the same pink linen jumpsuit she had worn to Tony Harker's motel.

"Nice cut," Rathbone said, inspecting her. "But I told you I don't like those sorbet colors on you."

"Want me to change?"

"No. Where did you buy it?"

"At Hunneker's." "How much?"

"About two hundred with tax," she said.

"You still have the sales check?"

"I guess so. Why? Are you going to return it?"

"Not exactly. How did they wrap it when you bought it?"

"What's this-Twenty Questions?"

"Come on," he said, "how was it wrapped?"

"In tissue paper and then put in a Hunneker's bag. A plastic bag."

"Still got the bag?"

"Yes."

"Get it and the sales check. I'll meet you downstairs and we'll get this show on the road. We'll take your car."

They drove over to Pompano Fashion Square and found a slot in the crowded parking lot.

"Stay in the car," Rathbone ordered, "but keep the doors locked. I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes or so. What floor did you buy the jumpsuit on?"

"The second. Sportswear."

He headed directly for Hunneker's, the plastic bag and sales check folded flat in his jacket pocket. The store had big plate-glass windows with gilt lettering: j.b. hunneker's. satisfaction guaranteed or your money cheerfully refunded.

He took the escalator to the second floor and wandered about until he located the Sportswear department. It didn't take long to find a rack of jumpsuits exactly like the one Rita was wearing. He looked about casually. Then, finding himself unobserved, he took a pink jumpsuit off the rack, folded it into the plastic Hunneker's bag, and approached the service desk.

"I'm sorry," he said to the woman behind the

counter, "but I bought this for a birthday gift, and my wife doesn't like the color."

"What a shame," she said. "Would you like to exchange it for another color?"

"No, I think I better let her come in and pick out what she wants. Could I get a refund, please. Here's my sales check."

He was back in the car in fifteen minutes. He told Rita what he had done, and she laughed.

"You don't miss a trick, do you?"

"Not if I can help it. I'm certainly not going to shell out two hundred for something I don't like."

"Do I get the money?"

"I think not," he said. "You keep your jumpsuit and I'll keep my money. It's a win-win game-the kind I like. Now move over and let me drive."

He maneuvered the Chevy out of the parking lot and turned northward on Federal Highway.

"We're going to a bookstore on Sample Road near 1-95," he told her.

"Oh? Going to shoplift a couple of books?"

"No," he said, "I'm not into boosting. This is an interesting place. It's owned by a man named Irving Donald Gevalt. He deals only in rare books and antique manuscripts."

"And he makes a living from this?"

"He owns two motels, a fast-food franchise, and three condos on the beach. But he didn't get all that from pushing rare books; he's got a very profitable sideline. He's in the game, and all the sharks call him ID Gevalt. He's the best paperman in south Florida. Social Security cards, driver's licenses, military discharges, voter registrations, passports, visas-you name it and ID can supply it. That's why we're going to visit him, to fix you up with an identification package for that little job you're going to do for me."

She turned to look at him. "Hey, wait a minute. You didn't say anything about forged papers. I don't like that.''

"They're not forged," Rathbone said. "Everything ID Gevalt handles is strictly legit. That's why he gets top dollar."

"So where does he get the documents-from stiffs?"

"Sort of. He's got freelancers working for him in a dozen cities. They go through old newspapers in their hometowns and clip out items about infants and little kids who died twenty, thirty, forty years ago. They send the name, address, and date of birth to Gevalt. He writes to the Department of Birth Records in those cities, requesting a copy of the dead kid's birth certificate. Costs him from two to ten bucks, and they never ask what he wants it for. So now he's got a legitimate birth certificate of someone who's been dead for years. The certificate is the key. With that Gevalt can get a Social Security card, voter's registration, even a driver's license, by hiring someone to take the test under the name on the Certificate."

"A slick operation.";

"Like silk. How old are you, Rita-about thirty-five?"

"That's close enough."

"So we'll buy you a package of identification for a white female about thirty-five years old."

"And what do I do with that?"

"Tell you later. Here we are."

The Gevalt Rare Book Center was located over a shop that installed domed plastic ceilings for condo kitchens and bathrooms. There was a steep outside staircase leading to the second floor. The center was a dusty jumble of books, magazines, newspapers. It was comfortably air-conditioned, but smelled mildewy.

"David!" the old man said, coming forward with an outstretched hand. "Good to see you again!"

"ID," Rathbone said, shaking the proffered paw gently. "You're looking well."

"Liar," the geezer said. "But I'm surviving. And who is this lovely lady?"

"A dear friend. Rita, meet the famous Irving Donald Gevalt."

The gaffer bent creakingly to kiss her hand. "Famous, no," he said. "Notorious, possibly. Rita, you are a sylph."

"I hope that's good," she said.

"The best," Gevalt assured her. "The very best. David, this is a social call?"

"Not exactly. I need a package for Rita. Birth certificate, Social Security, driver's license. And any extras you might have."

The old man pushed up his green eyeshade and stared at Rita through rheumy eyes. "Middle-thirties," he guessed. "Could be Hispanic. I think I have something that will just fit the bill. Excuse me a moment, please."

He shuffled slowly into a back room, closing the door carefully behind him.

Rita looked around at the stacks of books and journals. "Does he ever sell any of this stuff?"

"Occasionally," David said. "Mostly by mail order. It's a good front. And he knows the rare book business. I heard he's got the world's best private collection of Edgar Allan Poe first editions and original manuscripts."

Gevalt was back in a few minutes with a worn manila envelope. "Gloria Ramirez," he said, "from San Antonio, Texas. I think Gloria will do splendidly. Would you care to inspect?"

"Of course not," Rathbone said. "I know the quality of your work. The usual, ID?"

"Ah, I am afraid not. With this dreadful inflation, I have been forced, regrettably, to raise my fees. Two Ks, David."

Rathbone took out his stuffed money clip and extracted the two thousand in hundred-dollar bills. "A business expense," he said, shrugging. "I'll write it off as entertainment."

"Of course,'' Gevalt said with a gap-toothed grin.' 'That is what life is all about-entertainment. Am I right?"

The door to the back room opened, and a young blonde, no more than nineteen, stood posed, hip-sprung. She was wearing a tiny black bikini that seemed to be all fringe.

"Lunch is ready, daddy," she said.

"In a moment," Gevalt said, and led the way to the outside door. "Do come back again, David, and you also, Rita. Not only for business, but just to visit."

In the car, Rita looked at him with a mocking smile. "You certainly didn't miss the daughter," she said.

"I noticed her," David admitted. "But she's not his daughter; she's his wife."

"You're kidding!"

"Scout's honor. That's what life is all about- entertainment. Am I right?"

On the drive back to the town house, he explained to Rita what the first part of her new job would entail. She would drive up to Boca Raton and, at the Crescent Bank on Glades Road, open an interest-bearing checking account under the name of Gloria Ramirez, depositing the minimum required.

"The bank officer to see is Mike Mulligan," Rathbone told her. "Give him a phony home address in Boca and say you work at the Boca Mall. Jimmy Bart-lett has this Mulligan on the pad, and he'll be tipped off to approve your application without investigating your references. Got it?"

"Sure," Rita said. "See Mike Mulligan at the Crescent Bank on Glades Road in Boca and open a checking account in the name of Gloria Ramirez. That's all?"

"For now."

"I don't suppose you want to tell me what this is all about?"

"You're right; I don't. But it's for your own protection. If the deal turns sour, you can always claim you know nothing about it and were just doing a favor for a friend."

"Uh-huh. Why do I have a feeling you're playing me for a patsy?"

"I'd never do that," David said. "If I thought there was any real risk, I'd never ask you to do it. I want you around for a long time. And now I'm going to drop you at the town house and switch to the Bentley. I have a lunch date with a potential client."

"He or she?"

"He. A retired professor who I hear has more bucks than brains."

"David, how do you find these mooches?"

"I have steerers all over south Florida. Sometimes Jimmy Bartlett hears of a good prospect through his bank contacts. Sometimes Ellen St. Martin gives me the name of someone who's just moved down here and is looking to spend big money on a house or condo. If I land the fish, I always pay a finder's fee. What are you going to do this afternoon?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll go down to the beach for a few hours."

"I wish you wouldn't," he said. "There are a lot of sleazes cruising the beach looking to score off a single woman."

"David! You're worried about me! Don't give it a second thought, honey; I can take care of myself."

"Just carry your gun-all right?"

"Okay, I'll carry my gun, and I won't talk to beach bums. I'll even wear a one-piece suit. Satisfied?"

"With your body it doesn't matter if you wear a bikini or a raincoat; you're still going to attract attention."

"David, do you think I have a better body than Gevalt's wife?"

"You make her look like a boy."

"Flattery will get you everywhere. Hurry back from your lunch and we'll have us a matinee."

"Yes," he said, "I'd love that."

After Rathbone took off in the Bentley, Rita went into the kitchen and had lunch with Blanche and Theodore. They all shared a big shrimp salad and drank beer. Theodore told her how David landed Birdie Winslow as a client by staging a fake cocktail party with the Palace Lounge crowd masquerading as richniks. Everyone had a good laugh.

Rita put on a white maillot and used one of David's shirts as a coverup. She took her beach bag and told Blanche she'd be back in an hour or so. She walked eastward, crossing A1A. But she didn't join the crowd heading for the beach. She went into a hotel lobby, bought a pack of cigarettes and asked for two dollars' worth of quarters.

She found a public phone and called her special number. Tony Harker answered and had her wait a moment until he connected a tape recorder to his phone. Then she started talking.