Sullivan's sting

12

He explained to her that once a month the five men in the Palace gang met for a night of poker. The party was held in their homes, on a rotating basis, and tonight was Rathbone's turn.

"It's strictly stag," he told Rita. "No women allowed. I had Blanche make up a dozen sandwiches, and we'll mix our own drinks. The guys will be over around six o'clock. The rule is that no matter who's winning or losing, or how much, the game ends promptly at midnight. So I want you to take off at six and don't come back until after twelve. All right?"

"And what am I supposed to do for six hours?"

"Go shopping. Have dinner at some nice place. Take in a movie. Spend! You like to spend, don't you? Here are two yards; go enjoy yourself."

"Okay," she said. "Have a good time and win a lot of money, hon."

"I intend to," he said.

After she left, he put all the bottles of booze out on the countertop in the kitchen, along with containers of lemon peel, lime wedges, pearl onions, and some fresh mint for Jimmy Bartlett, who had a fondness for juleps. Glasses were lined up, and there was a big bucket of ice cubes with more in the freezer.

The doorbell rang a little before six o'clock, and

Rathbone put on a pair of rose-tinted sunglasses before he opened up.

"Good evening, girls," he said, giving them his high-intensity smile. "Thank you for being so prompt."

Their names were Sheila and Lorrie, and both were dancers at the Leopard II, a nudie joint on Federal Highway. They were in their early twenties. Sheila did two lines of coke a day, and Lorrie had a four-year-old dyslexic son.

David took two envelopes from the inside pocket of his suede sports jacket and handed one to each woman. "Payable in advance," he said, still smiling. "And a nice tip before you leave if you do a good job."

"But no push?" Lorrie said.

"Absolutely not. If you want to make dates with these guys to meet them later, that's your business. But not in my home. Now come with me and I'll show you where to undress."

The two women stripped down in the pantry and left their jeans and T-shirts in a jumbled heap on the floor. Rathbone led them back into the kitchen and showed them the bar, the sandwiches in the fridge.

"You told me you could mix drinks," he said, "but if you have any problems, ask me. Help yourself to a sandwich if you get hungry.''

"How about a drinkie-poo?" Sheila said.

"Of course," Rathbone said. "Just don't get plotched. That I don't need."

Frank Little was the first guest to arrive. He immediately pointed at David's sunglasses. "What's with the shades?" he asked.

"A mild case of conjunctivitis," Rathbone said. "The doc says I've got to avoid bright light."

"Tough shit," Little said. "Hey, I could use a drink."

"Why don't we wait for the others to show up. I've got a surprise for all of you."

James Bartlett and Sidney Coe arrived together. Then Mortimer Sparco came bustling in. When they were all seated in the living room, Rathbone told them he was tired of serving himself food and mixing his own drinks at their monthly get-togethers, so he was going to try something new.

"Sheila!" he called. "Lorrie! You can take our drink orders now."

The naked women came smiling out of the kitchen. The guests, startled, stared at them, then looked at their host, burst out laughing and climbed awkwardly to their feet.

"Sit down," David said. "These ladies are here to wait on us."

"David," Frank Little said, "you're too much."

"What would you like, sir?" Lorrie asked, bending over Mort Sparco, her pointy breasts almost touching his beard.

"If I told you," he said, "you'd slap my face. So I'll settle for a Scotch mist."

Everyone gave their drink orders, interspersed with ribald comments.

"The hell with poker," Sid Coe said after the waitresses went back to the kitchen. "I know a better game."

"Not in my home," Rathbone repeated. "What you do after midnight is up to you."

"Hey, David," Jim Bartlett said, "what's with the cheaters?"

He explained again about his mild case of conjunctivitis and how he had to avoid bright light. Everyone bought the story.

After the second round of drinks, the men moved into the dining room and sat at a big round table of bleached pine covered with a green baize cloth. Rathbone had set out two new decks of Hoyle playing cards.

"Dealer's choice," he said, shoving a deck at Sidney Coe.

"Five-card stud," Coe said. "Jacks or better to open. And just to separate the men from the boys, spit in the ocean."

He took out his wallet and dropped a hundred in the center of the table. The others followed suit. Coe broke the seal on the deck of cards, discarded the two jokers, and shuffled, shuffled, shuffled. Then he slapped the deck in front of Sparco.

"Cut your heart out," he said.

The playing cards were a forged deck and so cleverly marked that it required rose-tinted glasses to read the code printed on the backs. Rathbone bought them from a talented artist in Miami who also supplied the sunglasses. David knew that with his wiseguy pals, it was strictly a one-time gimmick, but worth the risk. The naked waitresses were his edge-to keep his guests distracted enough not to question his incredible luck.

He played craftily, folding when he saw he couldn't win, plunging when he held a winning hand. He deliberately lost a few small pots, but as the evening progressed the stack of bills in front of him grew steadily higher.

Meanwhile, the naked girls hustled drinks and sandwiches and held lights for cigars. Their presence had the desired effect; even Mort Sparco, the best poker player of the group, found it difficult to concentrate on his game. And, Rathbone noted, his guests were drinking a lot more than usual.

The session ended at midnight with David ahead almost four thousand, and all the others losers.

"You did all right," Jimmy Bartlett said, watching him pocket his winnings.

"It's about time," Rathbone said. "I've been a loser all year. Now I'm just about breaking even."

The other three men went into the kitchen to schmooze with the women. Bartlett and David stayed at the table, smoking cigars and sipping their drinks.

"How did you make out with Mike Mulligan at the Crescent in Boca?" Jimmy asked. "Any problems?"

"Not a one. Thanks for setting it up."

"I don't suppose you want to tell me what's going down."

"Not yet," Rathbone said. "If it works, I will. It could be a sweet deal, and I'll cut you in. Is Mulligan one of your laundrymen?''

"On a small scale-so far. Things are getting a little warm in Miami, so I've been trying to expand: Lauderdale, Boca, Palm Beach."

"Business good?"

"So-so. The demand is always there, but right now the supply is so plentiful that prices have dropped. One of these days my clients will get smart and set up a cartel like OPEC, just to stabilize prices."

"Is it all coke?"

"Coke, pot, heroin, hash, mescaline-you name it. I've even got one guy handling nothing but opium. With all the Asian immigrants in the country, he's doing all right. David, why are you staring at me like that?"

"I just had a wild idea," Rathbone said. "So crazy that it might work. Look, what you're talking about are

commodities-right? The prices rise and fall just as they do with grains, metals, livestock, foods, and everything else they trade in the Chicago pits."

"That's correct."

"Well, what if we set up a commodity trading fund that would deal only with drugs, buying and selling futures and options?"

Bartlett drained his drink and set the empty glass down with a thump. "You're right: It is a wild idea. What are you going to do-advertise the fund in The Wall Street Journal?"

"Of course not. But what if we have Mort Sparco set up a penny stock in the fund, and have Sid Coe push the shares in his boiler room."

Jimmy rubbed his chin. "Now it doesn't sound so crazy. You could organize it for peanuts, and there's a possibility it could actually turn a profit on the fluctuation of drug prices. Some of my clients would probably be willing to sell kilos for future delivery in three months or six months at a set price. David, let me think about this awhile and talk to a few people."

"If there's a Ponzi payoff up front," Rathbone pointed out, "you know the mooches will be fighting to buy stock. They don't have to know what the fund is dealing in; just that it's commodities."

"It might go," Bartlett agreed. "Don't say anything yet to Coe or Sparco. Let me figure out how we can finagle it."

"Don't take too long," David warned, "or some other shark will think of it and get it rolling. It could be a world-class scam."

"You're right," Jimmy said. "And the best part is that you're not dealing with the drugs themselves. Just with contracts: pieces of paper using code names for

coke, heroin, and so forth. David, I'm beginning to think it's doable. Now I need a drink."

"Let's go in the kitchen and see how my waitresses are making out."

"How much did you pay them?"

"An arm and a leg," Rathbone said. "But it was worth it."

"That Sheila turns me on. Great boobs."

"Come on, Jimmy; you're married."

"My wife is," Bartlett said. "I'm not."