Sullivan's sting

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, maybe 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.