Sullivan's sting

6

The door to David Rathbone's office was equipped with a Medeco lock and a dead bolt. Only Blanche was allowed in once a week to clean, and then Rathbone was always present.

It was an austere chamber with a tiled floor: black and white in a checkerboard pattern. The desk, chairs, file cabinets, coat tree, and glass-fronted bookcases were all oak. Even the Apple Macintosh Plus was fitted into an oak housing. The room was dominated by an old-fashioned safe, a behemoth on casters, with a handle and single dial, painted an olive green and decorated with a splendid American eagle.

Rathbone sat in his high-backed swivel chair, an antique that had been reupholstered in black leather with brass studding. He stared at the sealed white envelope Termite Tommy had given him, containing the thousand-dollar check.

He had known from the start that he'd never be able to wait the week Tommy had requested; he couldn't endure unsolved riddles, puzzles, mysteries. He took a sterling silver letter opener from his top desk drawer and slit the flap. He peered inside.

The check had disappeared. In its place was a fluff of white confetti, no piece larger than a quarter-inch square.

"Son of a bitch," Rathbone said aloud.

He dumped the confetti onto his palm. It felt slightly oily and smelled oily, too. That wasn't important. What counted was that a thousand-dollar check had disintegrated. That old German forger had developed a paper that self-dissolved into worthless chaff. Except, as Termite Tommy had said, if handled right, it could be a ticket to paradise.

He spun the dial of the big safe: 15 left, 5 right, 25 left. He heaved up on the handle and the heavy door swung silently open. He put the white envelope and confetti inside, closed the door, spun the dial. Then he left the office, locked up, went out onto the terrace.

Rita Sullivan was lying naked on one of the lounges, hair bound up in a yellow towel. On the deck alongside her were a bottle of suntan oil, a thermos and plastic tumbler of iced tea. Rathbone pulled a chair close 'to the lounge.

"You know how to live," he told her.

"I'm learning," she murmured.

"I have to go pick up my tickets," he said. "I'm flying to London tomorrow, then on to France, Germany, and eventually to Spain. I have clients over there and have to discuss their investments."

She raised up on an elbow, back arched, and he caught his breath.

"How long will you be gone?" she asked.

"Three days. I'll fly back from Madrid."

"Can I go?"

He smiled and handed her the tumbler of iced tea. "Not this time. Maybe next trip. I go four or five times a year. Clients need stroking."

"What airport are you leaving from?"

"Miami. Will you drive me down?"

"Of course."

She put the tumbler aside and lay prone again.

"More oil?" he asked.

"Please," she said. "My legs."

He loved it, and she knew it: smoothing the oil onto her hard, muscled thighs, onto the dark satin behind her knees, her smooth calves.

"Will you be faithful while I'm gone?" he said in a low voice.

"Uh-huh."

"I know you will be. Or I'll find out about it. My spies are everywhere. I thought we'd drive up to Boca tonight for dinner. Then meet some people at the Palace for a few laughs."

"Sounds good."

"Happy?" he asked her.

"If I was any happier I'd be unconscious."

He laughed, slapped her oiled rump lightly, and left to pick up his tickets.

That night, at a Spanish restaurant in Boca Raton, they had a pan of paella in the classic version, made with chicken, rabbit, and snails. And they shared a bottle of flinty muscadet. Then they drove back to Fort Lauderdale singing "I Can't Give You Anything But Love." They both had good voices.

The Lounge at the Grand Palace was bouncing: tables filled, the bar two-deep, and waitresses hustling drinks. David's friends were already at the big table, and Rita Sullivan was introduced around. No chair was available for her, but Frank Little offered his lap, and she accepted with great aplomb.

Rathbone excused himself and went over to the bar. He waited patiently and was finally able to grab Ernie's arm.

"That man I was talking to the other night," he said. "The one dressed in black. If he comes in, tell him I'll meet him here Tuesday night. Got it?"

"Got it, Mr. Rathbone," the bartender said. "Tuesday night."

Rathbone slipped him a fin and went back to the gang. After he took his chair at the head of the table, Rita came and sat on his lap. She was drinking vodka gimlets now: the way David liked them, with a lime wedge and just a drop or two of Triple Sec.

After a while Ellen St. Martin waved goodnight and departed. Rita took her chair, sitting between Frank Little and Mortimer Sparco. She asked how long they had all known each other.

"Too long," Sparco said, laughing. "Years and years."

"We're a troop," Little proclaimed, "and David is our scoutmaster. Watch out for him, sweetie; he has merit badges for loving and leaving."

She listened to the idle chatter at the table for a while, then excused herself to go to the ladies' room. She made her phone call from there.

She returned to the big table, finished her gimlet, ordered another. She listened to the bright talk, marveling at how nonchalantly these people spoke of their swindles: of mooches taken, the naive conned, the gullible defrauded and plucked clean. David and his friends dressed nicely, drove Jaguars, and rarely used profanity. But they were a bestiary of thugs.

The gathering broke up shortly after midnight. Rita and David drove back to his town house, laughing at the new business card Frank Little had distributed. It read: "FL Sports Equipment, Inc. Baseball, Football,

Basketball, Soccer, Softball, Volleyball." And at the bottom: "We have the balls for it."

Rathbone took a chilled bottle of Asti Spumante and two flutes from the fridge.

"Oh my," she said, "are you trying to get us drunk?"

"No," he said. "Just keep the glow."

They went up to the terrace. The moon was not full, but it was fat enough. A few shreds of clouds. A balmy easterly wind. Scent of salt sea and bloomy things.

"Be back in a minute," David said. "Don't go away.''

He returned with a portable recorder, inserted a cassette, switched it on.

"I swiped this off a radio station that plays Golden Oldies," he told her. "I was born too late. I should have been around in the 1920s and '30s. Cole Porter. Fred Astaire. Gershwin."

They drank a little wine. They danced to "You're the Top." They drank a little wine. They danced to "I Get a Kick Out of You." They drank a little wine. They danced to "Let's Fall in Love." They drank a little wine. They danced to "Anything Goes," and stopped.

They went to his bedroom. The sheets were silk, and he couldn't get enough of her.