Timothy's game

Eight

It’s still Friday, and Sally Steiner wonders if this frigging day will ever end. If just one more schmuck starts swearing at her and calling her names, she’s going to take out her pistol and Bam! — right in his family jewels.

Judy Bering goes out for lunch, and Sally calls over to the Stardust Diner for a tunafish on wheat and an iced tea. But when the sandwich arrives, it tastes like wallpaper paste, and after one bite she dumps the whole thing in her wastebasket. The tea is cold and wet, but that’s about all.

Her stomach is still bubbling after that go-around with Mario Corsini. She rummages through her father’s desk, still in the office, and finds his bottle of schnapps in the bottom drawer. It hasn’t been touched since Jake died. She pours a dollop into her iced tea, but the mixture is so awful that she can’t swallow more than a sip.

So she gets a plastic cup from the stack alongside the coffee percolator in the outer office and fills it with ice cubes fished out of her tea. Then she pours in the schnapps, a pear brandy strong enough to take the kink out of her hair. After the first swallow, which almost makes her gag, it begins to slide down a lot easier, killing off those butterflies in her gut.

She’s pouring another when she looks up to see a tall, gangly man standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a ratty corduroy suit and a black leather cap. He looks like a nut, and that’s all Sally needs on this Black Friday: another brouhaha with an airhead.

“I’ll take one of those,” he says, jerking his chin at the schnapps bottle. His smile is quirky, but Sally decides he’s not going to be a problem.

“Who the hell are you?” she demands, putting the bottle away.

“Sally Steiner?”

“That’s right. And if you’re selling, I’m not buying. So take a walk.”

“I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“About what?”

“About Paul Ramsey.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she says, “are you from the SEC?”

“Nah,” the gink says. “Do I dress like a guy from the SEC? My name is Timothy Cone, and I’m with Haldering and Company on John Street. We do financial investigations, mostly for corporate clients on Wall Street.”

“Beat it, will you?” Sally says wearily. “I’ve already been investigated up and down, inside out, and both ways from the middle.”

“I know,” Cone says. “I’m the one who did it. Our client was Pistol and Burns. Wee Tot Fashions-remember that stock? And I was also in on the Trimbley and Diggs takeover leak.”

She stares at him. “You’re the bastard who blew the whistle on me?”

“I’m the bastard,” he says cheerfully.

She sighs. “You make my day complete. All right,” she says, taking out the bottle of pear brandy again, “get yourself a cup out there and we’ll drink to my destruction.”

“It’s not that bad,” he says. “Just listen to me for a minute.”

He comes back with a plastic cup, sits in the armchair alongside her desk, and takes off his cap.

“How did you do it?” she asks, pouring him a stiff wallop of schnapps.

“Find out you were going through Bechtold’s trash? I followed your trucks.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“No, that’s how I did it. You were on the computer printouts of trading in Wee Tot Fashions. Then, on the records of Trimbley and Diggs, there was Paul Ramsey. I went up to see him, but came away when I found out he was living with your brother. So that led me back to you.”

“How did you find out Eddie was my brother?”

“I called and told him he was a beneficiary on an insurance policy you had bought, and asked him what the relationship was. He told me you were his sister. Pardon me for saying it, but he’s not too swift in the street-smarts department.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. For instance, tell me how many days you followed my trucks.”

“Four.”

“You were lucky.”

“I know. I tailed the van with Bechtold’s scrap out to your garage in Smithtown. After that it was a breeze.”

Sally takes a deep swallow of her drink. Now it’s going down as smooth as silk. “You’re a real buttinsky, aren’t you?” she says.

“That’s right,” he agrees, and his smile is unexpectedly charming. “That’s what they pay me for. So I got Pistol and Burns to dump Bechtold, and I turned you in to the SEC. Sore?”

“Sore? Why should I be sore? You just ruined my life, that’s all.”

“Nah,” Timothy says, leaning forward to pour himself another shot, “it’s not that bad. Nothing is going to happen to Paul Ramsey. I just mentioned his name so you’d talk to me. And I doubt if the SEC will move in on you. They may want you to return your profits, but if you’ve got a good lawyer, you can fight that. Look, they’ve closed you down, haven’t they? That’s the important thing as far as they’re concerned.”

“So that’s why you’re here? To cheer me up?”

“Not exactly,” Cone says, looking at her directly. “I wanted to talk to you about Corsini.”

“Who?”

“Mario Corsini.”

“Never heard of him,” she says.

“Sure you have,” Timothy says. “His cousin works for you. Anthony Ricci.”

“My, you’ve been a busy little boy,” she says, but her smile is glassy.

“It’s all guesswork,” he admits. “But I figure that Steiner Waste Control, like a lot of private carters in the city, pays off the mob to stay in business. I think Corsini is your collector. You gave him stock tips. What I don’t know is whether you did that voluntarily or if he was leaning on you.”

She stands suddenly, begins to pace back and forth behind her desk, arms crossed, holding her elbows. “You really are a meddler, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. So which was it? You gave him the tips out of the kindness of your heart or because he came on heavy?”

“None of your business,” she says.

“It is my business,” he insists. “I think Corsini is giving you a hard time, and you gave him the tips to keep him off your back.”

She turns on him suddenly. “All right!” she cries. “I gave him the tips. What difference does it make why I did it? It’s all over now, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not all over,” Cone continues doggedly. “By this time he and his pals have heard from the SEC, and Corsini knows where your tips were coming from. And he knows the SEC has closed you down. No more inside stock tips. So if he was squeezing you before, he’ll squeeze you all the harder now. If he hasn’t already.”

She flops into her swivel chair, drains her drink, peers into the empty cup. “All right,” she says, “but you didn’t come here just to tell me the story of my life and brag how smart you are. You want something. What is it?”

He looks at her admiringly. “You’ve got the brains of the family,” he says. “I want you to turn and blow the whistle on Corsini. Go to the cops and tell them about the shakedowns.”

“And get my ass shot off,” she says with a sour grin.

“No,” Cone says, shaking his head. “The cops will give you and your family protection. Corsini and his bullyboys won’t dare try anything. No way! They’re shrewd enough to know that any rough stuff would raise a stink strong enough to convict them without a trial.”

“You don’t know them,” Sally says. “They may be smart, but when someone crosses them or plays them for saps, they stop thinking. Then it’s just their stupid pride, machismo, and hot blood. Then all they know is revenge.”

“Bullshit!” Cone says. “Maybe ten years ago, but the new breed are weasels. They’ll rat on their mothers to keep out of the clink. Listen, these guys aren’t like they were in the Untouchables. It just takes one person like you to stand up to them. Then maybe a lot of other people in your business will say enough’s enough, and help the cops put the shtarkers away.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You want to go on the way you’ve been going? Paying a lot to bentnoses just to make a living? What makes you think you’d still have a business?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I told you that the SEC probably won’t bring criminal charges. But what if the SEC and the Federal DA decide you’re not being cooperative? You know what they can do if they want to? Just give the story to the newspapers and TV. It’ll be the talk of Wall Street for at least eight hours. Long enough for a lot of people to decide to bring civil cases against you. Maybe even class-action suits. They’ll say you manipulated the stocks-and there’s something to that. Suppose a guy sold short in Trimbley and Diggs. He lost his stake because you drove the stock up on the basis of what he’ll claim was inside information. The people trying to take over Trimbley and Diggs will probably have to pay a higher price because of what you did. Ditto the ones who bought Wee Tot Fashions. They can all sue if they want to. I’m not saying they’ll collect, but your legal fees to fight those suits could bleed you dry.”

“Oh-ho,” Sally says. “First the carrot and now the stick.”

“I’m just telling you what your situation is,” Cone says. “You may be home free as far as the SEC is concerned, but you’re not out of the woods yet. Those civil suits could demolish you. But if you become the Joan of Arc of the garbage business, I think the cops and the Manhattan DA will pass the word, and those civil cases will be quietly dropped. No one wants to sue the city’s star witness who’s performing a noble civic duty. Think it over. If you decide to play along, give me a call. Haldering and Company on John Street. I know a couple of New York’s Finest. Like all cops they’re hard-ons, but these guys you can trust. Say the word, and I’ll set up a meet.”

Sally makes no reply.

The Wall Street dick rises, pulls on his cap. “Thanks for the belts,” he says. “Take my advice and go to the cops. Do yourself a favor.”

After he’s gone, she sits behind her desk a long time, swinging slowly back and forth in her swivel chair. What Cone said makes a lot of sense-to him. But, smart as he is, he doesn’t know everything. He’s got half the equation. Sally has the whole thing, all the pluses and minuses. And, at the moment, not a glimmer of how to solve it.

She rises, wanders over to the window. Truck No. 2 has just pulled up at the shed to unload. Anthony Ricci swings down from the cab. Sally stares at him a moment, then hurries out of the office.

“Tony!” she yells, and when he looks up, she beckons. He walks toward her smiling and wiping his face and neck with a red bandanna.

“It’s a hot mother,” he says as he comes up to her.

“Yeah,” Sally says, “a killer. Listen, what about that dinner you were going to buy me.”

He looks at her, startled. “You wanna go? Hey, that’s great! How about tomorrow night?”

“Suits me.”

“The joint is Brolio’s on Mulberry just below Grand Street.”

“I know a girl who got screwed on Delancey Street and thought it was Grand. All right, I’ll meet you at Brolio’s tomorrow night. What time?”

“About eight. Is that okay?”

“I’ll be there,” Sally says.

She sleeps late on Saturday morning. It’s almost ten o’clock before she rises and pads naked to the window to peer out. Everything is swaddled in pearly fog, and Sally can’t even see the garage. The house is silent, and the stillness is everywhere: no traffic noises, no bird calls, no distant thrum of airliners. She feels isolated, wrapped in cotton batting, and yearns for a shout or a whistle.

She pulls on jeans and a T-shirt and goes downstairs barefoot to the kitchen. She has a glass of V-8, an English muffin with orange marmalade, a cup of black coffee. She may be awake, but her brain isn’t; she’s moving senseless through a muffled world, unable to concentrate; the fog is in her.

She picks up the Times from the stoop, but can’t read it. She pours herself another coffee, but can’t taste it. She stubs her toe, but can’t feel the pain.

“Zombie,” she says aloud.

It angers her, this dazed feeling of being out of control, and it frightens her. She goes back upstairs to her bedroom and takes a shower as cold as she can endure. She stands under the water for almost twenty minutes, letting the needle spray bounce off her skull, face, shoulders, back, breasts, stomach, thatch, thighs-and start all her corpuscles dancing.

Gradually consciousness returns, confidence is reborn, resolve swells. She dresses again, goes down to the den, sits at her desk. She pulls a pen and scratch pad close and starts doodling, making scribbles: arrows, flowerpots, a radiant sun, stick figures running. She ponders what to do, how to do it, when.

Timothy Cone offered one option: go to the cops and spill the beans. That way she’d be able to hang on to Steiner Waste Control. Maybe she could get her mother and brother out of the city to reduce the danger to them. She has a queasy faith in her ability to protect herself.

A second option is to play along with Mario Corsini, put out for that devil until she can figure a way to fix his wagon for good. She actually considers letting that slob have his way, but then realizes it’s impossible; the first time he tried, she’d vomit all over him; she knows it.

What it comes down to is that both options represent surrender, and that she cannot tolerate. She considers herself capable of coping with a raw, turbulent world. It’s a matter of pride. If she gives up now, then her life is make-believe, and she is pretending to be someone she is not.

What would her father have done? Jake would never run to the cops for help; she is certain of that. Nor would he sacrifice his personal dignity to Mario Corsini or anyone like him. Making payoffs to the mob was distasteful to Jake, but just another business expense. If they had demanded something more, something that would diminish Jake as a mensch, Sally knows what her father’s reaction would have been: He would have died fighting.

It’s an ego thing, Sally decides, and there’s no use denying it. She has bragged (to herself) that she is a woman with the brains and will to succeed in the violent, dog-eat-dog world of savage, scrambling men. If she is defeated now, her self-esteem shattered, she doesn’t want to imagine what her future will be like. No future. None at all.

She draws the number 1 on her pad and strikes it out. Sketches the number 2 and crosses that out also. Then makes a big 3, and stares at it. A third option that did not suddenly occur to her, but has been growing in her mind like some kind of malignant tumor ever since she learned that her Big Chance was down the drain.

Option 3 is scary, no doubt about it, and she wonders if she has the balls for it. She thinks she might be able to bring it off, but the risks are horrendous. Failure would mean the loss of the business and, possibly, the loss of Sally Steiner.

It’s a gamble, the biggest gamble she’s ever made in her life. But she underlines the number 3 on her scratch pad with heavy strokes, and decides to go for broke. Jake would approve; she’s certain of that. She starts plotting the details.

Later that day she calls Eddie. Paul Ramsey isn’t there, but her brother assures her that Paul unloaded all the stocks and asked the broker to send him a check.

“Good enough,” Sally says. “And you haven’t had any unexpected visitors-like a guy from the SEC?”

“No one’s showed up,” Eddie says. “What’s going on, Sal?”

“Nothing to worry about. When’s your show at the gallery?”

“In about a month. Cocktail party at the opening. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll even tell everyone I posed for your masterpiece. Eddie …”

“Yeah, Sal?”

“I love you, baby.”

He laughs. “What brought that on?”

“I just want to make sure you know.”

“I know,” her brother says, his voice soft. “And I love you, dear, and want the best for you.”

She hangs up before she starts bawling. She goes upstairs to her mother’s bedroom where Becky and Martha are playing backgammon, with the housekeeper shaking the dice cup for both of them. Sally sits with them awhile, watching the game and making them laugh with her ribald comments.

Martha goes downstairs to start dinner, and Sally pulls up a hassock alongside her mother’s wheelchair.

“I won’t be home for dinner, ma,” she says. “I’m driving into the city. I got a date.”

“A date?” Becky says, then smiles happily. “That’s wonderful! But listen, you deserve, you work so hard. A nice boy?”

“Very nice. And very, very handsome.” Then, knowing what her mother’s reaction will be: “A regular John Garfield.”

“Mazeltov!” Becky cries, and adds dreamily, “John Garfield. How I loved that man. So tell me, how did you meet?”

“Through business.”

“He’s got money?”

“Plenty.”

“And what’s his name?”

“Anthony. He’s Italian.”

“That’s all right, too,” her mother says. “I know some very nice Italian people. So where are you going?”

“To an Italian restaurant,” Sally says, laughing. “Where else?”

“You’ll be home early?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”

“He lives in the city?”

“Yeah, ma.”

“So you’ll be driving home alone?”

Sally nods.

“Be careful. Drive with your windows up and the doors locked. You promise?”

“I promise.”

Sally rises, then bends over her mother, embraces her, kisses her velvety cheeks. “I love you, ma.”

Tears come to Becky’s eyes. “I love you, too. I am so lucky, having a daughter like you. Every day I thank God.”

“Yeah,” Sally says huskily, “we’re both lucky. Eat all your dinner and have a nice evening.”

“You, too,” her mother cries gaily. “Enjoy! Enjoy!”

Sally goes to her bedroom to get ready. Another shower, warm this time, with scented soap. She decides to wear her high-necked black sheath, figuring all the floozies Anthony Ricci has been dating probably dress like tarts with their tits spilling out. So she wears her conservative black with a pearl choker. And, examining herself in a full-length mirror, wonders sourly if she looks like the older wealthy woman that Ricci seeks.

It’s a long drive into the city and down to Mulberry Street. But the trip goes swiftly as she runs scenarios through her mind, trying to decide the best way to spin this simpleton. It’s been a long time since she’s come on to a guy, and she hopes it’s like riding a bicycle: You never forget how.

She gets down to Little Italy in plenty of time, but has to cruise around for a while, looking for a parking space. She finally finds an empty slot two blocks away. She slips the loaded pistol into her purse, locks the car, and walks back to Brolio’s. It looks like a scuzzy joint to her, but you never know.

Tony is already there, thank God, waiting for her at a tiny, two-stool bar to the left of the entrance.

“Hey!” he says, coming forward to take both hands in his. “You made it! Have any trouble finding the place?”

“Not at all,” Sally says, looking around. And then, with feigned surprise: “Tony, I like it. Very pretty.”

“Nothing fancy,” he says, shrugging. “But the food’s great, and you can’t beat the prices.”

Sally sees a typical third-rate New York trattoria. Small, only nine tables, and all occupied except one. Crude murals of Vesuvius, the Colosseum, Venetian canals painted on wrinkled walls. Plastic plants in plastic pots. Checkered tablecloths. Dripping candles stuck in raffia-bound chianti bottles. Paper napkins. And hanging in the air, a miasma of garlic strong enough to scare off a hundred vampires.

Tony snaps his fingers, and a waiter swathed in a filthy apron comes hustling to usher them to the empty table and remove the Reserved card.

“A little wine first?” he suggests.

“Tony, you order,” Sally says. “You know what’s good.”

“A glass of Soave to start,” Ricci says rapidly to the waiter. “Then the cold antipasto, lobster diavolo, linguine, and maybe a salad of arugola and raddichio. With a bottle of that chianti classico I had the other night. The Monte Vertine.”

“Very good,” the waiter says, nodding approvingly.

“Sound good to you?” Tony asks Sally.

“Sounds yummy. You eat like this every night?”

He gives her his sizzling smile, eyes half-lidded. “This is an occasion. Dinner with the boss.”

“Let’s forget about that,” she says, touching his hand, “and just enjoy.”

The food is unexpectedly good. Maybe a little harsh, a little too garlicky, but Sally exclaims with delight over every course, the wine, the crusty bread, the prompt and efficient service.

“You know how to live,” she tells Tony.

“Everyone knows how to live,” he says. “All you need is money.”

“That’s so true,” Sally says. “It’s what makes the world go ’round, isn’t it?”

She gets him talking about himself, his family, his boyhood in Salerno, a motor scooter he owned, a job he had making plaster statues of saints. She bends close to listen to his nonstop monologue over the loud talk and shouted laughter of the other diners, all the deafening sounds bouncing off the low tin ceiling. But, by leaning forward, she gets a whiff of his cologne mixed with the garlic, and she sits back.

She has one glass of the red wine and lets him finish the bottle. He drinks and eats enthusiastically with, she is bemused to note, a corner of the paper napkin tucked into his collar and the remainder spread over his chest, hiding a tie of hellish design.

He insists on tortoni and espresso, and then amaretti with ponies of Strega. Sally takes one sip of the liqueur and then pushes the glass toward Tony.

“You finish,” she says.

“Sure,” he says, and downs it in one gulp.

It’s after ten o’clock when they rise to leave. He pays the bill with cash, Sally sees-no plastic for him-and leaves a lordly tip. They come out into a black, close night, the sky clotted with clouds and a warm, soft mist drifting. They stand for a moment in the doorway.

“Hey,” he says, “I didn’t tell you how great you look. That’s the way a woman should dress. Very elegante.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling.

“I mean, a woman doesn’t have to show everything she’s got in public. Am I right?”

“Absolutely,” Sally says, taking his arm. “Where are you parked, Tony?”

“Well, uh, my car’s in the garage right now. Transmission trouble. I cabbed down.”

She knows he’s lying; the poor shlumpf doesn’t own wheels.

“Then we’ll take mine,” she says brightly. “It’s only two blocks away; we won’t get wet.”

They skip, laughing, through the mizzle until Sally tugs him to a halt alongside her silver Mazda RX-7. “Here we are,” she says.

He looks at the car with astonishment. “This is yours?”

“All mine. You like?”

“Fantastico,” he breathes, and walks around the car admiring the lines.

“C’mon, get in,” Sally says. “You can drive.”

They slide into the bucket seats. Tony caresses the wheel with his palms, staring at the dash. “Radio, air conditioner, cassette deck,” he says. “Even a compass. You got everything.”

“All the comforts of home,” she says lightly. “I also own a Cadillac, but this baby is more fun to drive.”

“I wish-” he starts, then suddenly stops.

They sit in dimness, windows opened a few inches to let in moist night air. The windshield is beaded with mist, and illumination from streetlights is broken into watery patterns, as irregular as pieces from a jigsaw puzzle.

“If you had your druthers, Tony,” she says quietly, “what kind of a car would you like?”

“A Jaguar,” he says promptly. “The XJ-SC Cabriolet. You know the car?”

“I’ve seen it. A beauty. You have expensive tastes.”

“Yes,” he says sadly, “I do. Maybe someday …”

“Maybe sooner than you think,” she says. “Do you mind if we sit here a few minutes? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Sure,” he says. “The night’s young.”

In spite of all her rehearsals and imagined scenarios, she finds it difficult to state or even hint at what she wants. But Tony is no great brain, she tells herself, so she figures her best bet is to come on as blunt and obvious as possible. Then she can gauge his reaction and play him from there.

“That cousin of yours,” she says. “Mario. What do you think of him?”

Ricci shrugs. “He’s okay, I guess. Sometimes he thinks he’s my father. He knows what he wants.”

“Yeah,” Sally says with a short laugh. “He wants me.”

Tony turns to peer at her in the gloom. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

“The guy is driving me crazy. He’s after me every day. He won’t let up. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“He is after you? I don’t understand. You pay your dues promptly.”

“Do I have to spell it out for you, Tony? That cousin of yours is trying to get me into bed. He’s told me a hundred times what he wants to do to me.”

“No!”

“Oh, yes. You didn’t know?”

“I swear I didn’t.”

“I thought he might have said something about it. I know how men talk.”

“Mario is not like that. He is very-how do you say it? — very nearmouthed.”

“Closemouthed.”

“Yes, closemouthed. He tells me nothing. Just Tony, do this; Tony, do that. He keeps his secrets.”

“Well, I’m one of them. No way am I going to spread my legs for that guy. He disgusts me. But I don’t know how to make him leave me alone. I’m not going to ask you to talk to him about it.”

“Holy Mother, no! I couldn’t do that.”

“Of course you couldn’t. Because then he’d know I had talked to you about it. He’d get jealous because you’re young and handsome, and he’d think you and I have something going.”

“Yes,” he says, “that’s true.”

“Tony,” she says, putting a hand on his thigh, “what am I going to do?”

“You told him you don’t want, uh, what he wants?”

“I told him a hundred times, but he won’t take no for an answer. He just keeps after me. Calls me almost every day. Sends me letters. Dirty letters-you know?”

Tony nods. “He is acting like a fool. If a woman says no to me, I say goodbye. There is always another.”

“You think I haven’t told him that? But it hasn’t done any good. I’ve got to get him out of my life, but I don’t know how.”

No response from Tony.

“Sometimes,” Sally says, deciding this is the moment, “sometimes I wish the same thing would happen to him that happened to Vic Angelo.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“You heard me. I just want him gone, and I’m at the point now where I don’t care how it’s done. I hate the guy, and I hate what he’s doing to my life.”

They sit in silence then, and Sally gives him time to absorb what she’s said. If he belts her, she’s sunk. If he gets out of the car and stalks away, she’s sunk. If he tells Mario of their conversation, she’s sunk. That’s a lot of sinking, and her only life preserver is Tony’s ambition and greed.

“I’d pay,” she says in an aching voice, and she doesn’t have to fake the desperation. “I’d pay a nice buck to have it done. Cash. I’d even help plan it. Make it look like an accident.”

He doesn’t answer, and her hand tightens on his thigh. She moves closer.

“And maybe a good job for the guy who does it,” she goes on. “An inside job. No more straining your kischkas lifting pails of garbage in all kinds of weather. You saw that extra desk in my office? That was my father’s. I’ve been handling everything since he died. But the business is getting too big. I need another executive. Someone I can trust. Someone who’s done me a big favor by putting Corsini down.”

She looks closely into his face and sees something new: stoniness. His eyes are hard and shiny as wet coal.

“No,” he says flatly, “I cannot do it. Anyone else, but not Mario. He is my cousin. You understand? He is family.”

Sally slumps. “Then I’m dead,” she says dully.

“No, you are not dead,” Anthony Ricci says. “There is a way out for you.”

“Yeah?” she says in a low voice. “Like what?”

“Marry me.”

She looks at him. “Are you nuts?”

“Listen to me,” he says, taking her hand, holding it tightly. “You marry me and Mario will never bother you again. I swear by my mother. And you get to keep the business. Sure, you will still pay dues, but no one will hassle you-because you will be my wife.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

“First, I marry a smart, beautiful, older woman. It will help me stay in this country. Also I get a good inside job, a desk, maybe a secretary.”

“And a piece of the business?”

He gives her his megawatt smile. “Maybe a little piece.”

“And what about the sex department?”

“What about it? Am I so ugly?”

“No,” she says. “Ugly you ain’t.”

“So? What do you say?”

“Let me think about it,” Sally Steiner says, and doesn’t object when he kisses her.

Timothy Cone has covered his table with several thicknesses of old newspaper, and they need it; the barbecued ribs, potato chips, and pickles make for a messy meal. Cleo prowls around, waiting for scraps.

“My live-in garbage disposal,” Cone says.

“Cut the small talk,” Samantha Whatley says, “and get on with your story. I want to know how it comes out.”

As they eat, he describes for the fifth and, he hopes, final time how Sally Steiner was trading stocks on inside information gleaned from the printer’s trash. He tells Sam about the mob’s control of the private carting business and how Sally was giving tips to Mario Corsini.

“For what reason I don’t know, exactly,” Timothy admits. “But I think he was leaning on her; that’s my guess.”

Then he recounts how he went up to see Steiner and did a little leaning of his own, trying to turn her so she’ll go to the cops and end extortion by the skels.

By the time he’s finished his narrative, they’ve demolished ribs, chips, and pickles. Sam has provided chocolate eclairs for dessert, but they put those in the fridge and settle down with their beers, feet parked up on the littered table.

“My, oh my,” Sam says, “you really have been a busybody, haven’t you? But you know what burns my ass?”

“A flame this high?” he asks, holding his hand a yard off the floor.

“Shithead,” she says. “When you found the insider leak for Pistol and Burns, your job was finished. Keerect? That’s what they hired Haldering for, and you delivered. It should have ended right there. But no, you had to push it and get involved with the Mafia shaking down garbage collectors, and trying to get this Sally Steiner to blow the whistle. Why did you do that, Tim?”

He looks at her. “I don’t know,” he says. “It just seemed the thing to do.”

“Bullshit!” Sam says. “You know what I think your problem is? I think you see yourself as nemesis. Death to all evildoers!”

“Nah, not me. I just saw a chance for the good guys to make a score, so I played out my hand. Listen, the cops helped me plenty. If I can fiddle a good bust for them, then they’re happy and willing to keep cooperating. I wasn’t acting out of anything but pure selfishness.”

“Uh-huh,” Samantha says. “Get me an eclair, you Masked Avenger.”

“Up yours,” he says.

They sip their beers, nibble their chocolate eclairs, and agree it’s a loathsome combination-but tasty. Their conversation becomes desultory, with Cone doing most of the talking, and Sam replying with monosyllables or grunts.

“Hey,” he says finally, “what’s with you? Got the fantods or something?”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“That Sally Steiner. I feel sorry for her.”

He snorts.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Sam asks. “A laugh?”

“If it is, it’s on me. I went up to see that put-together lady to find out if she was ready to talk to the cops.”

“And?”

“She told me to get lost. She’s marrying Tony Ricci, Corsini’s cousin.”

“You’re kidding.”

He holds up a palm. “Scout’s honor. She snookered me. I thought I had her in a bind, but she wiggled out of it. By marrying Ricci she gets to keep the business. And she gets Corsini off her back. Maybe she’ll have to give her husband a piece of the action, but I’ll bet that garbage dump is going to stay in the Steiner family for another generation. She’s a real survivor.”

“Is she pretty?” Sam asks.

“She’s okay.”

An hour later, they’re lolling naked on the floor mattress. Popped cans of beer have been placed within easy reach, and Cleo, protesting mightily, has been locked in the loo.

Samantha, sitting up, begins unpinning her magnificent hair. Timothy watches with pleasure the play of light and shadow on her raised arms, stalwart shoulders, the small, hard breasts. Suddenly she stops and stares at him.

“Listen,” she says, “you made it sound like Sally Steiner is marrying that Tony Ricci just so she can keep the business in the family. Did it ever occur to you that she might love the guy?”

Cone shrugs. “Could be. There are all kinds of love.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, reaching for him. “Here’s mine.”