Timothy's game

Five

It’s a Saturday, and usually he and Samantha spend the day together-and sometimes the night. But she has shopping to do in the afternoon and then, in the evening, she must attend a bridal shower for one of the secretaries at Haldering amp; Co.

“Gonna miss me?” she asks.

“Nah,” he says. “I got a lot of things to do.”

“Oh, sure. Like smoking up a storm, slopping vodka, and kicking the cat.”

“I wouldn’t kick Cleo. Strangle maybe, but not kick.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Let me take a look at my appointment book.”

“Keep talking like that, buster, and you’ll be singing soprano. Listen, we haven’t had pizza for a long time-maybe a week or so. How’s about you pick up a big one-half pepperoni for you, half anchovies for me-and bring it over here tomorrow. I’ve got some salad stuff.”

“Sounds good,” he says. “Around noon?”

“Make it later,” she says. “I’ve got to read the Sunday Times. Unless you were planning a matinee. Were you?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“What mind? How about threeish or fourish?”

“How about twoish?”

“Okay,” she says agreeably. “We can read the Real Estate Section in bed together.”

“Whoopee!” he cries.

He really does have things to do-not a lot, but some. He changes Cleo’s litter and damp-mops the linoleum. He takes in his laundry and decides the corduroy suit will do for another week without drycleaning. He goes shopping for beer, vodka, wine, brandy. And he buys a loaf of Jewish rye (without seeds) and a whole garlic salami. It’s about two feet long and looks like an elephant’s schlong.

Back in the loft, he and Cleo have salami sandwiches, two for him, one for the cat. Cone’s sandwiches have hot English mustard smeared on them. Cleo prefers mayonnaise.

He reads Barron’s as he eats, marveling at all the reports of chicanery on Wall Street. Most of them involve inside trading, stock manipulation, or fraudulent misrepresentation on a company’s balance sheet. The Street has its share of gonnifs, and the fact that they wear three-piece pinstripes and carry alligator attache cases doesn’t mitigate their corruption.

What never ceases to amaze Cone is how few of these moneyed crooks are stand-up guys. Once they’ve been nabbed by the Securities and Exchange Commission or the Federal DA, they sing like canaries, happy to squeal on their larcenous associates, willing to be wired or have their phones tapped so old school chums can share the blame. Cone knows that when you drive a BMW and summer on the Cape, you’d be eager to cooperate with the fuzz if it means probation rather than a year in the slammer. But Timothy has known cheap boosters, purse-snatchers, and yeggs with more honor than that.

“It’s money,” he tells a snoozing Cleo. “Everyone quotes ‘Money is the root of all evil,’ but that’s not what the Good Book says. It says, ‘The love of money is the root of all evil.’ Big difference.”

Cleo is not impressed.

Cone finishes his reading and then falls asleep at the table, bent forward with his head on folded arms. He wakes early in the evening, feeling stiff from his awkward position, with pins and needles in both hands. He stalks up and down the loft, jangling arms and legs to get jazzed up again.

There’s a greasy spoon around the corner, run by a Greek who can do nothing right but double-cheeseburgers and home fries with a lot of onions. So that’s what Timothy has, sitting at the counter and wondering if this is the way he’s going to die someday, toppling off the stool, OD’d on cholesterol.

He returns to the loft and mooches around for almost an hour, smoking two Camels and buying himself another robust drink. He knows what he’s going to do that night, but the prospect is so depressing he puts it off as long as possible. Finally he can postpone it no longer and calls David Dempster.

“Hello?” Dempster says. Cone recognizes that spoony voice.

“Sam?” the Wall Street dick asks.

“No, you’ve got the wrong number,” Dempster says, and hangs up.

So now Cone knows the guy is home, and he has no excuse for stalling. He makes his preparations swiftly: a jelly jar filled with vodka, the lid screwed on tightly; a plastic bag of ice cubes, closed with a metal tie; a fresh pack of cigarettes; a book of matches; a pencil stub; an empty milk carton in case he has to relieve himself.

He gets up to East 38th Street about 8:30 and double-parks across from the limestone townhouse. There’s a streetlight right in front of the building, so Cone backs up the Escort to get out of the glare. He still has a good view, and is happy to see the third floor is lighted. In fact, a couple of times David Dempster comes to the front window, pulls the curtains aside, and peers down into the street.

“Waiting for someone, honey?” Cone says softly. He settles down, knowing it’s going to be a long night. He figures he’ll stay double-parked as long as he can, and if a prowl car rousts him, he’ll drive around the block and take up his station again.

One cigarette later, a beige Jaguar Vanden Plus pulls up in front of Dempster’s townhouse. It double-parks, a guy gets out, locks up, goes into the building. In a few minutes, Cone sees the shadows of two men moving behind the thin curtains on the third floor.

He hops out of his car, trots across the street, walks purposefully past the Jaguar, and eyeballs the license plate. Back in his Ford, he jots the number on the inside cover of his matchbook. He’s no sooner done that when a dark blue, four-door Bentley pulls up behind the parked Jaguar. Guy gets out, locks up, hurries into the townhouse. Then Cone can spot three shadows moving back and forth on the third floor.

He goes through the same drill: crosses the street, takes a long look at the license plate, returns to the Escort to jot down the number. One more and it’ll be a poker game, Cone thinks.

But he has to wait almost fifteen minutes before the fourth visitor appears. He arrives in a chauffeured black Daimler that pulls in ahead of the Jaguar. Man gets out, enters the townhouse. Cone doesn’t even glance at the third-floor-windows; it’s a good bet the Daimler owner is going to join the crowd.

Rut the Wall Street dick has another problem: The chauffeur steps out of the car, slouches against a fender, lights a cigar, and inspects the night sky. Cone decides to give it a try. He crosses the street, glances at the car, then stops as if entranced.

“Wow,” he says to the lounging chauffeur. “What kind of a car is that?”

The guy inspects him coldly. He’s a big bruiser with shoulders so wide he’d have to go through a door sideways.

“Daimler,” he says.

“Expensive?” Cone asks.

“Nah,” the guy says. “Just save your bottle caps.”

Cone laughs appreciatively. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks.

“Look but don’t touch,” the guy says.

So the Wall Street dick walks slowly around the Daimler, eyeballing the license plate.

“Beautiful job,” he says. “Who’s so rich he can afford something like this?”

The chauffeur stares at him. “I thought everyone had one.

Cone knows he’s not going to get anything from this tight-mouth, so he returns to his car and adds the Daimler’s license number to his list. There’s no movement behind the third-floor curtains, and he wonders if it really is a poker game, or bridge or tiddlywinks, and the whole night is going down the drain.

He opens his jar of vodka, takes a sip to lower the level, and tips in two cubes and some ice water from the plastic bag. As he drinks, he adds more cubes and more water, stirring with a forefinger until he’s got the mix just right. Then he slouches down, keeping an eye on the townhouse entrance and hoping for action.

It doesn’t take too long. In about twenty minutes, three men come out. They stand a few moments on the sidewalk, talking, laughing, gesturing. Under the streetlight they all look well-fed, well-dressed, well-fixed. Pinkie-ring guys, Cone figures, or maybe the blow-dried type. They all shake hands, real pals, and go to their cars. The Daimler pulls away first, then the Jaguar, then the Bentley. Cone watches them go.

Now what the hell was that? he wonders. Obviously not a poker game. And too short a time for them all to get fixed by a call girl in a back bedroom or watch a porn flick on Dempster’s VCR. Is the guy dealing crack? Just what in God’s name is going down to bring three apparent richniks to Dempster’s apartment on a Saturday night? Clients on business? If that’s what it was, why three of them at one time? And why couldn’t they have met in Dempster’s Cedar Street office or consulted by phone?

It’s getting close to 10:30, and Cone sits patiently, still watching those third-floor windows. Suddenly the lights go out and Timothy straightens up. Too early for beddy-bye; the guy has to be on his way out. And he is. He leaves his building, walks swiftly toward Park Avenue. He passes under the streetlight and Cone definitely makes him as David Dempster. He starts the Escort and moves slowly after his target.

David Dempster turns south on Park Avenue. Cone pulls up to the corner and stops as if he’s waiting to make a turn. He watches, hoping the guy isn’t just out for an evening stroll. He isn’t. About halfway down the block he pauses under the marquee of a residential hotel. The doorman comes out. The two men talk a moment. Dempster takes out his wallet, plucks a bill, slips it to the doorman. Then he unlocks and gets into a white Cadillac Seville sitting in the No Parking zone in front of the hotel.

The action is obvious to Cone: Dempster is greasing the doorman to “rent” a convenient parking space. When the Seville pulls out, Cone completes his turn and follows. There’s enough traffic so that chances are good Dempster won’t spot a tail even if he’s looking for one.

They go west, they go north, farther west, farther north. For a few moments Cone fears the Seville might be heading for the Lincoln Tunnel. The prospect of a late-night hegira through the wilds of New Jersey doesn’t fill the Wall Street dick with glee. But no, Dempster drives north on Eighth Avenue to 45th Street, turns west, slows down in the block between Tenth and Eleventh avenues. Awesome neighborhood for anyone in a white Cadillac at night.

But Dempster knows exactly what he’s doing. A tenement has been demolished, the vacant area paved, and it now serves as a narrow parking lot. It’s completely dark, with a heavy chain across the entrance. Cone stops well back in the shadows and watches. The Cadillac pulls up. A guy comes out of a little hut. Dempster hands him a bill. The chain is unlocked and dropped, the Seville enters.

By the time Dempster comes walking out, Cone has parked alongside a fire hydrant and doused his lights. He isn’t worried about a ticket-the client can take care of that-but the possibility of being towed away is a real downer. But he figures he’s got no choice. So he gives David Dempster a good lead, then sets off after him on foot.

The tailee walks quickly down the deserted street to Eleventh Avenue. Just as Cone makes the corner, Dempster disappears into a grungy saloon with a spluttery blue neon sign outside: Paddy’s Pig.

Cone saunters up, peers through the flyspecked window. He spots David Dempster seated at the bar talking earnestly to a fat guy who’s wearing a seaman’s watch cap and a T-shirt that was white a long time ago. Cone can’t figure Dempster’s choice of a drinking companion. Could the guy be a closet faigeleh? Not likely.

There’s no way he can enter the bar; Dempster would make him for sure. So Cone spends the next half-hour meandering up and down the block, stopping at Paddy’s Pig occasionally to look through the window and make certain his quarry is still inside. There’s a faded menu taped to the inside of the window that Timothy finds interesting. It advertises “Turkey dinner with all the tremens.” Of the delirium variety, Cone has no doubt.

He’s a half-block away, on the corner of 46th Street, when he sees David Dempster come out of the bar and walk quickly toward 45th, probably to reclaim his car. The Wall Street dick lets him go, waits a few minutes, then returns to Paddy’s Pig. Unexpectedly, it has a fine front door of oak, inset with panels of beveled and etched glass.

But the tavern itself is a swamp. The bar is gouged and burned mahogany. The sawdust on the floor dates from Year One, being liberally mixed with peanut shells and cigar butts.

Cone looks around as if he’s trying to locate a pal. The scarred bar is on his left. There’s a line of booths on the right, and down the middle is a double row of flimsy wood tables and fragile chairs. The tables are crowded with Saturday night boozers who look like seamen, longshoremen, thieves, and over-the-hill ladies of the evening. Noise slams down from the tin ceiling, and there’s a stink of scorched grease and phenol.

The booths on the right are occupied by a different breed. Mostly youngish guys dressed for flash. Some are with women, but all look like hardcases. Cone reckons a few have got to be Attica alumni; they’ve got that lag look about them: talking without moving their lips, eyes constantly on the qv.

He moves up to the bar, one empty stool away from the fat guy in watch cap and T-shirt. He has faded blue tattoos on his flabby arms and a long, pale scar across his chin as if someone went for his throat with a straight razor and he ducked just in time.

On Cone’s right, practically rubbing elbows, is a tall dude with the jits. He’s either scratching his acne or probing an ear with a matchstick. Both his little fingers have been lopped off at the second joint, and he’s got a greasy black ponytail bound with a rubber band.

A mustachioed bartender wanders up and stands in front of Cone.

“Yeah?” he says.

Cone looks around. Everyone seems to be drinking boiler-makers, but he includes himself out.

“Vodka,” he orders. “On the rocks.”

The mustache looks at him. “Bar vodka?” he asks.

“No, no,” Cone says hastily. “What have you got?”

“Bar vodka and Smirnoff.”

“Give me the Smirnoff,” Cone says. “And there’s an extra buck in it for you if you open a fresh bottle.”

The bartender stares at him. “We don’t water our booze in here, mister.”

“Didn’t say you did. Do you want the buck or don’t you?”

The mustache looks over at the watch cap.

“Give the man what he wants, Tommy,” fatso says. “The customer is always right.”

Grumbling, Tommy fishes out a fresh bottle of Smirnoff from under the bar and uncaps it in front of Cone.

“Okay?” he says truculently.

“Fine.”

He’s taking his first gulp when the tall dude on his right leans toward him.

“Hey,” he says, “I like the way you handled that. You got class.”

Cone shrugs, turns away. He sees tubby is giving him the double-O. He seems to approve of what he sees because he pushes his boilermaker closer to Cone and shifts his bulk onto the barstool next to him.

“You from around here?” he asks in a raspy voice.

“Used to be,” Cone says. “I been away for a while.”

“Yeah,” the guy says. “Ain’t we all. Need anything? Boom-boom? Wanna be a winner? Check it out?”

“Not tonight.”

“Merchandise?”

Cone stares at him. “That fell off the truck?”

“That’s right. Cassettes, TV sets, VCRs, microwaves. You name it. All in the original cartons. Sealed.”

The Wall Street dick considers that a moment, takes another swallow of his drink. “A motorcycle?” he suggests. “I got a buddy looking for a good buy.”

“You’re talking to the right man. You name it-make and model-and you got it.”

“I’ll send him around,” Cone says. “You hang here?”

“Every night. I own the joint. Name’s Louie.”

Cone nods, finishes his drink. He slaps a finif on the bar, turns to go. The tall gink has disappeared. Suddenly there’s a great crash behind him and he whirls. A wild, drunken fight has erupted between two men and two women seated at the tables. Screaming curses, they go at each other with fists, feet, elbows, weighty handbags. The melee grows more vicious, with bottles swung, tables upset, chairs splintered.

“Tommy,” the fat guy calls, and points under the bar. He’s handed an aluminum baseball bat. He slides off the stool and waddles into the donnybrook. He starts bouncing the bat off the skulls of everyone within reach. The hard guys in the booths are spitting with merriment. Timothy decides it’s time to leave.

He’s heading back to his car, walking along 45th Street, when someone calls, “Hey, mac.” He stops and turns slowly. The tall, jittery cat from Paddy’s Pig comes up close. He’s got a knife in his hand that looks to be as long as a saber.

“Let’s have it,” he says in a whispery voice.

Cone backs up a step. “Have what?” he asks.

The guy sighs. “Whaddya think? Money, credit cards, whatever you got.”

“Oh, my God!” Cone cries, clutching at his chest. “My heart! My heart!” He doubles over as if in agonizing pain, bending low. When he comes up, he has the S amp;W.357 in his fist. “Here’s what I got,” he says.

The man looks at the gun. “Hey,” he says, “wait a minute.”

“Drop the toothpick,” Cone says. “Drop it!”

The knife clatters to the sidewalk. The Wall Street dick steps in and kicks the stupe’s shin, just below the knee, as hard as he can. The mugger screams, bends, and Cone cold-cocks him behind the ear with the short-barreled Magnum. The guy goes flat out on the pavement, but Timothy takes him with his heavy work shoes, heeling the kidneys and family jewels.

He finally gets control of himself, tries to breathe slowly and deeply. He picks up the knife and drops it through the first sewer grating he comes to. He drives home to the loft, deciding he shouldn’t have given the guy the boot. That was overkill, and it wasn’t nice.

“Not nice?” he asks aloud, and wonders if he’s ready for the acorn academy.

“What did you do last night?” Samantha Whatley asks.

“Nothing much,” Cone says. “Had a few drinks, went to bed early.”

“Liar,” she says. “I called you around midnight; you weren’t in.”

“Was that you?” he says. “I was sacked out. I thought I heard the phone ringing, but by the time I got up it had stopped.”

“Uh-huh,” she says.

It’s Sunday afternoon, they’re lying together in her fancy bed, and she really is reading the Real Estate Section of the Times, the rest of the paper scattered over the sheet. She’s sitting up, back against the headboard, heavy, horn-rimmed glasses down on her nose. Cone is just lying there lazily, not caring if school keeps or not.

“Will you listen to these rents?” Sam says. “A studio for twelve hundred a month. A one-bedroom for fifteen hundred. How does that grab you?”

“It’s just money,” he says.

“Just money? Don’t try to be so fucking superior. You like it as much as anyone else.”

He turns his head to look at her. “Sure I do. But I wouldn’t kill for it. Would you?”

“You’re the only one I want to kill, and you don’t have all that much gelt.”

“Bupkes is what I’ve got. No, seriously, would you kill for money?”

“Of course not.”

“Ever talk to a homicide dick about why people kill?”

“I dated a guy from Homicide for a while, but I had to give him the broom. Whenever he got bombed he started crying. But no, I never talked to him about why people kill.”

“I’ll tell you why,” Cone says. “Subtract the weirdos who murder because God told them to. And subtract the ones who kill because they find hubby or wifey in the sack with someone else. Those are impulse murders.”

“Crimes of passion,” Sam says.

“If you say so. Well, subtract those cases and just consider the murders that are premeditated-sometimes for a long while-and carefully planned. Now you’re dealing with two main motives. One is revenge, which isn’t too important unless you’re a Sicilian.”

“And the other is money,” she says.

“Bingo,” Cone says. “I’d guess that greed tops everything else. It may be for a couple of bucks in a muggee’s pocket or for a couple of billion in a corporate treasury.”

“Oh-ho,” Whatley says, peering at him through her half-glasses. “Now I know why I’m getting this lecture on mayhem on a nice, bright, Sunday afternoon. You’re brooding about the Dempster case, and you think greed was the motive for the industrial sabotage.”

“And for John Dempster’s murder. What else could it be?” he says fretfully. “I’m not saying other motives might not be involved, but it was greed that sparked the whole thing.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

“I don’t,” he says. “And that’s what’s sending me up the wall. I thought I had it figured, but I struck out.”

Then he tells her about his great inspiration: a corporate raider trying to put Dempster-Torrey into play, and conniving to reduce the price of the stock by sabotage and, eventually, assassination.

“Good thinking, Tim,” she says.

“Not good,” he says mournfully, shaking his head. “Simon Trale, the CFO, checked it out for me, and there’s no evidence at all, not even a rumor, that some pirate is making a move. So that’s that. Ahh, the hell with it. Let’s forget about it.”

“Should I heat up the pizza?” Sam asks. “You getting hungry?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at her. “But not for pizza.”

“Oh, you sweet-talking sonofabitch,” she says. “Can we fornicate on top of the Sunday Times? Isn’t that sacrilegious?”

“What’s the worst that could happen-you get a headline printed backwards on your ass? Leave your glasses on. I’ve never balled a woman while she’s wearing specs.”

“You’re depraved,” Sam says.

“Just a mood. It’ll pass.”

“Oh, God!” she says. “I hope not.”

A few hours later, after a lukewarm shower during which they take turns picking up the soap, they have their pizza, salad, and wine.

Cone gets back to the Dempster case; he just can’t get rid of it.

“Of course,” he says, “it’s garbage to claim anyone kills from one motive alone. Usually it’s a tangle of reasons, justifications, and past history.”

“Who are you talking about?” she demands.

“Oh … just people,” he says darkly.

“You’re closing up again,” she says. “I know that shriveled brain of yours is going ’round and ’round like a Roller Derby, and you’re not going to tell me about it.”

“Nothing to tell,” he mutters, head lowered. “You got any more salad?”

“That’s it,” she says. “Sorry I ran short.”

He raises his head slowly, glares at her.

“Jesus,” she says, “what are you looking at me like that for? I just said there’s no more salad; so sue me.”

“You remember the Laboris case?” he asks. “The guy who was pulling a Ponzi scam so he could launder money from dope and art smuggling?”

“Yeah,” she says, “I remember. So what?”

“Without knowing it, you gave me the lead that broke it. Now you’ve done it again.”

“Done what?” she cries desperately. “Just exactly what are you talking about?”

“Forget it,” he says, grinning at her. “Have some more wine.”

“Up yours,” she says grumpily. “Were you labeled ‘Most Likely to Fail’ in your high school yearbook?”

“I’m a dropout,” he tells her.

“I’m willing to testify to that,” she says, and they both crack up.

After the pizza is gone, they stay on the floor, sipping the chilled wine, schmoozing about this and that. These are their most intimate moments, the closest. Sex is brutal warfare, but this is gentle peace, and there’s a lot to be said for it-though neither would admit it.

Samantha has a choice collection of old 78s, and she puts a stack on her player, selecting the records she knows he likes best. She starts with Walter Houston’s “September Song,” Bing Crosby’s “Just a Gigolo,” and Billie Holiday’s “Fine and Mellow.”

“I’ve also got her ‘Gloomy Sunday,’” Sam says. “I’d play it, but it ain’t.”

“That’s right,” Timothy Cone says happily. “It ain’t.”

He has many illusions about himself. One of the most mundane is that if, before falling asleep, he tells himself exactly when he wishes to arise, then lo! he will awake at that exact hour.

So on Sunday night, curled on his mattress, he instructs himself, “You will wake up at eight o’clock. You will definitely wake at eight.” He sleeps soundly and rouses at precisely ten minutes after nine. Cursing, he lights a cigarette, puts water on to boil, and tosses Cleo a small dog biscuit. It’s a cat, but not racist.

Still in his underwear, smoking a cigarette and sipping black coffee, he phones Neal Davenport.

“You’re up so early?” the city detective says. “Don’t tell me you’re at the office.”

“On my way,” Cone says, unshaven and standing there in his Jockey shorts. “How’s the Department doing on the Dempster homicide?”

“That’s why you called at this hour? To make me feel more miserable? It’s a cold trail, sonny boy, and getting icier every day. This one’s a pisser. We’re getting flak from everyone, and just between you, me, and the lamppost, we haven’t got a thing.”

“What about the hotshot lieutenant who was running the show? Is he still around?”

“Nah,” Davenport says, “he’s long gone. Now we got a deputy inspector, and he’s feeling the heat, too. Turning into a lush. This goddamned file is going to ruin a lot of careers-mine included.”

“Anything on that terrorist group that called the newspapers? The Liberty Tomorrow gang.”

“No trace. The thinking now is that it was all bullshit. A stunt pulled by some wild-assed leftists to grab headlines, or maybe by the finks who actually offed Dempster and just wanted to throw us a curve. This is why you called-just to listen to my kvetching?”

“Not exactly,” Cone says. “I want to ask a favor.”

“No kidding? I never would have guessed.”

“Look,” Cone says, “you owe me one-right? The Laboris drug deal-remember?”

“Well … yeah, I guess maybe. Waddya got?”

“Three license plates. I need to know who owns the cars.”

“What for?”

“Neal,” the Wall Street dick says softly, “this could involve the Dempster kill.”

Long silence. Then: “You shittin’ me, sherlock?”

“I swear to God I’m not. It’s not definitely connected, but it might be. Come on, take a chance.”

Davenport sighs. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Give me the numbers.”

Cone reads off his scrawls from the inside of the matchbook cover. “Push this,” he urges. “It really could be something.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then you’ve wasted a phone call. Big deal.”

“I’ll get back to you,” the NYPD man says and hangs up.

Cone, anxious to get things moving, fills his coffee cup again, lights another Camel, and calls Simon Trale at Dempster-Torrey. He has to hold for a few minutes before he’s put through. And while he’s waiting, he has to listen to music. “Climb Every Mountain,” no less.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Cone.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Trale. Listen, I warned you I might contact you again if I needed more poop.”

“Poop?”

“Information. Someone accused me recently of using other people to do my job for me. But sometimes it’s the only way to get the job done, so that’s why I’m calling. All right with you?”

“Of course,” Trale says.

“When I talked to you about all those industrial accidents, you said most of the losses were covered by insurance. Have I got that right?”

“Correct.”

“Does Dempster-Torrey buy insurance from individual companies or do you use a broker?”

“We use a single broker, Mr. Cone. We’ve found it more efficient and economical that way.”

“One broker for all of Dempster-Torrey’s property and casualty insurance?”

“Yes.”

“Lucky broker. That must add up to a nice wad.”

Simon Trale laughs quietly. “It does indeed.”

“So I’d guess that Dempster-Torrey, and you in particular, have got heavy clout with the broker.”

“A fair assumption. What are you getting at, Mr. Cone?”

“Here’s what I need. … There’s got to be an association of all the property and casualty insurance companies in the country. Some outfit that lobbies in Washington and also collects statistics on property and casualty losses and the insurance business in general.”

“Of course there is. The Central Insurance Association, a trade group.”

“The CIA?” Cone says. “That must raise a few eyebrows. But I’ll bet they’ve got all the facts and figures on their industry on computer tapes-right?”

“I would imagine so, yes.”

“Well, here’s what I’d like you to do: Call your broker, ask him to contact the trade association and get a list of the ten companies in the country that suffered the heaviest property and casualty losses in the last year.”

There’s a long pause. Then: “You think there may be a connection with our losses, Mr. Cone? That there may be some kind of a conspiracy directed against large corporations?”

“Something like that,” Cone says. “Look, Mr. Trale, I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I’m a bubblehead after I fell on my face on that corporate raider suggestion.”

“Don’t apologize for that,” the old man says. “It was a very ingenious idea that just didn’t work out. Happens to me all the time. But now you feel there may be a link between our accidents and those of other companies?”

“Could be.”

“All right,” Trale says without hesitation. “I’ll call our broker and ask him to get the information.”

“Lean on him if you have to,” Cone says.

Trale laughs. “I don’t think that will be necessary; I’m sure he’ll be happy to cooperate. Shall I have him contact you directly?”

“Yeah, that’d help. I want to move on this as fast as I can, Mr. Trale, but I’m not promising anything.”

“I understand that. I’ll call immediately.”

Cone hangs up, satisfied he’s started things rolling. Now he’s got to wait for Davenport and the insurance broker to get back to him. He could do it all himself, but it would take weeks, maybe months, of donkeywork. And he has the feeling that something is going down that better be squelched in a hurry.

Having done a morning’s labor for Haldering amp; Co. with two phone calls, he feels no great obligation to occupy his desk at the office. So he has a whore’s bath, shaves, and dresses at a languid pace, pausing to make a small aluminum foil ball for Cleo to chase. He even has time for a morning beer to excite the palate and cleanse the nasal passages.

He ambles downtown, frowning at a summer sun that beams back at him. It’s a brilliant day, and he might glory in it if he was not a man of a naturally morose nature, a grump still studying joy and how to achieve it. The brimful day is an indignity; he still prefers sleet and wet socks.

The snarly Haldering receptionist gives him a glare for his tardiness, and his cramped office is no great solace. There’s a chilly memo from Samantha Whatley on his desk: “Your progress reports for the past three weeks are overdue. Ditto expense account vouchers. Please remit ASAP.”

He folds the memo into a paper airplane and sails it up. It flutters, falls. Just like his mood. He wonders if he might not improve his lot in life by learning how to slice Nova thin in a high-class deli. He could force that career switch by marching in and slamming Hiram Haldering in the snout. Attractive thought.

He knows why he is suddenly afflicted with a galloping case of the glooms. Having set the wheels in motion on the Dempster file, there’s not a damned thing he can do until Neal Davenport and Simon Trale respond to his requests. The inaction chafes, and he hopes to God his second brainstorm isn’t going to prove as big a blunder as his first.

He grimly sets to work on those accursed progress reports, trying not to think of the possibility of another balls-up on the Dempster case. But when his phone rings about 11:30, he reaches for it cautiously as if it might bring news of disaster.

“Yeah?” he says warily.

“Davenport. You got pencil and paper? I got names to go with those license plates you gave me.”

“Jeez, that’s quick work,” Cone says. “I didn’t expect you to get back to me so soon.”

“Well, you said it might have something to do with Dempster. You know how to jerk my chain. I’ll give you the names, but I also got addresses if needed. Ready? Samuel Folger is the first. The second is Jerome K. Waltz. That’s W-a-l-t-z. Like the dance. The third plate is a company car registered to an outfit named Simon and Butterfield, Incorporated. Got all that? Now never say I don’t deliver.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “thanks.”

“Those names mean anything to you?”

“They’re all Wall Street guys. They call themselves investment advisers or financial consultants or whatever. But what they really are is money managers-other people’s money.”

“They’re legit?”

Cone doesn’t answer directly. “They’re all heavyweights,” he goes on. “Mostly in trust and pension funds. I mean we’re talking about billions of dollars.”

“So what’s the connection with the Dempster homicide?”

“Well, uh, it’s iffy right now.”

“You bastard!” Davenport shouts. “I knock myself out getting this stuff, and you clam up on me. You got nothing to trade? What kind of horseshit is that?”

“Calm down, Neal,” the Wall Street dick says. “I got something to trade. You ever hear of a scabby joint over on the West Side called Paddy’s Pig?”

Silence. It goes on for so long that Cone says, “Hey, are you there?”

“I’m here. You said Paddy’s Pig?”

“That’s right.”

“You think it might be tied to the Dempster kill?”

“Yeah.”

“You and I better have a meet,” the city detective says.