Timothy's game

Seven

“There you are,” Eddie Steiner says, gesturing. “In all your primitive glory.”

Sally stares at the completed oil painting propped on an easel. “Jesus!” she bursts out. “You made me look like a tough bimbo.”

“You are a tough bimbo,” her brother says. “But forget your vanity for a minute; what do you think of it as a painting?”

“It’s good, Eddie,” she says grudgingly.

“Good? The goddamned thing is magnificent. It’s just one hell of a portrait. The best I’ve ever done. Ever will do. But then I’ll never find a model like you again.”

She moves closer to inspect the canvas.

“Careful,” he warns. “Don’t touch. It’s still wet; I just finished it last night.”

“I’m going to have to lose some weight,” Sally says. “Look at those hips. And that ass. My God!”

“You’re just a strong, solid woman, sis. Don’t knock it.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I told you about that gallery in the East Village that wants to give me a show. I finally agreed. I’ll bet this thing will be the first to sell.”

“I hope you’re not going to call it My Sister or anything like that.”

“Nah,” he says, laughing. “I’m calling it Manhattan.”

Good title, she thinks. In the nude body of a thrusting woman, he’s caught the crude, exciting world she lives in. The colors are so raw they shriek, and sharp edges and jagged composition reflect the demonic rhythm of the city.

“Yeah,” she says, “I think you got something there. If no one wants it, I’ll buy it.”

“And cut it up?” he teases.

“Never. When I’m old and gray, I’ll look at it and remember,” she says, smiling. “Well, look, here’s a package for Paul. Cash and a note telling him what stocks to buy. Okay?”

“Sure. I’ll give it to him. He likes the idea of being the Boy Wonder of Wall Street. Listen, Sal, you’re not going to get into any trouble on this, are you?”

“Trouble? What trouble? I’m giving stock tips to a good friend, that’s all. Nothing illegal about that.”

“I hope not,” Eddie says. “I’d hate to visit you up the river on the last Thursday of every month, bringing you some of Martha’s strudel.”

“Not a chance,” she says confidently. “No one’s going to lay a glove on me.”

She walks back to the office, thinking of her portrait. It lights up that entire dingy apartment. The more she recalls it, the better she likes it. It’s Manhattan, all right, but it’s also Sally Steiner, shoving belligerently from the canvas.

“That’s me,” she says aloud. “A tough bimbo.”

It’s almost noon when she gets back to Steiner Waste Control. There are four big yellow trucks on the tarmac, waiting to unload. Most of the guys have gone across to the Stardust Diner for lunch, but Anthony Ricci is waiting in the outer office. She knows what he wants.

“Why don’t you go to lunch,” she says to Judy Bering. “I’ll hold down the fort until you get back.”

“I may be a little late, Sal. I want to get over to Bloomie’s. They’re having a sale on pantyhose.”

“Take your time. Tony, come into my office.”

The kid really is a beauty, no doubt about it, and she wonders what Eddie could do with him-and then decides she’s never going to bring them together and find out. Paul Ramsey would kill her.

Ricci has a helmet of crisp, black curls, bedroom eyes, and a mouth artfully designed for kissing. That chiseled face might be vacuous except that, occasionally, the soft eyes smolder, the jaw sets, lips are pressed. And there, revealed, are temper, menace, an undisciplined wildness when the furious blood takes over.

He’s got a muscled body and moves with the spring of a young animal. He’s been working all morning, but he doesn’t smell of garbage; he smells of male sweat with a musky undertone from the cologne he keeps in his locker and uses every time his truck returns to the dump.

“How’s it going, Tony?” Sally asks him. “Like the job?”

“It’s okay,” the kid says. “For a while. I’m not about to spend the rest of my life lifting barrels of shit.”

“You’re not?” she says, putting him on. “And what have you got in mind-an executive job where you can wear monogrammed shirts and Armani suits?”

“Yeah,” he says seriously, “I think I would like a desk job.”

“With a secretary? A blue-eyed blonde with big knockers?”

He gives her the 100-watt grin. “Maybe. But not necessary.”

“No, I don’t imagine you have much trouble in that department. You got someone special, Tony?”

He shrugs. “I have many friends, but no one special, no. Mario, he’d like me to marry a woman he has picked out for me, but I don’t think so. Her father is respected and wealthy, but she looks like a-like a-what is it that farmers put in their fields to frighten birds away?”

“A scarecrow?”

“Yeah,” Ricci says, laughing, “she looks like a scarecrow. Not for me.”

“What kind of a woman are you looking for?”

He leans toward her slightly, his dark, burning eyes locked with hers. “An older woman,” he says in a low voice. “I am tired of young girls who talk only of clothes and rock stars and want to go to the most expensive restaurants and clubs. Yeah, I’m interested in older women.”

“Because they’re grateful?” Sally suggests.

He considers that. “It’s true,” he says finally, and she decides he may be an Adonis, but he’s got no fucking brains. “Also,” he continues, “older women are settled and know about life. They are smart about money, and they work hard.”

“Uh-huh,” Sally says. “Sounds to me like you’ve got it all figured out. An executive desk job-with or without a secretary-and an older woman you can tell your troubles to. And what would you give her? You’d be faithful, I suppose.”

He doesn’t realize she’s kidding him, but sits back with a secret smile. “She would not care about that,” he says. “Where I come from, a man provides a home, food on the table, and takes care of his children. What he does outside the home is his business. The wife understands.”

“Well, I wish you luck,” Sally says. “I hope you find a rich older woman like that.”

“I intend to,” he says solemnly, staring at her with such intensity that she begins to get antsy.

“Well,” she says, “let’s get down to business.” She slides a sealed white envelope from the top drawer of her desk and hands it to him. “You know what’s in that, Tony?”

He nods soberly. “More than I make in a month for lifting garbage.”

“You better believe it,” Sally says. “So don’t lose it or take off for Las Vegas. A receipt isn’t necessary.”

Her sarcasm floats right over those crisp, black curls. “A receipt?” he says, puzzled. “Mario didn’t say anything about a receipt.”

She wonders if this boy has all his marbles. “Forget it,” she says. “Just a joke. Nice talking to you, Tony.”

“Maybe some night we could have dinner,” he says, more of a statement than a question. “I know a restaurant down on Mulberry Street. Not expensive, but the food is delizioso. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

She realizes that if Terry Mulloy had made the same proposal, she’d have told him to stuff it. “Sure,” she says to Anthony Ricci. “Why not?”

After he’s gone, she questions why she didn’t cut him off at the knees. Not, she decides, because he’s so beautiful and dumb. But he’s Mario Corsini’s cousin, and she has a presentiment that he might, someday, be of use to her. She has never forgotten that on the morning Vic Angelo was murdered, Ricci didn’t get to work until noon.

She calls Mario, leaves a message, and he calls back in twenty minutes.

“I delivered the mail to Tony,” she tells him.

“Okay,” he says. “You got anything else for me?”

“Yeah,” she says, and gives him the name of the smaller food processing company involved in the merger being engineered by Pistol amp; Burns.

“A good one?” Corsini asks.

“I’m in it,” Sally says. “You suit yourself.”

“It better be good,” he says. “You know what’s riding on it.”

“You scare the pants off me,” she says scornfully.

“I’d like to,” he says, and she hangs up.

Timothy Cone and Jeremy Bigelow are “eating street” again. They’re sauntering down through the financial district toward the Battery, stopping at carts and vans to pick up calzone, chicken wings in soy sauce, raw carrots, chocolate-chip cookies, gelato, and much, much more.

“I never want to work a case with you again,” the SEC investigator says. “Every time we eat like this, I gain five pounds and my wife tells me she can’t sleep because my stomach keeps rumbling all night.”

“I got a cast-iron gut,” Cone brags. “But nothing compared to my cat. That monster can chew nails and spit tacks.”

“Lucky for him. How did you make out with those Trimbley and Diggs trading records I gave you?”

“I made out like a thief,” Timothy says. “I found the leak.”

Jeremy stops on the sidewalk, turns, stares at him. “You’re kidding,” he says.

“Scout’s honor,” Cone says, and for the third time he describes how Sally Steiner is digging through trash from Bechtold Printing and finding smeared proofs of confidential financial documents.

He tells Bigelow nothing about the Mario Corsini connection.

Twiggs had succumbed to hysterical guffaws after hearing the story, and Joe D’Amato had been amused, but the SEC man is infuriated.

“Son of a bitch,” he says angrily. “I should have caught those nine-thousand-share trades. How did you break it?”

“A lot of luck.”

“You told Pistol and Burns?”

“Oh, sure. Twiggs called me this morning. They’ve canned Bechtold and are switching to another commercial printer until they can put in a desktop printing system. Listen, Jerry, you better tell Snellig Firsten Holbrook.”

“Yeah,” the other man says worriedly. “I’ll do that. You think the printer was in on it?”

“Nah,” Cone says, “I think he’s clean. He’s just careless with his garbage, that’s all.”

“My God,” Bigelow says, trying to wipe drips of gelato from his lapel, “do you realize what this means? We’ll have to get hold of Bechtold’s customer list-get a subpoena if we have to-and alert all his Wall Street customers about what’s going on.”

That’s exactly what Cone wanted him to say. This guy is brainy, but not the hardest man in the world to manipulate.

“Yeah,” he says sympathetically, “a lot of work. Maybe an easier way to handle it would be for you to pay a visit to Frederick Bechtold. Come on strong. Tell him what’s been going down, and if he doesn’t get rid of Steiner Waste Control and put in an incinerator or pulverizer, you’re going to report him to every Wall Street customer he’s got. He’ll believe you because he’ll already have the bad news from Pistol and Burns.”

“It could be handled that way,” Jeremy says thoughtfully. “A lot less work. No subpoenas, charges, and court trials.”

“Sure,” Cone agrees. “And why should an innocent printer suffer just because Sally Steiner has larceny in her heart.”

They stop at an umbrella stand for a final giant chocolate chip cookie. They munch on those, holding paper napkins under their chins as they walk.

“Sally Steiner,” Bigelow repeats. “What are we going to do about her?”

“What can you do?” Cone asks. “Let’s face it: Your chances of making a legit charge against her for inside trading are zilch. She’s a shrewd lady, and I’m betting she’ll fight you every inch of the way. Maybe you can force her to cough up her profits-but I doubt it. Meanwhile the SEC will be getting a lot of lousy publicity. Everyone will be on Steiner’s side and getting a big laugh out of how clever she was to beat the stock market.”

“Yeah, you’re right. If this was a megamillion deal, I’d push for a formal inquiry by the Commission. But how much could she have made? Half a million?”

“Probably less than that,” Cone says, not mentioning how much Corsini and his pals might have cleared. “But the important thing is that you’re closing her down. The moment you brace Bechtold, you know he’s going to get rid of Steiner. She’ll be losing a good customer and getting cut off from her source of inside scoop.”

“It makes sense,” Jeremy says, nodding. “I’ll just keep the whole thing on the investigative level and file a report saying the leak’s been plugged.”

“And take all the credit,” Cone advises. “I don’t want any glory. My job was with Pistol and Burns, and they’re happy. The rest belongs to you.”

“Thanks, Tim,” Bigelow says gratefully. “Listen, you don’t mind if I split, do you? I want to get uptown and start the ball rolling.”

“Go ahead,” the Wall Street dick says. “Tell the printer it was all Sally Steiner’s fault.”

He watches the SEC man hurry away, tossing the remnants of his cookie into a litter basket. Cone finishes his, then turns and meanders uptown to Haldering amp; Co.

He’s satisfied that he’s put the first part of his plot into place. If he can stage-manage the second part, his scheme will have a chance. Except, he admits, everything depends on the reaction of Sally Steiner. All Cone can do is put the pressure on and hope she’ll cave. She might not, but he’s got to try it. It’s his civic duty, he tells himself virtuously. And besides, the whole thing is a hoot.

Back in his office, he calls Joe D’Amato. Sorry, he’s told, the sergeant is out and can’t be reached. Cone leaves a message and begins to get skittery. A lot depends on timing, and if he can’t get hold of D’Amato and persuade him to play along, the whole scam will collapse.

He chain-smokes two cigarettes and makes a half-assed attempt to compose his long-delayed progress reports. They should be submitted weekly to Samantha Whatley, but at the rate he’s going, they’ve become monthly progress reports.

His phone doesn’t ring until after four o’clock. By that time his throat is raw from smoking, and his “Yeah?” comes out like a croak.

“Joe D’Amato,” the sergeant says. “Something wrong with your voice?”

“Too many coffin nails. Thanks for calling back. I need a favor.”

“Yeah? And what might that be?”

“You got a phone number for Mario Corsini? I’d like to call him.”

“What for? Wanna have lunch with him?”

“Nah, nothing like that.” Then Cone explains what he has in mind. “It’s risky,” he acknowledges, “but I think it’s got a chance, don’t you?”

“Damned little,” D’Amato says. “You’re playing with fire, you know that?”

“Sure, but what have I got to lose? I figure if I go ahead with it, she’ll think seriously about turning.”

“Umm. Maybe.”

“You want to make the call to Corsini yourself?”

“Hell, no. Self-preservation are the first, second, and third laws in this business, and I’ve got to cover my ass. I’m even going to erase the tape of this call.”

“Does that mean you’re going to give me Corsini’s phone number?”

“I haven’t got it. But I’ve got the number of a social club in Ozone Park where he hangs. Maybe they’ll get a message to him to call you back. That’s the best I can do.”

“Good enough,” Cone says. “Let’s have it.”

That evening, on the way home, he stops to buy some baked ham hocks, which he and Cleo dearly love, and a container of potato salad. But back in the loft, he postpones laying out the evening’s feast until he calls that Ozone Park social club.

A man answers. “Yeah?” he says in a voice that sounds like someone has kicked his Adam’s apple.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Mario Corsini,” Cone says politely.

“Who?”

“Mario Corsini.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Sure you have,” Cone says.

“I’m telling you, mister, there’s no one here by that name, and I never heard the name before.”

“Well, look, if a man named Mario Corsini happens to stop by, will you ask him to call this number. It’s really very important. Tell him it’s about Sally Steiner. Got that? Sally Steiner.”

He gives his phone number, repeating it twice, and hangs up. Then he and Cleo go to work on the ham hocks and potato salad. Cleo takes a hunk of gristle under the bathtub for a late-night snack, and Cone mixes himself a vodka and water to cut the grease.

He doesn’t read, listen to the radio, or watch TV. He just slouches at his desk, feet up, planning what he’s going to say if Corsini calls.

The phone rings a little after eight o’clock, and he moves quickly to the kitchenette.

“Hello, asshole,” Samantha Whatley says. “What’re you doing?”

“Will you get off the line,” he says. “I’m expecting an important call.”

Silence. Then: “And what’s this-chopped liver? Fuck you, buster!”

“Listen,” he says desperately, “I’ll call you when-”

But she hangs up, and he goes grumbling back to the vodka bottle. “Who needs her?” he shouts at a startled Cleo, then answers his own question. “I do,” he says.

It’s almost 9:30 when the phone rings again, and by that time Cone is feeling no pain and is ready to take on the entire Cosa Nostra and its Ladies’ Auxiliary.

“Who’s this?” a voice shouts.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Mario Corsini?”

“You tell me who you are or I hang up.”

“Mr. Corsini, my name is Smedley Tonker, and I am an investigator with the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

“So?”

“Forgive me for calling at this late hour,” Cone goes on, wondering how many years he can get for impersonating a federal officer, “but we’re working overtime investigating recent stock trading in Trimbley and Diggs, Incorporated. In the course of our investigation, careful examination of computer records shows that you and your associates took a very considerable long position in that stock.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you do, Mr. Corsini. Our records show a purchase of nine thousand shares by you personally through a broker in Atlantic City.”

“I tell you it’s all horseshit to me; I don’t know nothing about it. And you said this call was about Sally Steiner. I never heard of the broad.”

“You haven’t? That’s odd since your cousin, Anthony Ricci, works for Steiner Waste Control. Come on, Mr. Corsini, let’s stop playing games. Our investigation shows you and your friends made your stock purchases on the basis of inside tips from Sally Steiner. Do you know how she got her information, Mr. Corsini?”

So, for the fourth time, Cone relates the tale of how trash from Bechtold Printing was delivered to Sally’s Smithtown home, and how she rummaged through the garbage to find confidential financial documents.

“Are you claiming you knew nothing about Ms. Steiner’s illegal activities, Mr. Corsini?”

“Talk to my lawyers, you putz!” the other man screams and hangs up.

Smiling happily, Cone goes back to his unfinished drink, polishes it off, and then returns to the phone to call Samantha Whatley.

It takes almost twenty minutes of sweet talk to soothe Sam into a growlingly genial mood. But finally they’re calling each other “asshole” and “shithead” and planning a Saturday night dinner in the loft. Cone promises to supply pounds of barbecued ribs, a basket of extra-thick potato chips (garlic flavored), and some dill pickles as a green vegetable.

“I’ll bring the dessert,” Sam volunteers.

“Okay.”

“What would you like?”

“You,” he says.

Sally Steiner thinks of it later as Black Friday. It starts bad and gets progressively worse. On the drive into the city, some fucking cowboy cuts her off on the Long Island Expressway, and she almost rolls the Mazda onto the verge.

Then, when she gets to the office, she discovers the air conditioner has conked out, and it’s a bloody hot day. There’s a letter from the bank informing her that a check she deposited, from the guy who buys their baled paper, has been returned because of insufficient funds. There’s also a crusty letter from the IRS telling her that Steiner Waste Control owes an additional $29,871.46 on the previous year’s return, and they better come up with the funds-or else.

She’s on the phone to the IRS for a long time, and when she finally hangs up, sweating, Judy Bering conies in to tell her that Frederick Bechtold has called three times.

“He sounds like he’s got steam coming out his ears,” Judy reports. “He kept shouting in German. All I could catch was verdammt, verdammt, verdammt. It sounded like he wants to feed you into one of his high-speed presses.”

“All right,” Sally says, sighing, “I’ll give him a call.”

Bechtold immediately starts spluttering, roaring, and cursing her in German. She knows enough of the language to recognize some of the words he’s using, and they’re not nice.

“Now wait a minute,” she says, getting pissed off.

“Zo!” he shouts. “I should wait a minute, should I? You, you Dirne, you will wait five years in jail. In prison you will wait.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she demands.

“Oh, yes, oh, yes,” he says furiously. “My best customer you have cost me. And who knows how many more? Maybe all. Because you go through my trash, and you read my first proofs, and then you buy stocks, you Schlampe! You are fired, you understand that? And you will hear from my lawyers. For my loss of business, you will pay plenty, you bet.”

Sally has been listening to this tirade while standing behind her desk. Now, knees suddenly trembling, she collapses into her swivel chair.

“Who told you all that?” she asks weakly.

“Who? I tell you who. A man from the United States Government, that’s who. They know what you have been doing. Oh, yes, they know everything. And you will pay for what you have done. Thirty-six years I have been in this business, and my work is the best. The best! And you, you slut, you have destroyed-”

She hangs up softly and sits slumped forward, forehead resting on the heels of her hands. She tries to make sense of what’s happened, but her brain’s awhirl. Thoughts come, go, jostle, scream for attention, dissolve, return.

The government man he mentioned must have been that creep from the SEC. How did he find out? And if he knows about Sally’s stock trading, then maybe Paul Ramsey is in danger. What can they do to him? What can they do to her? Goddamn it, she’ll fight them! She had no inside knowledge of those deals-exactly. But will they charge her anyway? Make her return the profits and fine her? A prison term? Ridiculous! It was no big deal. How the hell did they find out?

Suddenly frightened-not at possible punishment, but at possible loss of her investments-she phones Paul Ramsey. Thank God he’s in, and she tells him to call his broker immediately and sell everything at the market price. Just unload totally.

“That’s cool,” he says.

“You’ll do it, Paul? Right away?”

“Sure,” he said, and his placidity helps calm her.

She closes the door to her office, and then calls Ivan Belzig, her attorney, and tells him everything. After he stops laughing, he gets indignant.

“And you couldn’t pass the tips along to me?” he says. “What am I-an enemy?”

“Cut the shit, Ivan,” Sally says. “Tell me, what can the SEC do to me?”

“I’ll have to research it,” he says cautiously, “but if you want a top-of-the-head opinion, they can’t do a thing to you. You had no personal contact with any of the insiders who knew about those deals. All you did was use typical American chutzpah. They might want you to return your profits, but we’ll fight that. Listen, they’ve closed down your operation, haven’t they? That should be enough. If you hear from them, don’t tell them a thing, not a thing-you understand? Just tell them to contact me; I’ll handle it. And don’t worry, honey; you’ll come out of this smelling like roses.”

“Thanks, Ivan,” Sally says gratefully, feeling a lot better.

But when she hangs up the phone, she sees Mario Corsini standing in the doorway of her office.

“Thanks for knocking,” she says angrily.

He comes close to the desk, leans forward on whitened knuckles. He stares at her with dead eyes from under the brim of a black fedora.

“Cunt!” he says venomously.

“I can explain,” she starts. “I can-”

“You can explain shit!” he says, voice cold and hard. “A boyfriend on Wall Street, huh? And all the time you’re digging through garbage. I should have known; that’s your style, you no-good bitch. Now I got the SEC on my ass, and who knows what-”

“Listen,” she interrupts desperately, “I just talked to my lawyer, and he says-”

“Fuck your lawyer,” Corsini says, “and fuck you. The SEC works hand in glove with the Federal District Attorney, and he works with the FBI and God knows who else. So now I got the whole fucking government asking questions, like where did I get the money and do I know those guys who invested in other cities, and maybe the IRS is auditing my returns. All because of you, you lousy twat. Vic Angelo warned me this could happen. I should have listened to him. I swear to Christ I could off you right now for what you did to me.

“Hey,” Sally says, “take it easy. You’re imagining a lot of things that might not happen. Maybe you’ll have to give back your profits and pay a fine. That’s no big deal for a hotshot like you.”

“No big deal, huh? And I should tell the sharks that? You got shit for brains? Oh, I’ll work my way out of this, but I’m going to have to grease a lot of people. It’s going to cost me, and guess who’s going to pay?”

She doesn’t answer.

Corsini looks around the office, goes to the window to peer out at the busy tarmac. “Nice place you got here,” he says. “Good business, real estate, trucks. Plenty of assets. The papers are ready, and I’ve got a front lined up to make you a nice offer.”

“I’ll bet,” Sally says stiffly. “But the business isn’t for sale.”

“Sure it is,” Corsini says, taking out one of his twisted black cigars. He lights it and tosses the spent match onto Sally’s desk. “This place is how I’m going to get my money back.”

“But you haven’t lost any money!” she yells at him. “You’ve made money on the tips I gave you. So why are you coming on so hard?”

He leans across the desk and blows cigar smoke in her face. “Because you tricked me,” he says, his face twisted. “You played me for a sucker, you fucking whore. Now’s my turn. You want to go on living, you sell the business; it’s that simple.”

She learned a long time ago that if you show weakness in the world she inhabits, you’re finished. Jake taught her that. “Give ’em an inch, and they’ll take a mile,” he told her. “You gotta stand up to the hardcases. They push, you push back. Otherwise you’re flat on your tuchas, and they’re walking all over you.”

“Listen, you cocksucker,” she says stonily, “you and your lousy front aren’t coming anywhere near this place. The business belongs to my family, and that’s where it’s going to stay. I’m not signing any papers. Stick them up your ass and smoke them, you crap-faced motherfucker.”

The hand holding the cigar starts to tremble, and he presses it against the side of the desk to steady it. She wonders how close he is to popping her then and there and doesn’t care.

“Oh, you’ll sell,” he says in an unexpectedly soft voice. “Maybe you got the balls to fight me, but does your crippled mother or faggot brother? I’d start with them. I’d leave you for last, because before I was through, you’d be down on your knees, begging to sell.”

“Screw you,” Sally says with more bravado than she feels.

“There is one way you can keep the dump,” Mario Corsini says thoughtfully, still staring at her. “You put out for me and maybe we can work a deal.”

“Christ Almighty!” she cries. “Is that the only way you can get a woman?”

“I can get a lot of women,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Like that. But I want you. I want to break you. Really put you over the hurdles.” Then he starts describing exactly what he wants to do to her.

She jerks to her feet. “You prick!” she screams. “Get the hell out of my office.”

“Your office?” he says, looking at her with a stretched grin. “Not for long.”