Timothy's Game

by Lawrence Sanders

  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 cauti
ously, “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.”

  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.”