“Then unload it. Or does it come with a price tag?”
“This job makes cynics out of them all, doesn’t it? Okay, so there’s a price tag. Some of the stuff I got for you had to come out of FBI files, and they want reciprocation from you. Anything you get on Senna, they’d be obliged if you’d turn it over to them.”
“So I was right about him.”
“Uh-hunh. Cosa Nostra up to his eyeballs. Eight arrests, one conviction. Sullivan rap, concealed weapon. That was nine years ago, a little before my time. He’s been in Canada since he got out of Sing Sing five years ago, which is why I didn’t tumble to the name. But the FBI likes to keep tabs on them wherever they go. Anyhow, here’s the gen. They call him Little Sally, which is to distinguish him from Big Sally—Salvatore Civetta, who as we all know is Vic Civetta’s younger brother. Senna was a button in the Civetta mob before he went to Canada. His background maybe explains why he’s turned into a stock-market investor. He used to enforce the money rackets for Civetta in Queens—loan-sharking mostly, and the numbers. Evidently he got interested in stocks and bonds when he was serving time at Ossining—there’s a note in the file that he took out every book the prison library had on securities and investment. Since he went to Montreal we haven’t been keeping an active file on him, but according to the FBI he’s been fronting a boiler-room operation up there. Want details?”
“Go ahead,” Hastings said. “I’ll yawn if I get bored.”
“Well, it’s a stock-market confidence game. I guess you know that. Senna’s got a big crew of professional con men. They work the phones eighteen hours a day, selling stocks by long-distance high-pressure pitches to widows and housewives and retired pensioners all over the States. You understand these stocks they sell are legitimate over-the-counter stocks, not fake paper. But the boiler-room boys sell them at twenty to fifty times their real value. Don’t ask me where they find suckers stupid enough to fall for it, but they do—in droves. Technically, it’s a crime—fraud. But they don’t run much of a risk. How can a victim identify a swindler he’s only talked to on the phone, never even seen? The boiler rooms used to operate out of lofts in the Wall Street area, but we cracked down on them, and most of the big operations moved to Canada. Gives them a good base to work from—the Canadian cops have a tough time with them because the victims aren’t Canadians and aren’t even in Canada at the time the crimes are committed. The cops try to harass them up there, but most of—”
The buzz of the intercom interrupted him. Miss Sprague’s voice, full of disapproval, said, “Cynthia MacNee is on the line. Shall I ask her to hold, or do I tell her you’re in conference?”
“Put her on,” Hastings said to her, and to Burgess, “Don’t move, I want to hear the rest of it.” He picked up the phone. “Hello, Cynthia?”
“Dahling,” Cynthia MacNee drawled, “it’s not really necessary to sound so overjoyed to hear my voice.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“My deah, that tone of voice will never get you elected to office. I want to see you—it’s important. I’m in the East Village in a telephone booth that’s full of broken glass and the scent of piss, so I won’t prolong this delightful conversation. I’ve just spent an hour looking at the most hideous paintings in the world and I’m prepared to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, but en route to it I could tell the taxi driver to stop at Foley Square. I can be there in ten minutes. Have you got a few moments to spare me?”
“I’m kind of busy. But you said it was important?”
“I did say that, didn’t I?”
“You’re insufferable,” he said.
“I know. Isn’t it wonderful? It is important, lover, and I’ll see you in ten minutes. Hasta luego.”
He cradled the phone, rearranged his thoughts, and said to Bill Burgess, “And Salvatore Senna runs one of these boiler-room operations in Montreal?”
“He appears to. I doubt he owns the operation—he’s fronting for somebody. Maybe it belongs to one of the mobs. Anyhow it’s worth pondering. When you get a mobster nosing in on the legit securities business, it spells Cosa Nostra and that starts with ‘C’ and that rhymes with ‘T’ and that stands for ‘Trouble,’ according to the impeccable logic of Professor Hill. We’ve traced some sizable stock-theft hauls to the Mafia, and I suppose the dons must own chunks of blue-chip stocks, but your interest in Senna is one of the first hints I’ve seen that they might be muscling in on the market itself. Have you got anything for me?”
“Nothing worth broadcasting. Senna bought a block of gilt-edged a couple of weeks ago. I’ve been curious to find out why.”
“If you do turn up anything, let me know so I can pass it on to the hotshots over at FBI.”
“I’ll have to clear it through Quint first.”
“Sure, I know.” Burgess was out of his chair and moving. “I’ll hold a chair for you at the game Wednesday,” he said, and went.
Cynthia swept into the office with imperious clumsiness and came around the desk to deposit a smacking kiss on his cheek. “Dahling!” she cried at the top of her lungs; she grinned impudently and settled asprawl in the chair Burgess had vacated a few minutes earlier. “That was for the benefit of your sterile secretary,” she said under her breath. She wore a ridiculous hat; her dress, a loud print, was girdled under her abundant breasts. There was a great deal of irrepressible mischief in her face, but—it always surprised him—it was essentially a very lovely face, an ivory shield surrounded by long dark hair, as fine and straight and liquid as an Oriental’s, falling softly to her big shoulders.
She said, “You look fine, Russ. You look like a surfer. You must like your job here.”
“It has its points. What’s up?”
She nodded. “You didn’t want to see me. I guess I understand that—you don’t want reminders. In the terminology of the pulp magazines, you’ve still got fresh scars that haven’t healed over. Am I warm?”
“You are always very warm, Cynthia.”
“How am I to take that?”
“With a grain of salt,” he said. Then he smiled. “All right, it is nice to see you, after all.”
She laughed. “My deah, you’ve made my whole day. Christ, it needed a boost, let me tell you. The horse shit I’ve had to look at in those East Village galleries. But what can you expect in a civilization whose most popular cultural achievement is Bonanza? America is divided into quality and equality, and we at Nuart are resoundingly dedicated to the latter.” She was incapable of speaking without the accompaniment of vast sweeps and lunges of her arms. Gesticulating wildly, she said, “I should never have been given an education, you know. Think of the bliss of ignorance. I could have been a truck driver. I mean, I did try my best. At Bennington I drank all my classmates under the table, but they graduated me with honors anyway. It’s a fucking trap, Russ, don’t let anybody kid you.”
“I see you’re your usual cheerful self today. Looking for a sympathetic ear?”
“In a way I am, lover, but not for myself. Yes, that’s right—steel yourself. I have come to speak of her ladyship.”
“Did she send you?”
“No. God forbid. She doesn’t know I’m here, and she had better not find out.”
“What is it, Cynthia?”
“I think she’s in trouble.”
His jaw clicked. “She can take care of herself.”
“She thinks she can. Question, Russ—have you heard of one Mason Villiers?”
“The one who gutted Lee Central Plastics?”
“Among others. Have you ever met him?”
“No. Have you?”
“Once,” she said. “Would you like to see my Purple Heart? Never mind. The point is, he’s persuaded Diane to go into business with him.”
He sat up straight. “What?”
“He’s quite a panther, you know. To use the most apt cliché, a lady-killer.”
“With Diane?” Hastings’ smile twisted. “I wish him luck.”
“Don’t be too sure. Wh
en I asked her about it, her face became a study in scarlet. She admitted she’s authorized him to set up incorporation proceedings for Nuart. She’s planning to go public. Of course, it’s something we should have done before this—I don’t object to incorporating the business. But Villiers is a barracuda, Russ. He’ll swallow her whole. You need a deaf ear and a tough skin to survive his type, and whatever you think of her, she’s not that hard. As soon as she told me about it, I tried to talk her out of it. I used all the artillery I could think of. I told her Mace Villiers is trouble. I told her the business world has been treating him as if he had financial halitosis for good reason. He’s not the type who likes to see people dead—he’s the type who enjoys watching them die.”
The girl’s big dark eyes pressed at him. “She wouldn’t listen to me. I don’t know what he used as a persuader—I have visions of him caressing her erogenous zones like a musician playing on an instrument, that’s the kind he is, but with Mace Villiers there’s always a knife concealed in his palm. Whatever it is, he’s using her. Only she can’t see it. Or she refuses to. Maybe you think of her as a tough bitch, Russ, but where men are concerned she’s la plus grande imbécile de la cité.”
His hand had formed a loose fist. He said, “Why did you come to me, Cynthia? What do you expect me to do about it?”
“You’re a financial cop. You must have files and records on Villiers. Trot them out—show her his record. Prove to her what a bastard he really is.”
He laughed ironically. Cynthia said, “I’m scared, lover. Not just for Diane—for me too. I’ve got a big stake in the business, and I have visions of the whole thing being flushed down the tubes. But mainly I hate seeing my best friend offer herself on the chopping block. I was hoping you still had enough feeling for her to help me get her out of this mess.”
“Even if I did,” he said, “I doubt I could even get an audience with her.”
“You don’t have to hold hands with her, dahling. Of course she’ll see you. She’s not vindictive. Maybe you don’t realize how broken up she was when you left her. Shit, I’m not saying she wants you back, Russ, but she doesn’t hate your guts.”
“Cynthia, what the hell could I say to her? She’d suspect my motives the instant I said an unkind word about him.”
“That would be childish. She’s not a fool—oh, hell, I take that back. Where he’s concerned, she’s a fool. But don’t you see that’s why somebody has to talk her out of it? God knows what he’s got in mind, but his touch has always been the kiss of death to any business he got involved with. He’ll destroy her if somebody doesn’t pry her out of it in time.” She flung her arms wide and demanded, “Don’t you believe he intends to gut Nuart the way he’s gutted everything else?”
“It’s my job not to believe anything too quickly,” he said. But he was frowning darkly. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll nose around in our files and let you know what I find. You can put it up to her yourself.”
“She wouldn’t take it, coming from me. She knows I hate his guts.”
“Why?”
“Call it postcoital depression,” she said. “It was a long time ago, and I’d rather forget it. In fact, I did forget it for a while. When I first learned she was seeing him, I encouraged it. I thought he’d be good for her. She needs a man strong enough to bring her to heel. But as soon as I found out what he was up to, I got wise. Nuart is a dollar bill to him. Wherever there are two people and one dollar, there’s going to be a fight to see who gets the dollar. It’s always been that way with him. I’m scared to death, Russ. You’ve got to do something.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
14. Steve Wyatt
The bullpen vibrated with a racket of phones and calculators and voices. Wyatt completed a call and glanced toward the secretary’s railing. Anne had been absent from her desk all afternoon, taking dictation in the old man’s office. He looked at his watch and leaned back in his swivel chair for a stretch.
The big room was filled with well-dressed young men, all cut from the same bolt, all imbued with the pep talk they’d received when, after the tough seven-month training drill, they had achieved the exalted nirvana of status—analyst, Account Executive: “Remember, gentlemen, from now on you’re on your own. When you pick up that telephone, you are Bierce, Claiborne & Myers.” They were earnest, they knew the vocabulary, they knew everything from capital-gains taxation to corporation finance, they kept up with the required reading—financial pages, trade journals, tip sheets. They spent three-quarters of every working day on the phone, yet they had to know how to be discreet at all times.
He had to laugh.
The jangling phone cut off his ramble; he reached for it. “Bierce, Claiborne & Myers, Wyatt speaking.”
The caller identified himself and asked a question. Wyatt turned, bored, to run a finger down his note sheets. “It’s quoted forty-five to forty-six bid and asked, CTM. Anything else right now?”
Getting a negative answer, he said good-bye, and looked toward the door beyond the railing. She was just coming in sight; she sat down, watching him with silent adoration.
He took her to Le Manoir for dinner. Afterward they window-shopped hand in hand along Fifth Avenue. He slipped the Jensen case out of his pocket and gave her the silver necklace, and she flung her arms around him and kissed him under the streetlight on the corner by St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
He took her home to his apartment. When he closed the door, she moved against him and flicked her tongue against his, wheeled across the room in a gay dance, and stopped by the mirror to fit the necklace around her pretty throat. “How do I look?”
“Delicious.”
“Steve, there’s never been anybody but you and me.”
He smiled and ran his fingertips up her arms very softly, feeling her shudder. Her eyes were half-closed; she began to lose her breath.
A full-length mirror hung on the back of the closet door. He twisted the door open, held it at the right angle, and stepped back toward the bed to test it.
He went into the kitchen to make drinks; dropped the liquid contents of a chloral hydrate sleeping capsule in her glass and delivered it to her; adjusted lamps and the record player, and came to her by the bed. He kissed the tip of her nose, and clicked glasses with her, said, “Bottoms up,” and watched critically while she swallowed half the drink.
She smiled her warm, loving smile. When he reached around her to undo the back of her dress, she put the glass down and watched the dress fall in a pool around her ankles, and stepped out of it. “Can’t we go on like this forever?” she breathed. “Oh, my darling, I never thought it could ever—”
“I love you, Anne.”
“Always—always. We’ll have eight kids. No, we won’t have any, they take too much time, and there’s no time for anything but this you and me, darling.… Do you love my breasts, darling?”
“Mmmmm.”
“Aren’t they beautiful?”
“They’re the finest perfect little breasts in the world.”
“They belong to you, darling. Oh!”
He lay across her and caught his breath. She fell fully, deeply asleep with a nesty little smile on her lips. He padded across the room, switched off the stereo, and picked up her handbag. The drug would keep her asleep for hours; he moved without stealth. When she came to she would blame it on sexual exhaustion, the way the old ones had in the days when he had made a practice of rifling rich women’s jewel boxes.
He found the leather key case in her bag and dressed without hurry, and before he left he looked up a phone number and dialed it. When a man answered in an irritable tenor voice, Wyatt said, “I just wanted to make sure you were there. I’ve got to get these keys duped and return them in a couple of hours.”
The petulant high voice said, “I always keep appointments, Mr. Jones. You just bring the cash.”
“I’m on my way.”
He hung up and glanced back at the sleeping girl. She was superb in bed; he congratulated his luck
. A little inexperienced, but he would teach her to make it soar. She had a good body and a great generous sensitivity to his pleasure. It was too bad she was the nesting kind. It would hardly do for a Wyatt to entertain marrying the daughter of a Polish taxi driver.
15. Mason Villiers
Ginger Hackman was long-legged and sad-faced. Villiers watched with tight-lipped reserve while she disrobed before him and came unwillingly toward the bed, her eyes half-closed. She said, “Make it good.”
He did. As always, he was bored afterward. He watched her slip into the bathroom; he lay back, sated and thinking. When she reappeared in the lighted doorway, he had trouble for a moment remembering who she was—just one more in the endless chorus line of golden-thighed girls.
The vagueness passed; he made a brief smile.
Ginger said, “You look like a leading man in dirty movies. Shall we have some lunch?”
“No.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Later,” he told her. He talked while he began to dress. “How long has it been since you saw Dan Silverstein?”
“Come again?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten his name.”
“No. But it was kind of a non sequitur, wasn’t it? Since when are we talking about the old crowd?”
“Since now. How long has it been?”
“I haven’t seen any of that bunch since before I married George.”
“Does Silverstein know you’re married?”
“I suppose so. Why shouldn’t he? It was hardly a secret, the way George bragged it up at the time. Exactly the way he’d have boasted about buying a new Rolls. Only now it appears the chrome must have rusted overnight.”
“You haven’t rusted,” Villiers said, granting her a piece of a smile. “George gets tired of all his new toys fast, like a kid.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before I let him marry me, Mace?”
“It was none of my business. You had your eyes open—don’t tell me it was a love match, mad passion made you blind.”
Villiers Touch Page 16
