Seventh Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “We should be so lucky,” Helene said, and Sidney Loftus laughed.

  “What a kidder you are,” he said. “What’re you guys drinking?”

  “Stoli rocks,” Turner said.

  “Sounds good to me,” Loftus said, rubbing his palms together. “With a splash of water, please.”

  Helene rose, sighing, and went into the kitchen. Sid sat down heavily on an armchair. The two men looked at each other with wary smiles.

  “How’s the church doing?” Turner asked.

  Loftus nipped a palm back and forth. “Not hellacious but adequate,” he said. “The take is good but I’ve got to live in that shithouse on Twentieth Street, kip in the back room, and ladle out slop to a bunch of crumbums.”

  “Why don’t you move?”

  The other man shook his head. “No can do. It’s the reverse of a flash front, y’see. Living in that dump proves my spirituality. I couldn’t live in a Park Avenue duplex and plead poverty, now could I?”

  “Image-building,” Turner said.

  “You’ve got it,” Sid said, nodding. “Very important in our game, as you well know. Thank you, my dear,” he said, taking the glass from Helene. He raised it. “Here’s to crime,” he toasted. But he was the only one who drank.

  “Sid,” Turner said, “I’ve got a meeting to get to. What’s this big emergency you mentioned?”

  Loftus crossed his knees. He adjusted the crease in his trousers. He leaned back. He took a pigskin case from an inner pocket. He extracted a long cigarillo carefully. He lighted up slowly.

  “An impressive performance,” Turner said. “Keep it up and I’m going to waltz out of here. Now what’s on your mind?”

  “Business, business,” Sidney said, shaking his head. “With you it’s always business. You never take time to smell the flowers. Very well, I’ll be brief. You know, of course, that Clayton Starrett is divorcing Eleanor.”

  “Who told you that?” Helene demanded.

  He looked at her, amused. “Olivia,” he said. “She tells Father Brian Callaway everything.”

  “My God,” Turner said, “you’re not porking the woman, are you?”

  “Oh, dear me, no,” Loftus said. “I am her confidant, her father confessor. She dotes on me.”

  “You’ve got a sweet little scam going there,” Turner said.

  Sid shrugged. “To each his own,” he said. “And Olivia also told me that as soon as Clayton can give his wife the boot, he plans to marry Helene.” He turned to her. “Congratulations, my dear,” he said. “May all your troubles be little ones.”

  “Stuff it,” she told him.

  He smiled and took a swallow of his drink. “Too much water,” he said. “Now this is the way I figure it … Clayton has told you, Helene, of his impending divorce and has already proposed. I’m sure you’ve discovered that Clayton is not the brightest kid on the block. He’s easily manipulated, and I’m guessing that you’ll play him along until his divorce comes through, and then you’ll take a walk. Am I correct in my assumptions?”

  Helene started to reply, but Turner held up a hand to silence her. “Suppose you are,” he said to Loftus. “What’s it got to do with you? Where do you come in?”

  “Why,” the other man said, “it seems to me unjust that only you two should profit from this unique situation. And profit mightily, I may add. After all, I was the one who introduced you to the Starrett family. Surely I deserve a reward.”

  Turner nodded. “I figured it would be something like that,” he said, “you’re such a greedy bugger. And if I was to tell you to go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut, what would be your reaction, Sid?”

  Loftus sighed. “I would have to give the matter serious consideration. It’s possible my decision would be that it was my bounden duty, as spiritual advisor to Olivia, to inform her of certain details in the background and history of you two charmers.”

  “Blackmail,” Helene said flatly.

  Loftus made a mock shudder. “That’s such an ugly word, dearie,” he said. “I prefer to think of it as a finder’s fee. For helping you aboard the gravy train.”

  Turner smiled coldly. “You’re bluffing, Sid,” he stated. “It works both ways. We might find it necessary to tell the Starretts about your history.”

  “Would you really?” Loftus said, beaming. He took another swallow of his vodka. “To save you the trouble, I should tell you that Olivia is already aware of the indiscretions of my past. Not all of them, of course, but most. I told her, and she has forgiven me. Y’see, these religious mooches just love repentant sinners. They put their heaviest trust in the lamb who has strayed from the fold and then returned.”

  Turner said, “I underestimated you, Sid.”

  “People sometimes do,” Loftus said complacently, “and end up paying for it.”

  “And what do you feel would be a reasonable finder’s fee?”

  “Oh, I thought fifty grand is a nice round number.”

  “Fifty thousand!” Helene cried. “Are you insane?”

  “I don’t believe I’m ready to be committed,” Sid said, then laughed at his own wit. “Actually, Helene, it is not an outrageous request, considering what you have taken and will take from Clayton before the divorce is finalized. And I haven’t even mentioned your split, Turner, from that lovely finagle at Starrett Fine Jewelry. No, I don’t consider fifty thousand unreasonable.”

  “In cash, I suppose,” Turner said bitterly.

  “Not necessarily, old boy. A donation to the Church of the Holy Oneness would do the trick. It’s tax-deductible, you know.”

  “Uh-huh,” Turner said. “You will allow us a little time to consider your proposal, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” Loftus said heartily. “I didn’t expect an immediate answer. I should think a week would be sufficient time to arrive at the only rational decision you can make. Thank you for the refreshment.”

  He rose and took up his hat, coat, and clerical collar. The Pierces remained seated. Sid nodded at them affably and started to leave. Then he turned at the door.

  “Remember,” he said with a ghastly smile, “no pain, no gain.”

  Then he was gone.

  “I think I need another drink,” Helene said.

  “Me too,” Turner said. “I’ll get them.”

  She lighted another cigarette while he went into the kitchen. She looked with amazement at the ashtray filled with cigarettes they had both half-smoked and then stubbed out during Sid Loftus’ shakedown.

  Turner came back with the drinks. They sat close together on the couch and stretched out their long legs.

  “You were right,” Helene said. “He is slimy. Turner, couldn’t we tip off the buttons about that phony church of his?”

  “Negative,” Turner said. “He’d know immediately who had ratted on him and cop a plea by giving them the Starrett Jewelry job. We can’t risk that.”

  “We’re not going to pay him, are we?”

  “No way,” he said. “If we did, it would just be a down payment. He’d bleed us dry.”

  “So?” she said. “What are our options?”

  He turned to stare at her. “Not many,” he said. “Only one, in fact. We’ve worked too hard to split our take with a bastard like Sid.”

  She nodded. “Could Ramon handle it?” she asked him.

  “He could, but I don’t want to ask him. First of all, it’s a personal thing, and Ramon has no need to know about you and Clayton. Second, it would give him too much of an edge on me. I’m afraid we’ll have to handle this ourselves, babe. You willing?”

  “Hell, yes!” she said, and he kissed her.

  26

  DORA CONTI FIGURED SHE’D spend the day on Jewelry Row—West 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth—talking to merchants and salespeople, hoping to find answers to some of the questions nagging her. She was heading for the door when her phone rang, and she went back to answer it. The caller was Gregor Pinchik, the computer maven.

  “Hiya, lady,” he
said. “Listen, I’m in my new place, my hardware is all hooked up, and after I check it out I’ll be ready to roll. Probably by tomorrow. Meanwhile I’ve been making a lot of phone calls, trying to get a line on that Turner and Helene Pierce you gave me.”

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. There’s a hacker in Dallas who’s a good friend of mine. I’ve never met him, but we been talking on computers for years. He’s paralyzed and works his hardware with a thing he holds between his teeth. You wouldn’t believe how fast he is. Anyway, I asked him about this Turner Pierce, gave him the physical description and all, and he says it sounds like a young hustler who was operating in Dallas almost ten years ago. This guy’s name was Thomas Powell, but the initials are the same so I figured it might be our pigeon. What do you think?”

  “Could be,” Dora said cautiously. “Wrongos who change their name usually stick to the same initials so they don’t have to throw away their monogrammed Jockey shorts.”

  Pinchik laughed. “You’re okay, lady,” he said.

  “What was this Thomas Powell up to?”

  “Dallas hackers called him Ma Bell because his specialty was telephone fraud. He started out by developing a cheap whistle that had the same frequency the phone company used to connect long distance calls. You blew the whistle into a pay phone and you could talk to Hong Kong as long as you liked. He sold a lot of those whistles. Then, when the phone company got hip to that and changed their switching procedure, this Thomas Powell started making and selling blue boxes. Those are gadgets that give off tones that bypass the phone company’s billing system and let you make free long distance calls. Listen, the guy was talented, no doubt about it.”

  “Didn’t they ever nab him?”

  “My pal says he always stayed one step ahead of the law. For instance, he never sold the whistles or blue boxes to the end-user; he always sold to a crooked wholesaler who sold to crooked retailers who sold to the crooked customers. Powell was always layers away from the actual fraud. By the time the cops traced the merchandise back to him, he was gone.”

  “Where to? Does your friend know?”

  “He talked to a couple of local hackers and called me back. One guy says he heard that Thomas Powell took off for Denver when things got too hot for him in Dallas. I have some good contacts in Denver, and as soon as my machinery is up to speed I’m going to try to pick up Ma Bell’s trail there. Okay?”

  “Of course,” Dora said. “It may turn out to be a false alarm, but it’s worth following up. Did your Dallas friend say anything about Helene Pierce?”

  “Nope. He says this Thomas Powell was a handsome stud with a lot of women on the string, but no one special. And no one in Dallas knew he had a sister; they thought he was a loner.”

  “Keep after him,” Dora said, “and let me know if anything breaks.”

  “You got it, lady,” Pinchik said.

  27

  THE BISTRO WAS ON 28th Street between Lexington and Third, and nothing about it was attractive. The plate glass window needed a scrub, the rolled-up awning had tatters, and one pane of beveled glass in the scarred door had cracked and was patched with adhesive tape. Inside, it was obvious the designer had striven for intimacy and achieved only gloom.

  Sidney Loftus strolled in and looked about curiously. He was wearing a tweed sport jacket and flannel slacks under his trench coat, and the Father Callaway collar was missing. Instead, a silk foulard square was knotted rakishly at his throat. He saw Helene Pierce seated alone in a back booth, lifted a hand in greeting, and sauntered slowly toward her. Only two of the dozen tables in the restaurant were occupied and, except for Helene’s, the eight booths were empty.

  “Good evening, luv,” Sid said lightly. He hung his coat on a wall hook and slid into the booth opposite her. “What an elegant dump. I can’t believe you dine here.”

  “I don’t,” Helene said. “Probably instant gastritis. But the drinks are big. I’m sticking to Tanqueray vodka.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Loftus said. He signaled a waiter, pointed to Helene’s glass, held up two fingers. “I was surprised to hear from you,” he said. “I figured Turner might call, but not you.”

  “I thought we should get together,” she said, looking at him directly. “In some place that Turner isn’t likely to visit and where you wouldn’t be recognized.”

  “My, my,” he said, “that does sound mysterious. Then Turner doesn’t know we’re meeting?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sid said, and didn’t speak while the dour, flat-footed waiter served their drinks, placing the glasses on little paper napkins that had a black Scottie printed on the front.

  “Charming,” Loftus said, holding up the napkin with his fingertips. “Real class. Well, whatever your motives, dearie, I’m happy to have a drink with you without Turner being present. Where is the lad tonight?”

  “If you must know,” she said, “he’s out of town trying to raise fifty thousand bucks: your finder’s fee.”

  Loftus sampled his drink. “Good,” he pronounced. “Not quite chilled enough, but good. I can’t believe raising fifty grand will be a problem. I’m sure the two of you have the funds available.”

  “I don’t think you fully understand, Sid,” Helene said earnestly. “Those ‘mighty profits’ you mentioned have yet to be realized. I admit the potential is there, but so far the actual receipts have been anemic. Clayton pays my rent and he’s given me a few pinhead diamonds, but that’s about it. The business at Starrett Fine Jewelry will pay off eventually—no doubt about it—but right now the returns are practically nil. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not pleading poverty, but Turner will have to get a loan to come up with the fifty G’s. And that means heavy vigorish, of course.”

  Sid took another sip of his drink and smiled bleakly. “Don’t tell me you invited me to haggle over the price, Helene. Haggling is so demeaning, don’t you think?”

  “No,” she said, “no haggling. Turner will come up with the fifty thousand. We don’t have much choice, do we?”

  “No choice at all,” he agreed.

  “But Turner expects some of that to come out of my take,” she said stonily. “I don’t like that. Which is why I wanted to talk to you privately.”

  “No disrespect intended, luv, but you don’t mind if I have the teensiest-weensiest suspicion that Turner may have sent you to set me up.”

  “Listen to my proposition first,” she advised, “and then make up your mind.”

  “I’m all ears,” he said, smiling, and summoned the waiter for another round.

  They waited silently while their fresh drinks were brought and the waiter left. Then Helene leaned across the table. She was wearing a V-necked sweater of heavy wool in periwinkle blue, and as she leaned forward the neckline gaped and he could see tawny skin, the softness of her unbound breasts.

  “Tell me the truth, Sid,” she said, “what do you really think of me?”

  He tried a smile that failed. “Why, I think you’re an extremely attractive young woman. Beautiful, in fact. With all the equipment to make an old man forget his years and dream of pawing up the pea patch.”

  “You’re not an old man, Sid,” she said impatiently, “and cut out the physical stuff. You’ve been around the block twice; what’s your personal opinion of who I am and how I operate?”

  He started slowly and carefully. “I think you’re a very shrewd lady with more than your share of street smarts. I think you have a heavy need for the lush life. Ambitious. Money-hungry. With the morals of an alley cat.”

  She burst into laughter, tossed her head back; her long hair flung out in a swirl. “You’ve got me pegged,” she said. “I plead guilty.”

  “There’s nothing to feel guilty, about,” he told her. “You’re the female equivalent of Turner, or me, or any other shark in the game. It’s just a little unusual to find those characteristics in a woman. But I’m not condemning you. Au contraire, sweetie pie.”

 
“As long as you know,” she said.

  “Know what?” he asked, puzzled.

  “What my motives are. I told you I resent the fact that some of your finder’s fee is going to come out of my poke. I don’t like that. I’ve worked too long on Clayton Starrett to turn over my take without trying to protect it. I also know you have eyes for me. You proved that in Kansas City.”

  “So I did,” he admitted, “and you gave me the broom.”

  “You still feel the same way?”

  He looked at her approvingly. “Could be. What’s on your mind, luv?”

  “As long as you know it’s not mad, carefree lust.”

  “That’s a laugh,” he said.

  “It would be strictly a business deal,” she said, looking steadily into his eyes. “My chance of getting back some of my contribution to your finder’s fee. Shocked?”

  “Hardly,” he said, returning her stare. “It’s in character. You’re a tough lady, Helene.”

  “Tough?” she said. “You know any other way to survive?”

  “No,” he said, “I don’t. So what you’re getting at in your oblique way is that you’d like a kickback from what Turner pays me. For favors granted. Have I got it right?”

  “You’ve got it right.”

  “And what size kickback were you planning to ask for?”

  She leaned forward again. The sweater neckline widened. “I haven’t even thought of it. I just wanted to try the concept with you. If you turned me down, that’s it. If you’re willing to play along, then we can work out the details. I’m a reasonable woman.”

  He laughed. “And I’m a reasonable man. We’re two of a kind, we two. It’s an interesting idea, Helene. Dangerous but interesting. If Turner ever finds out, we’re both dead.”

  “You think I don’t know that? But I’m willing to take the risk. Are you?”

  He looked down at his drink, moved it in slow circles over the tabletop. He looked up again at the slim column of her bare throat and caught his breath.

  “I might be willing to take a flier,” he said. “But then we’re faced with the problem of logistics. Specifically, where and when?”