Cone has already noted that the big Steiner trucks are operated by a crew of two, driver and loader. On Tuesday, Truck No. 3 is being driven by a redheaded guy with the map of Ireland spread all over his face. The loader is a broad-shouldered black who looks like he could nudge a locked door off its hinges with no trouble at all.
Everything in their Tuesday routine is normal and dull until about 1:00, when Truck No. 3 slows and turns into an alleyway alongside a one-story cinderblock building on lower Tenth Avenue. Cone parks across the street and opens his second pack of Camels of the day. From where he sits, he has a good view of the action.
The loader climbs down from the cab. But instead of hefting the cylindrical barrels of trash that have been put out for pickup, he exits the alley and starts walking up Tenth Avenue. Cone straightens up, interested enough to forget to light his cigarette.
In a couple of minutes, a battered Chevy van pulls into the alley and stops right behind the Steiner truck. The loader gets out of the Chevy, opens the back doors, and begins to lift the barrels into the van.
“What the hell?” Cone says aloud, and then realizes he’s now got two cigarettes going at once. He licks thumb and forefinger and pinches one out, saving it carefully in the ashtray. The van, loaded with four barrels, backs out of the alley and starts north on Tenth Avenue. Cone takes a quick look at the cinderblock building. It’s got a brass plate next to the front door, but it’s so small he can’t read it from across the street. The yellow truck hasn’t moved, so Cone gets rolling and follows the van.
What a journey that turns out to be! Up Tenth Avenue to 54th Street. East on 54th to Eighth Avenue. North on Eighth and onto Broadway. Up Broadway to 72nd Street. East on 72nd to Central Park West. North on CPW to 86th Street. A right turn and they’re going through the Park at Traverse 3. Cone is happy he’s got a full tank of gas.
He’s keeping a tight tail on the van, but city traffic is heavy and it’s doubtful if the loader will spot him, even if he’s looking for a shadow. Cone doesn’t think that likely; the guy is driving steadily at legal speeds and making no effort to jink.
On the East Side, they turn up First Avenue and continue north, almost to 125th Street. Now Cone guesses where they’re heading: the Triborough Bridge. He wonders if this guy is making a hegira to Long Island to dump his four barrels in some deserted landfill. But that doesn’t make sense; by rights, the contents of those barrels should have been taken back to the Steiner dump for disposal.
On they go, picking up speed now as traffic thins. They stop briefly to pay their tolls, then head across the span. Cone accelerates to pull the Dodge Shadow alongside the van. He glances sideways. The loader looks like he’s enjoying life. He’s smoking a plump cigar and slapping the steering wheel in time to radio music Cone can’t hear.
They get onto the Long Island Expressway, moving at a lively clip. They turn off onto the Northern State Parkway, turn again onto the Sunken Meadow State Parkway. The van is slowing now, and Cone has time to look around. Pretty country. Plenty of trees. Some impressive homes with white picket fences.
Down Main Street in Smithtown and into an area where the homes are even bigger, set on wide lawns with white graveled driveways leading to the house and two-or three-car garages.
The Chevy van turns into one of those driveways. Cone continues down the road a piece, pulls onto the verge and parks. He hops out, lights a cigarette, and saunters back. He stands in the semi-concealment of a small copse of pines and watches the loader lug the four barrels, one at a time, into a neat white garage with a shingled roof.
The four cardboard barrels inside, the man starts bringing them out again and sliding them into the van-or so it seems; the barrels are identical in appearance. Timothy is flummoxed until he realizes what’s going on. The guy has delivered four new barrels; he’s picking up four old barrels that were already stored in the garage.
Cone sees the Steiner loader climb behind the wheel of the van. Away he goes. Cone will make book on exactly where he’s heading: back to the city to make contact with Truck No. 3, dump the trash in the big yellow Loadmaster, and then return the empty barrels to the alleyway alongside that building on Tenth Avenue.
Cone, stays where he is, eyeballing the garage and home. Nice place. The house is two stories high with a lot of windows. Weathered brick halfway up and white clapboard the rest of the way. A tiled terrace at one side with French doors from the house. All set on what looks to be a one-acre plot, at least, with a manicured lawn and a few pieces of Victorian cast-iron furniture scattered about.
He figures he’ll meander up and see if there’s a name on the mailbox. If someone braces him, he’ll tell them he’s the Avon Lady. But he doesn’t have to use any subterfuge. He’s no sooner started up the bricked walk to the front door when he spots a sign on a short post driven into the lawn. It reads: THE STEINERS.
“Ho-ho-ho,” Cone says aloud. He goes back to his car, turns around, and heads for the city. He drives as fast as the cabs on the parkways and expressway, hoping to get back to Tenth Avenue before that business closes for the day. Traffic is heavy, but nothing like what’s coming from the city; that’s bumper-to-bumper.
He’s back in Manhattan by four o’clock, but it takes him almost forty-five minutes to work his way over to the West Side. He finally parks on Ninth Avenue, with his watch nudging 5:00 P.M. He practically runs back to the one-story cinderblock building. The brass plate next to the front door reads: BECHTOLD PRINTING. Just that and nothing more.
The front door is still open, but when he pushes his way in, a blowsy blonde in the front office is putting on her hat. It looks like a velvet chamberpot.
“We’re closed for the day,” she tells Cone.
“Nah,” he says, giving her what he fancies is a charming smile. “The front door is open. I just want to get some letterheads, bills, and business cards printed up.”
“We don’t do that kind of work,” she says tartly.
“You don’t?” he says. “Well, what kind of work do you do?”
“Financial printing,” she says.
“Thank you very much,” the Wall Street dick says, tipping his leather cap. “Sorry to bother you.”
Back in the Dodge Shadow, he realizes he hasn’t eaten all day. So he wolfs down his two deli sandwiches (salami and egg salad) and gulps two beers. All the ice cubes in his plastic sack have melted, and the beer is barely cool. But at least it’s wet.
Then he drives back to his loft, whistling a merry tune.
He wakes Wednesday morning, mouth tasting like a wet wool sock and stomach ready to do a Krakatoa. He resolves never again to drink Italian brandy with kosher hot dogs, baked beans, and sauerkraut. Even Cleo, who shared the same meal, looks a mite peaked.
He trudges down to the office. It’s an unexpectedly sharp day, with a keen, whistling wind. Breathing that etheric air is like having a decongestant inhaler plugged up each nostril. But by the time he hits John Street, he’s feeling a lot better and figures he’ll live to play the violin again.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Samantha Whatley says bitterly. “So glad you could make it. And it isn’t even payday.”
“Hey,” he says, “you know I’ve been busy with Pistol and Burns. Practically living with G. Fergus Twiggs.”
“Practically living with him, huh? That’s why you’ve got three messages on your desk to phone him as soon as possible.”
“Oh,” Cone says. “Well, something must have come up. I’ll give him a call.”
“That’s more than you do for me,” she says in a low voice. “You bastard!”
“I’ve really been busy,” he says lamely, and flees to his own cubbyhole office before she starts bitching about his missing progress reports.
There are the three messages from Twiggs, and one from Joseph D’Amato. Cone calls the sergeant first.
“Christ, you’re a hard man to get hold of,” the NYPD detective says. “I called you at home a couple of times, then figured I’d try your
office. Listen, you and I have got to have a talk.”
“Sure. How about noon here in the office? We can have a sandwich and schmooze as long as you like.”
“Suits me,” D’Amato says. “I’ll be there.”
“You got something for me?” Cone asks hopefully.
“See you at noon,” the sergeant says and hangs up.
Cone then calls G. Fergus Twiggs. Getting through to the senior partner of Pistol amp; Burns is akin to requesting an audience with the Q. of E., but the Wall Street dick waits patiently, and eventually Twiggs comes on the line. His normally cheery voice sounds dejected.
“I’m afraid we have another one,” he reports.
“An insider leak?”
“Yes. On a deal that’s barely gotten under way. I just don’t understand it. Very depressing.”
“I can be in your office in half an hour. I won’t take much of your time, but I think it’ll make you happier.”
“Then by all means come ahead.”
Timothy is in the office of P amp;B in twenty minutes, and moments later is closeted with the Chief of Internal Security. The plump little man is sagging. All he can manage is a tinselly smile.
“It’s a merger,” he tells Cone. “Two food processing companies. I prefer not to mention the names.”
“Sure. That’s okay.”
“Anyway, it’s still in the early stages. Surely no more than fifty people know about it. But there’s already increased trading in the stock of the smaller company. The share price is up two dollars since Monday.”
“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “I suppose documents have been prepared.”
“Of course. Preliminary proposals. Suggestions for stock swaps between the two companies. Analyses of the problems of merging the two management groups.”
“And the documents have been printed up and distributed to those fifty people?”
“Naturally. They’re all involved and have to be kept informed of what’s going on.”
“Who’s your printer?”
“Bechtold Printing on Tenth Avenue. We’ve been using them for years. Absolutely trustworthy. Every Christmas Frederick Bechtold sends me a smoked ham.”
“Do you know anyone at Snellig Firsten Holbrook?” Cone asks suddenly.
Twiggs looks at him, puzzled. “Yes, I know Greg Vandiver, a risk arbitrage attorney. He crews for me in the Saturday yacht races at our club.”
“Will you call him right now, please, and ask him the name of the printer used by Snellig Firsten Holbrook. They got caught, too.”
Twiggs makes the call and asks the question. Then he hangs up and stares grimly at Cone.
“Bechtold Printing on Tenth Avenue,” he reports.
“Sure,” Cone says. “And I’ll bet a dozen other investment bankers and brokerage houses print at Bechtold.”
“You mean Frederick Bechtold, that fine, upstanding man who sends me smoked hams, is leaking all his customers’ secrets?”
“Nah, he’s clean. But he’s throwing out some valuable garbage.”
Then Cone explains what’s going on: How first press proofs are invariably discarded and more proofs are pulled until the density of the ink is correct, colors are in register, copy is properly centered on the page.
“All those fouled-up proofs are wadded up and thrown out. And along comes a private carter who picks up the barrels of trash and empties them into a truck. In this case, it’s a garbage collector called Steiner Waste Control, on Eleventh Avenue. The boss is Sally Steiner, and she’s a stock market maven. She knows what kind of work Bechtold is doing, and whenever a pickup is made at the printer, she has the barrels taken to her home in Smithtown. Then she paws through all those discarded press proofs looking for goodies. And finds them.”
Twiggs’ face reddens, he seems to swell, and for a moment Cone fears the senior partner is going to have cardiac arrest, or at least bust his braces. But suddenly Twiggs starts laughing, his face all squinched up, tears starting from his eyes. He pounds the desk with his fist.
“The garbage collector!” he says, spluttering. “Oh, God, that’s good! That’s beautiful! I’ll dine off that story for years to come! And I believe every word of it.”
“You can,” Cone says, nodding. “A few years ago a financial printer was reading the stuff delivered to him by his Wall Street customers and buying and selling stocks on the basis of the documents he was given to print. He did great, and the SEC charged him with inside trading. I think it was the first insider case to end up in the Supreme Court. They found the guy Not Guilty, but they never did define exactly what constitutes inside trading. The garbage angle is just a new variation on an old scam.”
“And what do we do now?”
“Nothing you can do about the merger that’s in the works. The cat is out of the bag on that one. But for the future, you’ve got some choices. You can get yourself a new printer, with no guarantee that the same thing won’t happen again. Or stick with Bechtold, but every time you give him something to print, send over a couple of guys who can make sure all preliminary proofs are destroyed. Or-and I like this one best-equip your Mergers and Acquisitions Department with the new desktop printers. You won’t get six-color work or jazzy bindings, but you’ll be able to reproduce most of the documents you need right here in your own shop, including graphs, charts, and tables. It’s all done by computers, and the finished documents can be counted and coded so none of them go astray. The machines aren’t cheap, but they’ll save you a mint on commercial printing costs. And your security will be umpteen times better than if you send your secrets to an outside printer.”
“I’ll look into it immediately,” Twiggs says. “It makes sense. You’re going to report this garbage collector to the SEC?”
“As soon as possible.”
“And what’s going to happen to-what’s her name?”
“Sally Steiner. Well, I figure her for a smart, nervy lady. She probably thinks that if she’s caught, she’ll walk away from all this with a smile on her lips and a song in her heart. If she’s the stand-up gonnif I think she is, she’ll fight any attempt by the SEC to charge her or make her cough up her profits. What, actually, did she do? Dig through some barrels of rubbish, that’s all. She’s home free. That’s what she thinks, and I hate to admit it, but she may be right.”
“I wonder,” says G. Fergus Twiggs thoughtfully, “if she’d consider employment with an investment banker.”
Cone smiles and rises to leave. “You could do a lot worse,” he says. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Twiggs. You put in that electronic printing system. It’ll help.”
The senior partner shakes his hand fervently. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Mr. Cone. It’s a pleasure dealing with someone who enjoys his work.”
“Do I?” Timothy Cone says. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
Neal Davenport is right: Sergeant Joseph D’Amato looks and dresses like a college professor. He’s a tall, gawky guy with a Mt. Rushmore face and big, spatulate hands. His tweed jacket has suede patches on the elbows, and his cordovan kilties are polished to a mirror gloss. He’s smoking a long, thin cigarillo, so Cone thankfully lights up his ninth cigarette of the day.
He calls the local deli for cheeseburgers, fries, a couple of dills, and four cold cans of Bud. They talk and eat at the same time, occasionally waving a pickle slice or French fry in the air to make a point.
“Those names you gave me,” D’Amato says. “All illegals. Members of the same Family.”
“New York?” Cone asks.
“Yeah, but not the Big Five. These schmoes belong to a second-rate gang, bossed by a slimy toad whose monicker is Alonzo Departeur. He’s not even an Italian, I’m happy to say, let alone Sicilian. He’s known as Fat Lonny, and if you ever see him, you’ll know why. The guy is obscenely obese.”
“This Family of his-what’re they into?”
D’Amato gestures with a pickle. “Think of them as hyenas, waiting around for scraps after the big Families make the kill. They couldn�
�t operate without permission of the heavies. And, of course, they pay through the nose for the go-ahead.”
“How do you know all this?” Cone asks curiously.
“Snitches,” the sergeant says promptly. “We have informants in every New York Family. We catch a guy pulling something foul, and we give him a choice: Either he does ten years in the slammer or he turns and becomes our property. You’d be surprised at how many of those scuzzes are willing to work for us; singing their rotten little hearts out. We’ve even got some of them wired.”
“Whatever happened to the code of silence?”
“Omerta? Forget it. Maybe ten years ago, but today it’s every pirate for himself. Organized crime is becoming disorganized crime. Anyway, the names you gave me are all associated with the Departeur mob, headquartered in New York but with people all over the country. They do routine collections for the Big Five and are allowed to run some drug deals, loansharking, extortion, and a few other things like restaurants, nightclubs, and after-hour joints.”
“Any connection with garbage collection?”
“Oh, yeah. And linen supply, liquor wholesaling, and some minor ripoffs of concrete companies, construction unions, plumbing contractors, and electrical equipment suppliers.”
“Anything on Wall Street?”
“Not to my knowledge. The Big Five keep a lock on that. The reason I’m telling you all this is that one of the biggies in the Departeur Family was, until recently, a hood named Vic Angelo. You probably read of how he was scratched outside the Hotel Bedlington not too long ago. His job was taken over by his underboss, Mario Corsini. And Corsini was one of the names on your list-so that accounts for our interest.”
“You think this Corsini arranged for Vic Angelo being chilled?”
“Definitely. It’s common talk on the street, but we can’t get enough real evidence to justify busting Corsini, let alone indicting him. But we keep hoping.”
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