Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Yeah,” Cone agrees, “you could say that.”

  “I do say it. Now my only child is engaged to be married.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “The man is a dolt,” the old lady says. “But at her age and with her looks, she’s lucky to get anyone.”

  Cone is getting pissed-off at this harridan. “I think your daughter is attractive,” he states.

  She ignores that. “Her fiancé is a pediatrician. Doctors are notorious for being the world’s worst money managers. Because they can lance a boil, they think they can deal with options, indexes, futures, and commodities. They’re the favorite targets of every con man in the country. Lucy’s husband-to-be is putting a lot of money into a company called Laboris Investments. Have you heard of it?”

  “Not until this morning when I was assigned the case.”

  “Well, it’s run by a man named Ingmar Laboris.”

  Cone doesn’t make many jokes, but when he finds one he likes, he sticks with it.

  “Sounds like a Swedish mouthwash,” he says.

  “Don’t waste your wit on me, young man,” Mrs. Hepplewaite says sharply. “I warn you, I have absolutely no sense of humor. This Ingmar Laboris is promising a return of thirty percent. What would you do if someone offered you a return like that?”

  “Run the other way,” Cone says. “How does he claim to do it?”

  “Currency trading,” she says. “Switching dollars to pounds or francs or yen or pesos. Rates between various national moneys are constantly changing. I admit there are profits to be made in such trading, but it demands split-second decision-making by very experienced and knowledgeable traders. I’ve checked my sources on Wall Street, and no one’s heard of this Ingmar Laboris. He seems to have come out of nowhere, and has no track record. Yet here he is promising a thirty-percent return. I don’t like it.”

  “It doesn’t sound kosher,” Cone acknowledges. “To run a currency-trading operation you need a worldwide network: open telephone lines, computers, agents in every country—the whole bit. Has Laboris got all that?”

  “How on earth would I know?” she says angrily. “What do you think I hired Haldering for? To find out. I don’t want Lucy marrying a bankrupt doctor. I have no intention of bailing them out.”

  Cone ponders a moment. “Have you any idea how much your daughter’s fiancé has invested with Laboris?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I’d guess it’s almost a hundred thousand.”

  The Wall Street dick whistles softly. “A tidy sum. Can he get it out?”

  “That’s what infuriates me,” Mrs. Hepplewaite says. “Apparently he can withdraw his money anytime he wishes, and he has been earning thirty percent on his investment. Of course he’s delighted—the idiot!”

  “Have you tried talking to him about it? Or to your daughter?”

  “I’ve talked—to both of them. Should have saved my breath. They’re convinced this get-rich-quick scheme, whatever it is, will make them wealthy. The children!”

  “All right,” Cone says, “you’ve given me enough to go on. I’ll look into it.”

  “That’s all you’re going to tell me—that you’ll look into it?”

  “That’s all I’m going to tell you,” he says stonily, standing up and putting on his parka. “When I have something to report, you’ll hear from Haldering. Not before.”

  “You’re snotty,” she says. “You know that?”

  “Sure, I know it,” he says. “And you’re a mean old biddy. You know that?”

  Unexpectedly she laughs. At least her spongy face creases into a grimace that might pass as a grin. She waves her cane at him menacingly.

  “Stop wasting time,” she says, “and go to work. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  He’s plodding down the long corridor toward the front door when Lucinda Hepplewaite steps out of the shadows and puts a soft hand on his arm. Startled, he turns to face her.

  “Please be kind,” she whispers, and then she’s gone.

  He stands there a moment, flummoxed. Then he exits into a chilled mizzle that’s put glittering halos around the streetlights. It takes him almost twenty minutes to find an empty cab, and then he gets a hackie who barely speaks English and has to be told when to turn left or right.

  Cone arrives back at his loft in a foul mood, not improved when he discovers Cleo has upchucked in the middle of the linoleum floor.

  “You sonofabitch!” he yells at the cat. “You been eating cockroaches again?”

  He cleans up the mess, rinses his hands, pours a heavy Popov over ice. Lights a cigarette. Puts his feet up on his desk-table. Cleo comes purring over, wanting to make up.

  “Miserable cat,” Cone says, but he reaches down to scratch the torn ears, which the scarred and denutted tom dearly loves.

  He sits there for maybe a half hour, wondering what she meant by “Please be kind.” To whom? Herself, her fiancé, her mother? To everyone and everything: animal, vegetable, and mineral?

  Grunting, he rouses from his reverie and opens a big can of beef stew. He heats it up in a battered saucepan. When the fat has melted and the stew is beginning to bubble, he pours out about a third of it into Cleo’s feeding dish (a chipped ashtray), and eats the remainder himself, spooning it directly from the pan into his mouth. He pauses just long enough to dust some chili powder into it, then finishes. It’s okay. Not a lot of meat, but okay.

  He goes back to Popov and Camels for dessert. But not before he digs out the Manhattan telephone directory from the cabinet under the sink. He looks up Laboris. To his surprise, he finds three listings: Laboris Investments, Inc., on Wall Street; Laboris Importers, Inc., on Nineteenth Street at an address that would put it just west of Fifth Avenue; and Laboris Gallery of Levantine Art on upper Madison Avenue.

  Cone circles the three names with a black Magic Marker, then tears the page out of the directory. Three Laborises? It’s such an unusual name, he figures Ingmar is either running all three outfits or there’s a family connection.

  He calls Samantha.

  “Hello?” she says.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Cone.”

  “Call back; I’m eating dinner.”

  “This will only take a minute. You know everything; what does Levantine mean?”

  “Jesus, you’re a pain in the ass,” she says disgustedly. “Can’t you look it up? The Levant is a term used to describe all the countries around the east Mediterranean. Like Turkey, Syria, and Iran.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

  “How did you make out with—”

  “See you tomorrow,” he says and hangs up.

  He sits there, wondering if Laboris Investments is financing that 30-percent return from the profits of Laboris Importers and the Laboris Gallery of Levantine Art.

  “Not fucking likely,” he says aloud to Cleo, who is under the bathtub, sleeping off the beef stew. The cat opens one eye to stare at him, then shuts it again.

  Feeling his own eyes beginning to close, Cone finishes his last drink and last cigarette of the day. He checks the door to make certain it’s locked, bolted, chained. Then he undresses, first unstrapping his ankle holster and placing the .357 short-barreled Magnum close to the mattress on the floor.

  He’s lying there in his skivvies, waiting for sleep, when Cleo comes padding over to curl up in the bend of his knees.

  “Please be kind,” he says to the cat.

  He doesn’t bother checking in at the office the next morning, but goes directly to Laboris Investments, Inc., on Wall Street. It’s only a little after nine-thirty, but the joint is already jumping. There’s a crowd swamping the three account executives and, from what Cone can see, they’re all eager to plunk down cash for a ticket on the gravy train.

  It’s a crazy mob, hard to categorize: dowagers in ankle-length minks; starchly clad executive types carrying alligator attaché cases; cops and Sanitation guys in uniform; housewives, one with her hair in curlers; a gentleman wearing a clerical collar; a
couple of punk rockers; a woman who looks like a bag lady; and two bums who look like they spent the night on the IRT subway grille.

  What they all have in common, Cone decides, is a galloping case of the gimmies.

  He picks up one of the skimpy prospectuses and reads it carefully. But it’s weasel-worded: No promises are made, no profits mentioned. “It is hoped …” and “It is expected that …” and “Possible returns might …” And then the disclaimers: You could lose your entire investment, and there is no guarantee that past success will continue in the future. All legal, the Wall Street dick reflects mournfully, and all designed to get the chief gonnif off the hook.

  The most interesting thing in the brochure is a photograph of Ingmar Laboris himself, grinning happily at the camera. He’s a swarthy, plump-faced man with a heavy head of slick black hair and a brush of mustache thick enough to clean out a bird cage. Small ears flat to his skull. Full lips with a pouty look. The eyes are squinched with innocence and glint.

  “May I help you, sir?” an account executive carols, suddenly appearing at his elbow.

  He looks at her badge. “Maybe you can, Gwen. Any chance of my seeing Mr. Laboris?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Laboris is out of the country at present. Expanding our operation overseas, you know.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is there anything I can help you with? Do you have any questions?”

  “Can I get a thirty-percent return?”

  “Oh, sir, we can’t guarantee any rate of return. The prospectus spells that out very clearly.”

  “Sure it does,” Cone says genially. “But I can get my money back whenever I want it?”

  “Of course, sir. We maintain a special redemption fund.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Cone says. “You accept cash or tellers’ checks?”

  “Or money orders,” Gwen says proudly. “And all major credit cards up to the limit of your credit rating.”

  “Thank you very much,” Cone says. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Would you care to invest now, sir?”

  “Not at the moment. I’d like to think about it.”

  Her smile flicks off, and she turns away. She’s working on commission, he figures, and why should she waste time with a turd-kicker like him when there are so many other applicants with deep pockets?

  He leaves Laboris Investments, not much wiser than when he arrived. The whole operation smells, but he figured that from the start. Going down in the elevator, he looks again at Ingmar’s photograph and thinks: Would you buy a used Oriental rug from this man?

  He stops at the office on his way uptown, just to let people know he’s still alive. There are no messages and no memos on his desk, which is okay with him. Still wearing his parka and black leather cap, he wanders into Sidney Apicella’s office.

  “Oh-oh,” Sid says, rubbing his red nose. “Bad news—I just know it.”

  “Nah,” Cone says. “Just a question or two about the Laboris Investments case …”

  “My God, Tim,” Apicella says, “we haven’t even started on that one.”

  “Well, could you check out our foreign contacts and see if any of them have ever heard of Ingmar Laboris? He’s supposed to be a hotshot international currency dealer.”

  Sidney stares at him. “But you think he’s a phony?”

  “Yeah,” the Wall Street dick says, “that’s what I think.”

  He could take an uptown bus, but he cabs instead. He knows the client will be billed for his expenses. He figures Mrs. Martha T. Hepplewaite for a tightwad and imagines with pleasure how she’s going to yelp when she gets the itemized invoice.

  It’s his military training; he’s got to make a personal reconnaissance of the territory. So he walks up and down West Nineteenth Street, getting a feel of the neighborhood. Office buildings, lofts, small manufacturers, fabric houses, a couple of dingy bars, and a lot of importers and exporters of this and that.

  Laboris Importers, Inc., is a block-wide emporium with huge plate glass show windows—and a roll-down steel shutter for nighttime protection. Dominating the window display is a six-foot brass Buddha, arms raised, belly shined. The statue stands on a dark wood base carved to resemble a rock outcrop.

  Timothy Cone pushes open the door, which jangles a bell suspended overhead. He hasn’t seen a gizmo like that in years. But the alarm seems to alert no one. There are maybe a half-dozen customers wandering the aisles. And in the back, behind a counter, five salesclerks are nattering and laughing. Apparently Laboris Importers doesn’t believe in the hard sell.

  Cone looks around, making a zigzag path through the big sales floor. He’s never seen so much junk in his life. Someone has combed the world for tasteless trinkets and mass-produced art—and here it all is, displayed under fluorescent lamps in a Manhattan showroom.

  Primitive African statuettes—probably made by computerized lathes in Nigeria. Imitation Navaho silver jewelry, set with stones that look like unchewed bubblegum. Moth-eaten red fezzes with limp black tassels. Glass paperweights filled with tiny Swiss chalets and a snowstorm of rice. Cigarette lighters shaped like Colt pistols. Planters’ hats from Panama and puppets from India. Mexican wedding dresses and carved wooden rabbits from Guatemala. A set of Scottish bagpipes and a rack of chino pants from Taiwan. Enormous leather hippopatami from somewhere and just as large porcelain elephants from somewhere else. And tons and tons of similar stuff.

  It is, Timothy Cone decides, awed, the greatest collection of schlock he’s ever seen in his life.

  “May I be of service, sir?” someone asks, and Cone turns slowly, hearing the hisses rather than the words.

  It’s a short, chubby gink, swarthy, a toothbrush mustache and teeth so white they seem to have been sandblasted. He’s wearing a cologne that smells of defunct roses. And he looks like he’s been dipped in Mazola.

  “Just wandering around,” Cone says. Then: “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but does this store have any connection with Laboris Investments on Wall Street?”

  The glittery teeth become more prominent. Cone figures it’s a smile.

  “But of course,” the man says happily. “He is our cousin.” He waves a hand at the other salesclerks still chattering away in the rear of the store. “We are all cousins. The Laboris family is very large. Did you invest with Ingmar?”

  Cone nods. “Do you think I did the right thing?”

  The guy puts a soft hand on his arm. “The wisest decision you have ever made in your life. Ingmar is a financial genius. All the cousins have invested with Ingmar.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Timothy says. “And may I ask what your name is?”

  “Sven Laboris. Amusing, no? The combination I mean. Ingmar and Sven with Laboris. I think maybe a Swede lady took one look at the Mediterranean and decided to stay.”

  “Yeah,” Cone says, “that could happen.” And then, because Sven has been so pleasant and forthcoming, he looks around for something cheap he can buy. There’s a table filled with dark wooden Buddhas. They look like small versions of the big brass job in the store window.

  “Those Buddhas …” he says. “What kind of wood is that?”

  “Oh!” Sven says. “Very nice. Solid teak from Burma. All hand-carved, of course. Each one different.”

  He picks up one of the statuettes and hands it to Cone. “One solid piece of wood. Very hard. Very difficult to carve. Look at the detail.”

  The figure is about twelve inches high, and unexpectedly heavy. Arms are raised, plump belly protrudes, and the face has an expression of beneficent joy. It is posed in a carved rock, fists clenched, the whole posture one of jaunty pleasure.

  “What are you asking for it?” Cone says.

  “Oh, this must be $29.95. Import duties, you know.”

  Cone starts to replace the Buddha on the table. “That’s a little more than I wanted to spend.”

  “However,” Sven Laboris says hastily, “because you have invested with our cousin, I can make you a spec
ial price. Twenty?”

  “Okay,” Cone says.

  “Also,” Sven says, giggling, “I must tell you about a special bonus. It is something that will delight you. If you rub the belly of a Buddha—here, let me show you how; stroke gently, like so—well then, you will have good luck for many years and all your wishes will come true.”

  “No kidding?” the Wall Street dick says.

  He emerges from Laboris Importers, Inc., carrying the wooden Buddha swaddled in tissue paper and thrust into a brown paper bag. He figures he’ll give it to Sam. If she doesn’t want it, she can always give it to some relative for a Christmas present. In any case, Cone is going to put the twenty bucks plus sales tax on his swindle sheet. Let Martha Hepplewaite scream when she sees that Haldering & Co. is billing her for “One Buddha, teak, hand-carved.”

  He cabs on uptown, exhilarated with all the client’s cash he’s spending. He knows upper Madison Avenue, he doesn’t have to reconnoiter the ground. A splashy neighborhood. Big bucks and big greeds. Very little schlock here. Just bring fresh money.

  The Laboris Gallery of Levantine Art fits right in. It’s an elegant three-story building, the entire façade covered with faded blue tiles in a vaguely Persian pattern; foliage and beasts, bearded warriors and scimitars—all contained within a severely geometrical border. Timothy Cone, who knows Manhattan real estate values, can guess what that little gem of a building cost.

  There’s very little of the Levantine in the interior. It’s all high-tech, with white walls, track lighting, and Lucite cubes, containing works of art, set on solid ebony pedestals. Soft music is coming from somewhere: a meringue of plucked strings and flutes that is simultaneously lulling and lascivious.

  “May I be of service, sir?” she says, and again he hears the hisses and not the words.

  He turns to look, and curses himself inwardly for being a filthy beast, because his initial reaction is: What a dish! He suddenly remembers a gyrene buddy of his spotting a similar woman on the street and remarking admiringly, “All you need with that is a spoon and a straw.”

  She is young, short, chubby: a butterball. Olive complexion, killing eyes, and a smile to melt titanium. Long black hair to her buns, and such a bursting, fleshy, burning look about her that the Wall Street dick is distraught enough to remove his leather cap—more from homage than politeness.