He sits there a long time, staring at the two disassembled Kalis on his desk. Goddess of death and destruction? Could be. He pulls the phone close and calls Neal K. Davenport. But the city bull is out, can’t be reached. So Cone leaves a call-back message.
Suddenly he realizes he’s famished. He phones down for a sausage hero, a kosher dill, and two cans of beer. He’s finished all that and is wiping his lips and belching mightily when Davenport calls back.
“Hey, sherlock,” he says. “What’re you selling today—cancer?”
“Listen,” Cone says, “how about having a drink with me up at my loft?”
“The Garden of a Thousand Delights?” the NYPD man says. “Why this sudden attack of hospitality? You must want something.”
“You know a guy in the Department named Petey Alvarez? He works out of Narcotics.”
“Petey Alvarez? No, the name doesn’t ring a bell. I know some narcs, but no Alvarez.”
“I was hoping you could get hold of him, and the two of you could drop by. This Alvarez doesn’t know me from Buster Keaton, but maybe you could talk him into coming along.”
“Now why should I do that? What’s in it for me?”
“It might help solve that homicide on my street. That Sidney Leonidas who got scragged. You want to break that, don’t you?”
“Not especially,” Davenport says. “The guy was a doper. Who cares? His kill comes pretty far down on my anxiety list.”
“Come on,” the Wall Street dick says. “It would look good on your record to clear that file, wouldn’t it?”
“Has this got something to do with your Laboris job?”
“Well, yeah, it might have.”
Davenport sighs. “What a pisser you are. Okay, I’ll try to get hold of this Petey Alvarez and see if I can con him into visiting your mansion. By the way, I’m drinking bourbon this week.”
“You’ll get it,” Cone promises.
It’s almost two hours before the city dick calls back. He’s located Petey Alvarez and talked the narc into showing up at Cone’s loft. The meet is set for six o’clock. And Alvarez drinks rum and 7-Up.
“Holy Christ!” Timothy Cone says.
But on his hike back to the loft that night, making certain he’s not being tailed, he stops at local stores to pick up a jug of Jim Beam, one of Puerto Rican rum, and a six-pack of 7-Up. He feeds Cleo, checks his ice cube trays, and places the plastic bag with the two Kali statuettes under the table. Then adds Izzy, the two-part Buddha he borrowed from Sam.
Petey Alvarez turns out to be a short, whippy guy with a walrus mustache and hair long enough in back to support a brass barrette. He’s wearing a braided Greek captain’s cap and a black trench coat gray with grime. His dirty Reebok running shoes have broken and knotted laces, and a small gold ring hangs from his left earlobe.
He looks around the loft in amazement.
“Sonnenbitch,” he says. “I live better than this in the barrio. Wassamatta, you busted?”
“Nah,” Cone says. “I got some money.”
“But you got no fucking taste,” Alvarez says. “Bathtubs like that we throw out on the street.”
“It’s an antique,” the Wall Street dick explains.
“Yeah,” Neal Davenport says, “and so are you. Do we stand here passing the time with idle chitchat or do we have something to drive the chill?”
Cone gets them seated on kitchen chairs and brings them drinks. He leaves the bottles of bourbon and rum on the table so they can help themselves. He pours a jelly jar of vodka for himself.
“L’chaim,” Petey Alvarez says, raising his glass.
They drink to that, and then sit looking at each other.
“So this is it?” Davenport finally says. “A nice, quiet drinking party? This is what you dragged us up here for?”
“It’s a long story,” Cone says.
“I got time,” Alvarez says. “My woman expects me when she sees me.”
Cone starts by telling them about the client, Martha Hepplewaite, who wants Laboris Investments investigated because she’s suspicious of their high rate of return.
“That’s Ingmar Laboris,” he says. “I still don’t know where he fits into this action, but I’ll bet he’s a nogoodnik.”
Then he tells them about Laboris Importers on West Nineteenth Street and the foreign schlock they sell. Cousin Sven Laboris, he reminds them, was picked up in a raid on an after-hours joint and was found to be carrying a bag of high-grade heroin.
“Now look at this,” Cone says, and pulls the two-part Buddha from beneath the table. He unscrews the base and shows them the recess drilled up into the statuette. “That’s how I think they’re bringing junk into the country, packed inside things like this.”
Alvarez jerks a thumb at Cone. “Is this guy for real?” he asks.
Davenport laughs. “The jury is still out on that one. But he hasn’t fucked me up—not yet he hasn’t.”
“Look,” the narc says, “how much shit could you jam in that little bitty hole? It wouldn’t be worth the trouble.”
“Sure it would,” Cone says, “if you’re bringing in hundreds or thousands of these doodads. Now we’re talking about kilos. And Laboris Importers has stores all over the country—a perfect distribution setup.”
The two cops look at each other. Then Davenport shrugs.
“Thin stuff,” he says. “All smoke.”
“Well, yeah,” Cone admits, “if this Buddha was all I have. But today I dropped by Laboris Importers and got these.”
He drags out the two statuettes of Kali and unscrews the bases. He hands a figurine to each of the other men.
“Notice?” he says. “Same-size drilled hole. But these have some white powder in them.”
They examine the Kalis, peer into the recess. Then, just as Cone did, the narc licks a forefinger and probes the hole.
“It could be flour,” Cone says.
Petey Alvarez licks his finger. “Flour, my ass,” he says. “High-octane horse. I be a sonnenbitch.”
They all sit, staring at each other. Then they reach forward to fill their glasses.
“It’s not only these statues,” Cone tells them. “Laboris Importers brings in stuff from all over the world. Big clocks and porcelain elephants and hassocks and crap like that. They could be sneaking in kilo bags for all we know.”
“Beautiful,” Alvarez says. “I love it. But the Customs guys check shipments.”
“Sure they do,” Cone agrees. “But like everyone else, they’re overworked and understaffed. So they spot-check. Not all the statuettes are going to carry junk. Just the ones with a special lot number burned into the base. The ones up on top will be legit.”
The narc looks at Neal K. Davenport. “You think I should take a ride with this nut?”
“What have you got to lose? If it doesn’t pan out, no harm done. If Cone’s right, you got yourself a nice bust and maybe a commendation.”
“Yeah,” Alvarez says. “Look. Let me take one of these statues to the lab and get a test on the powder.”
“Be my guest,” says Cone.
“Then, while they’re testing, I’ll find out where this Laboris Importers has its warehouse. If they have stores all over the country, they’ve got to have a warehouse. Makes sense?”
“It does to me,” Davenport says. “Their stock is probably trucked to the warehouse from the docks or airports after it clears Customs.”
“That listens,” Cone says. “Maybe they got their own trucks. I don’t figure they’re mailing the stuff to other cities by parcel post.”
“Yeah,” the narcotics man says, sniffing at the hole drilled into the Kali figurine. “If this is as pure as I think it is, it could zonk half the junkies in the Bronx out of their gourds.” He looks up at Cone. “You work with Joe Washington—right?”
Cone nods.
“I was wondering why he called to pick my brains,” Alvarez says. “That’s cool. One hand washes the other, and you’re coming through.”
<
br /> “Enough of this bullshit,” Neal Davenport says, pouring himself more Jim Beam and unwrapping a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit. “What do I get for bringing you two lovers together? Cone, you said something about the Leonidas homicide.”
“Look,” Cone says, “the guy was tailing me, and I braced him the night he was chilled. But I didn’t do it. I could tell he was stoned out of his skull.”
“But you broke his arm?”
“Well, yeah, but I had to; he pulled a shiv on me. When I left him, he was blotto in that doorway, and his knife was on the sidewalk.”
“Uh-huh,” Davenport says. “And who do you guess put him away?”
“The guy who hired him. Probably one of the Laboris cousins. Listen, this family is a fucking corporation. Like an idiot I gave Laboris Importers my home address, to get their mail-order catalog. And Ingmar at Laboris Investments has my office address. I think maybe they compared notes, got spooked at the idea that I was getting nosy and might have bought one of the hollow Buddhas. They wanted to take me out of the picture.”
“What’s Laboris Investments got to do with all this?” Davenport asks.
“Beats the shit out of me,” Cone admits.
The NYPD detective stares at him a long time. “You’re holding out on me again,” he says. “You and your goddamned secrets. There’s something you’re not spilling. I know it when your eyes go blank.”
“Hey,” Cone says, “one thing at a time. If you can bust Laboris Importers for drug dealing and lean on some of the cousins, one of them is going to break and cop a plea—right? Then you’ll find out who slid the blade into Sidney Leonidas. And you’ll get brownie points for clearing a homicide.”
Davenport sighs, turns to Alvarez. “Why do I let this fruitcake con me like this?” he says. “Every time he calls, I know it’s trouble and more work.”
“I don’t know,” the narc says. “He’s beginning to get to me. And you gotta admit the price of his drinks is right.”
The two cops drain their glasses and stand.
“I’ll be in touch,” Petey Alvarez says, shaking Cone’s hand. “Thanks for the wallops.”
“Where’s the cat?” Davenport asks.
“Under the bathtub. Sleeping.”
“That’s what I should be doing,” the city dick says. “See you around.”
After they’re gone, Cone puts the bottles under the sink and rinses out their jelly jars. He figures he’s started some action, and maybe it’ll pay off.
He stalks about the loft, pondering, and Cleo slithers out from under the bathtub, yawning and stretching. Then the cat starts padding after Cone, turning when he turns, sticking close to his heels, mewing steadily.
“You hungry again?” Cone says. “I’ve got some nice ham hocks for us. Just be patient.”
He figures Petey Alvarez for a cowboy—just the kind of gritty guy needed to put the arm on Sven Laboris. Cone knew hot dogs like Petey in Nam: real outlaws who pushed and pushed until they earned medals or body bags.
Cone is happy he didn’t blab about Sergeant Terry MacEver and the sting planned for the Laboris Gallery of Levantine Art. Davenport and Alvarez have no need to know. And Cone likes to keep his hole card facedown until the call.
“Okay, kiddo,” he says to Cleo, “let’s have the ham hocks. One for you, three for me.”
He lumps into the office the next morning, an hour late. He’s carrying his breakfast in a brown paper bag: container of black coffee, buttered bagel.
“You’re late,” the receptionist says sternly.
“Morning sickness,” Cone explains. “I’m pregnant.”
“Well, you got a call. Two calls. From Mr. Ingmar Laboris. He wants you to call him as soon as you get in.”
He goes back to his office, drinks coffee, eats bagel, smokes third Camel of the day. Then he calls Ingmar Laboris. He guesses what that oily knave wants—and he guesses right.
“Hello there, Mr. Cone!” Laboris says heartily. “And how are we this morning?”
“We’re fine,” Cone says. “We have a slight twinge of the liver, but we think that’ll pass.”
“Excellent, excellent!” Ingmar carols, obviously not listening. “The reason I called, Mr. Cone, was to ask if your client had made up his or her mind to place that investment you mentioned.”
“The quarter-mil?” Cone says. “I’ve made a recommendation, and I expect the client will come to a decision shortly. Probably in the next day or so.”
“And how do you read the client’s mood? Do you feel the investment will be made?”
“I’m not allowed to comment on that,” Cone says virtuously. “But I think you’re in for a surprise.”
“Splendid!” Ingmar Laboris, obviously a terminal optimist, says happily. “I must tell you I am deeply appreciative of your efforts on behalf of Laboris Investments. Incidentally, you might wish to consider taking a flier yourself. In all confidence, I can assure you that our future looks very bright indeed, and while I can make no promises, of course, I anticipate a very rapid increase to a thirty-percent return.”
“I’ll certainly consider it seriously,” the Wall Street dick says.
After he hangs up, he sits staring at the phone. Ingmar’s call is worrisome. It sounds to Cone like the man is getting itchy. Maybe that mob of new investors has dwindled to nothing, or maybe Ingmar is planning a final big score before he closes up shop and walks off into the sunset.
Cone drags himself down to the office of Sidney Apicella. The CPA looks up from an enormous ledger, then sits back and begins massaging his swollen beak.
“You haven’t bugged me for days,” he says. “What’s wrong—you sore at me?”
“One easy question, Sid,” Cone says. “Remember when you checked the bank accounts of Laboris Investments for me? You said they had a special redemption fund set aside to pay off investors who wanted their money back.”
“That’s right; I remember.”
“Do you recall how much was in the fund?”
Apicella rubs his beezer vigorously. “I think it was about a million five when I checked.”
“Could you find out what it is now?”
“Oh, Christ,” Sid says. “That’s Ollie March at Merchants Interworld. He’s done so many favors for me lately, I hate to hit him again.”
“Come on,” Cone urges, “it’ll only take one short phone call. You can send him a bottle of booze. I’ll finagle it on my expense account.”
“Well … okay,” Apicella says grudgingly. He flips through his Rolodex, finds the number, and dials.
“Mr. Ollie March, please … Hello, Ollie. Sid Apicella here. How are the hemorrhoids? … Uh-huh … Jesus, that’s a shame … Ollie, I hate to bother you again—I know how busy you are—but this is important. Remember my asking you about the position of Laboris Investments? … That’s right; Wall Street. Well, what I need right now is the current status of their redemption fund. Could you take a look? … Sure, I’ll hang on.”
He covers the phone with a palm and looks up. “The poor guy is really suffering,” he says. “He has to sit on an inner tube.”
“Tough,” Cone says.
Apicella goes back to the phone. “Yeah, I’m here, Ollie … Uh-huh … I’ve got it. Thanks very much; I owe you more than one. I hope the new treatment helps … Right … I’ll be talking to you.”
He hangs up and swings around in his swivel chair to face Cone. “Laboris’s redemption fund is down to a little below three hundred thousand.”
The two men stare at each other.
“From a million and a half about ten days ago,” Cone says. “Sounds like someone’s pulled the plug.”
“I’d say so,” Apicella agrees. “Does the client have any money in Laboris Investments?”
“Not the client. The husband-to-be of the client’s daughter.”
“Better tell him to get it out,” the CPA advises. “The sooner the better.”
“Yeah,” Cone says, “that’s what I figure. Thanks, Si
d.”
“Don’t forget that bottle for Ollie,” Apicella calls after him.
Cone goes back to his office and calls the Hepplewaite brownstone. He’s in luck; Lucinda answers the phone.
“Miss Hepplewaite, this is Timothy Cone at Haldering and Company.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Cone. Do you want to talk to my mother?”
“No, I want to talk to you. In private. Can we meet somewhere?”
Silence. Then: “Is it about you-know-what?” she asks in a whisper.
“Yes,” Cone says, “it’s about you-know-what. Can you get out of the house for a few minutes?”
Long pause. Then faintly: “Maybe for a few minutes.”
“That’s all it’ll take. How about meeting me on the corner of Thirty-eighth and Madison in half an hour? If you’re late, don’t worry; I’ll wait.”
“All right,” she says in her wispy voice, “I’ll meet you there.”
He gets up to Madison and Thirty-eighth Street about five minutes early. It’s a snappy day with a sturdy westering wind and a brilliant sky. Cone stomps up and down, hands in pockets to keep his parka from flapping. He’s not wearing Samantha Whatley’s Christmas gift. Cleo is probably sleeping on the muffler right now.
Lucinda Hepplewaite comes flying down the block, loden cape billowing out behind her. Her long face is wrenched. She grips Cone’s arm.
“I hope you have good news for me,” she says breathlessly.
“I got lousy news for you. That boyfriend of yours—what’s his name?”
“He’s not my boyfriend; he’s my fiancé. And his name is Francis.”
“Yeah,” Cone says. “Well, you tell Francis to get his money out of Laboris Investments as fast as he can.”
“Oh, my God,” she says, then grimaces. She’s all teeth. “Is it that bad?”
“Bad enough.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure,” he says angrily. “But you asked me to tell you first if I found out anything, so I’m telling you: Laboris is going down the tube.”
They walk up and down: ten paces, turn, ten paces, turn. Lucinda has a stride as long as his. She’s huddling inside her loose cape. Once or twice she shivers. Cone figures it’s the cold; he doesn’t think she’s nervous or fearful.
Timothy Files Page 32
