Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  It was close to midnight when he rose, strapped on a hip holster with a.38 Police Special, and checked a little two-shot derringer he carried in an ankle pouch. Estelle watched these preparations without asking questions.

  "A little business," he told her. "Should be back in an hour or two. You go on to bed."

  "You know I won't," she said. 4'Listen, you get yourself killed, and I'm not going to bury you, I swear it. I'll prop you up on the couch in front of the TV until you just turn to dust. Then I'll sweep you out-y'hear? You remember that."

  "I surely will, mommy dearest," he said, grinning.

  He drove back to Copans Road, past the FL Sports Equipment layout. He parked on the shoulder across the street and sauntered back. He stood in the shadow of a big bottle palm, watching the activity.

  Floodlights were on, the gate of the chain-link fence was open, and a big white semi was parked alongside the warehouse. At least four men were carrying cardboard cartons from the warehouse and loading them into the trailer. Frank Little and another guy, a mastodon, stood to one side watching the loading. Little had a clipboard and was apparently keeping a tally.

  Slumped against his tree, Fortescue observed the action for almost an hour. He counted at least fifty cartons. Then the truck doors were slammed and locked. Three men got into the cab, and the semi began to back slowly onto Copans Road. That's when Fortescue got a good look at the legend painted on the side: siena

  moving amp; storage. new york-new jersey.

  The investigator strolled back to his Volvo and drove home. Estelle was still awake, watching an old movie on TV. She looked up when he came in.

  "You again?" she said. "Have a good time?"

  "A million laughs," he assured her.

  He went into the kitchen and called the night number. It was after two in the morning, but the phone was picked up almost immediately.

  "Harker. Who's this?"

  "Fortescue. Look, you're from New York, aren't you?"

  "That's right."

  "Ever hear of Siena Moving and Storage? They operate in the New York-New Jersey area."

  There was a brief silence. Then: "I've heard of them. The outfit is owned by one of the Mafia families in Manhattan."

  "My, my," Roger Fortescue said. "Those bentnoses must play a lot of baseball."

  10

  It was starting out to be a great season: balmy days and one-blanket nights. The tourists lolled on the sand, groaning with content, and later showed up at Holy Cross Emergency with second-degree burns. That noonday sun was a tropical scorcher, but the snowbirds bared their pallid pelts and wanted more.

  Rathbone took the sun in small, disciplined doses, before eleven a.m. and after three p.m. And he spread his body with sunblock. Rita Sullivan was out on the terrace every chance she got, slick with baby oil, getting darker and darker.

  "The back of the bus for you," David said, laughing. But he loved it, loved the contrast between her cordovan and his bronzy gold.

  Then, one day at breakfast, he said to her, "Ready for that little job I told you about?"

  "I'll never be readier."

  "We'll leave at ten-thirty."

  She showed up in the same pink linen jumpsuit she had worn to Tony Harker's motel.

  "Nice cut," Rathbone said, inspecting her. "But I told you I don't like those sorbet colors on you."

  "Want me to change?"

  "No. Where did you buy it?"

  "At Hunneker's." "How much?"

  "About two hundred with tax," she said.

  "You still have the sales check?"

  "I guess so. Why? Are you going to return it?"

  "Not exactly. How did they wrap it when you bought it?"

  "What's this-Twenty Questions?"

  "Come on," he said, "how was it wrapped?"

  "In tissue paper and then put in a Hunneker's bag. A plastic bag."

  "Still got the bag?"

  "Yes."

  "Get it and the sales check. I'll meet you downstairs and we'll get this show on the road. We'll take your car."

  They drove over to Pompano Fashion Square and found a slot in the crowded parking lot.

  "Stay in the car," Rathbone ordered, "but keep the doors locked. I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes or so. What floor did you buy the jumpsuit on?"

  "The second. Sportswear."

  He headed directly for Hunneker's, the plastic bag and sales check folded flat in his jacket pocket. The store had big plate-glass windows with gilt lettering: j.b. hunneker's. satisfaction guaranteed or your money cheerfully refunded.

  He took the escalator to the second floor and wandered about until he located the Sportswear department. It didn't take long to find a rack of jumpsuits exactly like the one Rita was wearing. He looked about casually. Then, finding himself unobserved, he took a pink jumpsuit off the rack, folded it into the plastic Hunneker's bag, and approached the service desk.

  "I'm sorry," he said to the woman behind the

  counter, "but I bought this for a birthday gift, and my wife doesn't like the color."

  "What a shame," she said. "Would you like to exchange it for another color?"

  "No, I think I better let her come in and pick out what she wants. Could I get a refund, please. Here's my sales check."

  He was back in the car in fifteen minutes. He told Rita what he had done, and she laughed.

  "You don't miss a trick, do you?"

  "Not if I can help it. I'm certainly not going to shell out two hundred for something I don't like."

  "Do I get the money?"

  "I think not," he said. "You keep your jumpsuit and I'll keep my money. It's a win-win game-the kind I like. Now move over and let me drive."

  He maneuvered the Chevy out of the parking lot and turned northward on Federal Highway.

  "We're going to a bookstore on Sample Road near 1-95," he told her.

  "Oh? Going to shoplift a couple of books?"

  "No," he said, "I'm not into boosting. This is an interesting place. It's owned by a man named Irving Donald Gevalt. He deals only in rare books and antique manuscripts."

  "And he makes a living from this?"

  "He owns two motels, a fast-food franchise, and three condos on the beach. But he didn't get all that from pushing rare books; he's got a very profitable sideline. He's in the game, and all the sharks call him ID Gevalt. He's the best paperman in south Florida. Social Security cards, driver's licenses, military discharges, voter registrations, passports, visas-you name it and ID can supply it. That's why we're going to visit him, to fix you up with an identification package for that little job you're going to do for me."

  She turned to look at him. "Hey, wait a minute. You didn't say anything about forged papers. I don't like that.''

  "They're not forged," Rathbone said. "Everything ID Gevalt handles is strictly legit. That's why he gets top dollar."

  "So where does he get the documents-from stiffs?"

  "Sort of. He's got freelancers working for him in a dozen cities. They go through old newspapers in their hometowns and clip out items about infants and little kids who died twenty, thirty, forty years ago. They send the name, address, and date of birth to Gevalt. He writes to the Department of Birth Records in those cities, requesting a copy of the dead kid's birth certificate. Costs him from two to ten bucks, and they never ask what he wants it for. So now he's got a legitimate birth certificate of someone who's been dead for years. The certificate is the key. With that Gevalt can get a Social Security card, voter's registration, even a driver's license, by hiring someone to take the test under the name on the Certificate."

  "A slick operation.";

  "Like silk. How old are you, Rita-about thirty-five?"

  "That's close enough."

  "So we'll buy you a package of identification for a white female about thirty-five years old."

  "And what do I do with that?"

  "Tell you later. Here we are."

  The Gevalt Rare Book Center was located over a shop that insta
lled domed plastic ceilings for condo kitchens and bathrooms. There was a steep outside staircase leading to the second floor. The center was a dusty jumble of books, magazines, newspapers. It was comfortably air-conditioned, but smelled mildewy.

  "David!" the old man said, coming forward with an outstretched hand. "Good to see you again!"

  "ID," Rathbone said, shaking the proffered paw gently. "You're looking well."

  "Liar," the geezer said. "But I'm surviving. And who is this lovely lady?"

  "A dear friend. Rita, meet the famous Irving Donald Gevalt."

  The gaffer bent creakingly to kiss her hand. "Famous, no," he said. "Notorious, possibly. Rita, you are a sylph."

  "I hope that's good," she said.

  "The best," Gevalt assured her. "The very best. David, this is a social call?"

  "Not exactly. I need a package for Rita. Birth certificate, Social Security, driver's license. And any extras you might have."

  The old man pushed up his green eyeshade and stared at Rita through rheumy eyes. "Middle-thirties," he guessed. "Could be Hispanic. I think I have something that will just fit the bill. Excuse me a moment, please."

  He shuffled slowly into a back room, closing the door carefully behind him.

  Rita looked around at the stacks of books and journals. "Does he ever sell any of this stuff?"

  "Occasionally," David said. "Mostly by mail order. It's a good front. And he knows the rare book business. I heard he's got the world's best private collection of Edgar Allan Poe first editions and original manuscripts."

  Gevalt was back in a few minutes with a worn manila envelope. "Gloria Ramirez," he said, "from San Antonio, Texas. I think Gloria will do splendidly. Would you care to inspect?"

  "Of course not," Rathbone said. "I know the quality of your work. The usual, ID?"

  "Ah, I am afraid not. With this dreadful inflation, I have been forced, regrettably, to raise my fees. Two Ks, David."

  Rathbone took out his stuffed money clip and extracted the two thousand in hundred-dollar bills. "A business expense," he said, shrugging. "I'll write it off as entertainment."

  "Of course,'' Gevalt said with a gap-toothed grin.' 'That is what life is all about-entertainment. Am I right?"

  The door to the back room opened, and a young blonde, no more than nineteen, stood posed, hip-sprung. She was wearing a tiny black bikini that seemed to be all fringe.

  "Lunch is ready, daddy," she said.

  "In a moment," Gevalt said, and led the way to the outside door. "Do come back again, David, and you also, Rita. Not only for business, but just to visit."

  In the car, Rita looked at him with a mocking smile. "You certainly didn't miss the daughter," she said.

  "I noticed her," David admitted. "But she's not his daughter; she's his wife."

  "You're kidding!"

  "Scout's honor. That's what life is all about- entertainment. Am I right?"

  On the drive back to the town house, he explained to Rita what the first part of her new job would entail. She would drive up to Boca Raton and, at the Crescent Bank on Glades Road, open an interest-bearing checking account under the name of Gloria Ramirez, depositing the minimum required.

  "The bank officer to see is Mike Mulligan," Rathbone told her. "Give him a phony home address in Boca and say you work at the Boca Mall. Jimmy Bart-lett has this Mulligan on the pad, and he'll be tipped off to approve your application without investigating your references. Got it?"

  "Sure," Rita said. "See Mike Mulligan at the Crescent Bank on Glades Road in Boca and open a checking account in the name of Gloria Ramirez. That's all?"

  "For now."

  "I don't suppose you want to tell me what this is all about?"

  "You're right; I don't. But it's for your own protection. If the deal turns sour, you can always claim you know nothing about it and were just doing a favor for a friend."

  "Uh-huh. Why do I have a feeling you're playing me for a patsy?"

  "I'd never do that," David said. "If I thought there was any real risk, I'd never ask you to do it. I want you around for a long time. And now I'm going to drop you at the town house and switch to the Bentley. I have a lunch date with a potential client."

  "He or she?"

  "He. A retired professor who I hear has more bucks than brains."

  "David, how do you find these mooches?"

  "I have steerers all over south Florida. Sometimes Jimmy Bartlett hears of a good prospect through his bank contacts. Sometimes Ellen St. Martin gives me the name of someone who's just moved down here and is looking to spend big money on a house or condo. If I land the fish, I always pay a finder's fee. What are you going to do this afternoon?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I'll go down to the beach for a few hours."

  "I wish you wouldn't," he said. "There are a lot of sleazes cruising the beach looking to score off a single woman."

  "David! You're worried about me! Don't give it a second thought, honey; I can take care of myself."

  "Just carry your gun-all right?"

  "Okay, I'll carry my gun, and I won't talk to beach bums. I'll even wear a one-piece suit. Satisfied?"

  "With your body it doesn't matter if you wear a bikini or a raincoat; you're still going to attract attention."

  "David, do you think I have a better body than Gevalt's wife?"

  "You make her look like a boy."

  "Flattery will get you everywhere. Hurry back from your lunch and we'll have us a matinee."

  "Yes," he said, "I'd love that."

  After Rathbone took off in the Bentley, Rita went into the kitchen and had lunch with Blanche and Theodore. They all shared a big shrimp salad and drank beer. Theodore told her how David landed Birdie Winslow as a client by staging a fake cocktail party with the Palace Lounge crowd masquerading as richniks. Everyone had a good laugh.

  Rita put on a white maillot and used one of David's shirts as a coverup. She took her beach bag and told Blanche she'd be back in an hour or so. She walked eastward, crossing A1A. But she didn't join the crowd heading for the beach. She went into a hotel lobby, bought a pack of cigarettes and asked for two dollars' worth of quarters.

  She found a public phone and called her special number. Tony Harker answered and had her wait a moment until he connected a tape recorder to his phone. Then she started talking.

  11

  Crockett gave the new man the orientation lecture on the need and purpose of the supra-agency. Henry Ull-man, borrowed from the Treasury Department, listened politely, his meaty features revealing nothing. Then, when Crockett finished, he said, "Why me?"

  "Because," the chief said, "the personnel computer spit you out. You did time with the Federal Home Loan Bank Board, didn't you?"

  "That's right. Six years as examiner. Working out of San Francisco. But I got tired of crunching numbers and wangled a transfer to the Secret Service."

  "Counterfeiting?"

  "No," Ullman said with a sour grin, "jogging. I was assigned to the Vice President, and that guy never stops jogging. Rain, sleet, snow-he's out there at seven every morning, with me puffing along behind him."

  Crockett stared at him. "You look like you could keep up. Ever play any football?"

  "Nah. I was big enough but not fast enough. I'll be reporting to you?"

  "Not directly. Your immediate supervisor will be Anthony Harker. He's right down the hall. You better check in with him now; he's expecting you. Good luck." "Sure," Ullman said, hauling his bulk off the little folding chair.

  In Harker's office the two agents introduced themselves and shook hands. Tony looked up at the Treasury man.

  "About six-four and two-fifty?" he guessed.

  "More or less," Ullman said. "I call you Mr. Harker?"

  "Tony will do."

  "Hank for me. What's this all about?"

  Harker took several clipped pages from his top desk drawer and handed them over. "Take a look at this. It's a transcript of a taped telephone conversation called in by an undercover agent, a woman, w
e planted with the main villain, a guy named David Rathbone."

  Ullman scanned the pages swiftly, then tossed them onto the desktop.

  "You read it?" Tony said, amazed.

  "Yeah. I took a speed-reading course. It's a big help. You want me to get the poop on this David Rathbone?"

  "No, he's covered. Your target is James Bartlett, a man who seems to know a lot about banks. I want a complete rundown."

  "Shouldn't be too difficult. I still have some good contacts in the bank biz. Do I get an office?"

  "Afraid not. We're cramped for space as it is. You'll have to settle for a desk and phone in the bullpen."

  "I'll manage," the investigator said.

  The first thing Henry Ullman did was to go shopping for clothes. He had come down from D.C. wearing a three-piece, navy blue, pin-striped suit, and he saw at once it might attract a lot of unwanted attention in south Florida. So he bought four knitted polo shirts in pink, lavender, kelly green, and fire-engine red; two pairs of jeans, khaki and black; and a polyester sports jacket in a hellish plaid.

  He went back to his motel room to change and inspected himself in a full-length mirror. "Jesus!" he said. Then he went back to the office and started making phone calls. He worked until almost midnight, then found a steakhouse on the Waterway and treated himself to a twenty-four-ounce rare sirloin, baked potato, double portion of fried onion rings, and two bottles of Molson ale.

  On the second day he looked up James Bartlett in the Pompano Beach phone directory. None listed. But there was one in the Fort Lauderdale directory and Ull-man hoped that was his pigeon. To make sure, he changed back into his vested pinstripe and drove out to Bay view Drive in his rented Plymouth.

  He whistled when he saw the homes in that neighborhood: big, sprawling places with a lot of lawn, palm trees, and usually a boat on a trailer sitting in front of a three-car garage. There were gardeners and swimming-pool maintenance men at work, and the parked cars Ullman saw were Cadillacs, Mercedeses, and top-of-the-line Audis. He figured no one who lived on that stretch of Bay view was drawing food stamps.

  He parked, locked the Plymouth, and marched up to the front door of the Bartlett residence. When he pushed the button, there was no bell, but melodious chimes sounded out "Shave and a haircut, two bits."