"I just got paid at Coe's boiler room. Do I gotta turn in the moaney to this organization or what?"
"I asked Crockett. He says you'll have to turn in the money. Sorry."
"Hokay," Suarez said.
"By the way," Harker said, "how much did you make?"
"Almost three hundred," Suarez said, and bopped out to his car, snapping his fingers and smiling at all the women he passed.
He stopped at a few stores before returning to the home of the Cuban lady where he was staying. She was nicely put together. And she seemed muy simpatica. Manny bought five pounds of barbecued ribs, a liter of light Puerto Rican rum, and drove homeward whistling "Malaguena."
On Monday morning there were new scripts on all the yaks' desks. They were no longer peddling platinum. Now they were to push shares of stock in something called the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. One dollar per share; 1,000 shares minimum. Suarez picked up his phone and went to work.
23
On his way to Birdie Winslow's condo, David Rathbone stopped at a florist on Atlantic Boulevard. The place was crowded, with two clerks trimming and wrapping flowers at a back counter.
Just inside the door was a display of lavender mums. They were bunched by the dozen with maidenhair, each bouquet held by a rubber band. The sign read: $20 per dozen. Glancing at the busy clerks to make certain he was unobserved, Rathbone selected a bouquet, then slipped a single mum from another bunch and added it to his selection. He took the thirteen flowers to the desk, had them wrapped in green tissue, paid the $20 plus tax, and was on his way.
Mrs. Winslow met him at the door of her apartment clad in a paisley muumuu that hid her lumpish body. David proffered his bouquet.
"A dozen mums!" she cried. "How divineV
"Baker's dozen," he said, smiling. "About an eight-point-four percent return on investment."
"What?" she said, puzzled. "Well, they're lovely, and I thank you for them. But you've been a naughty, naughty boy. You haven't called me once, and I thought you had just forgotten little old me."
"No chance of that," he said, touching her cheek.
"But I've been to Europe since I saw you last and came home to a deskful of work."
She motioned toward the couch, then took the mums into the kitchen. She returned with the flowers in a crystal vase half-filled with water.
"Don't they look divine?" she said. "Lavender is one of my favorite colors. Now where shall I put them?"
He glanced around. He couldn't blame her for the way the apartment was furnished since it was a rented condo, but the decoration was really horrendous, the upholstery and wallpaper all fuchsia poppies and bilious green palm fronds.
"Perhaps on top of the TV set," he suggested.
She placed the vase there and stood back to admire the effect. "Sooo pretty," she murmured. Then: "I made a pitcher of your favorite-vodka gimlets."
"Just what I was hoping for."
She brought him a warm drink in a small glass with one lone ice cube. He sipped and decided it had to be the worst vodka gimlet he had ever tasted, so limey that it puckered his lips.
"Delicious," he said. "Aren't you having any?"
"A diet cola for me," she caroled. "I've been trying so hard to lose weight."
"Oh Birdie," he said, "you're not too heavy. You're like my gimlet-just right."
"Thank you, kind sir," she simpered, brought her drink and sat close to him on the couch.
He lifted his glass in a toast. "Here's to health and wealth," he said.
"And love," Mrs. Winslow said, looking at him through her false lashes. "Don't forget love."
He set his drink on the glass-topped cocktail table.
"Birdie, I hope you've been getting your statements regularly."
"Yes, I have, and that's something I want to talk to you about."
"Is anything wrong?"
"Well, my next-door neighbor has an account with Merrill Lynch, and he says that every time he buys something or sells something he gets a confirmation slip. Should I be getting confirmation slips, David?"
"None of my clients ask for them, but you can certainly have them if you wish. I just didn't want to flood you with a lot of unnecessary paper. After all, the purchases and sales I make on your behalf show up every month on your statement."
"That's true. So you don't think I need confirmations?"
"Not really. Just more paper to file away and forget."
"I suppose you're right. I can't tell you how pleased I am with the way my money has grown."
"And it's going to do even better," he said. "Why, just this morning I got a tip from a friend on Wall Street about a new commodity trading fund that's being organized. If we get in on the ground floor, I can practically guarantee a fifty-percent return."
"Oh David, that is exciting!"
He finished his drink manfully. But it did him no good; she brought him another.
"Now let's forget about business for a while," she said, "and just relax. It's been so long since we've been together. I hope you don't have to rush off."
"Not immediately," he said. "But I do have an appointment in about an hour."
"Plenty of time," she assured him. She rose, held her hand out to him. "I bought a new clock-radio for the bedroom," she said. "Would you like to see it?"
She was naked under the muumuu and smelled of patchouli. But in situations like this-and he had experienced many-he resolutely closed his mind to physical stimuli, or the absence thereof, and concentrated only on the profits this suppliant woman represented. Then he was able to perform competently, his mind detached and calculating.
He left her lolling on the rumpled sheets. He dressed swiftly, kissed her cheek, and murmured, "Divine!" Then he drove home, windows open, gulping the salty sea air. Back in the town house, he gargled, brushed his teeth, and showered. He hoped he merely imagined that the scent of patchouli still clung to him.
He mixed a decent vodka gimlet, a double in a tall tumbler with plenty of ice and fresh lime. He carried it upstairs to the terrace. It was a warm day but cloudy, with rumblings of thunder westward. He hoped for a driving rain that might wash everything clean and leave the world shining.
He was still on the terrace, a few fat drops beginning to splatter, when Rita returned.
"You're going to get soaked," she warned. "It was pouring at the Pompano Mall."
"I won't melt," he said. "Did you ever walk through puddles when you were a kid?"
"No, and I never toasted marshmallows. I had a deprived childhood. I'm going to take a shower."
"I'll mix us drinks and bring them to your bedroom."
"That's a good boy," she said.
When he brought the drinks up from the kitchen she was still in her bathroom, the shower running. He sat on the edge of her bed, sipped his gimlet. He knew that in a few moments he would be the supplicant, a reversal of the roles he and Mrs. Winslow had played, and he wondered idly if love might be a lose-lose game.
Rita came out of the bathroom dripping, wiping her shoulders and arms. She handed him the towel and turned. Obediently he dried her back, with long, slow strokes.
"Guess what," she said. "I was wandering through the Mall, just looking around, and I bumped into an old girlfriend I haven't seen in years. Claire McDonald. We used to party together in Tallahassee. We had lunch together and talked over old times."
She took the damp towel from his hand and tossed it onto the floor. Then she sat down next to him on the bed, picked up her drink, took a sip.
"Claire looked like she had won the lottery: dressed to kill, her fingers covered with rocks. The real stuff, too. She told me this older guy was sponsoring her. 'Sponsoring.' I never heard it called that, did you?"
"Never did," Rathbone said, smiling.
"Anyway, her guy owns two restaurants in the Orlando area, so I guess he's got mucho dinero. They drove down to scout a location in Lauderdale for a new restaurant. She says he put her on the payroll of his company as a secretary; the corporati
on pays her salary. So the money he gives her doesn't come out of his pocket, it just reduces his corporate income tax. David, could you do that? Make me a secretary in your company? That way you wouldn't have to give me your own money. It would just be a business expense."
"Well, that's one way of looking at it," Rathbone said. "But by paying her a salary, he's also reducing
his corporation's after-tax income. So one way or another, she's costing him."
"So you don't want to hire me as your private secretary?"
"Afraid not," he said, laughing. "But I'm willing to sponsor you."
They put their drinks aside. He took off his robe and they slid into bed. The thunder was closer, then overhead, then dwindling away. But it was raining heavily, streaming down the windows. The room was filled with a faint ocher light, dim and secret.
She let him do all the things that she knew pleasured him. She lay almost indolent, staring at the fogged windows, until her body roused. Then she closed her eyes, listened to the rain and the sounds he was making. Finally she heard nothing but the thump of her own heart, and cried out. But he would not stop, or could not, and she suffered him gladly.
At last he emerged panting from under the sheet, his hair tousled, a wild, frightened look in his eyes.
"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.
She smiled, took his face in her hands, kissed his smeared lips.
"Let's do it again, lover," she said.
He managed a small smile, then got out of bed and stalked naked about the darkened room, hands on his hips.
"I thought I might die," he said.
"Die? From what?"
^It was too much. I couldn't stop."
"No one dies from too much love."
"I was afraid I was hurting you."
"You didn't. I'm a tough girl."
"I know. Do you need anything?" "Like what?"
"Kleenex? A washcloth?"
"Nope. I like the way I feel. Now, stop pacing and come over here."
He stood alongside the bed. She leaned to him.
"Now it's my turn," she said.
Within minutes he was shuddering and sobbing. She was tender-cruel and would not let him move away until he surrendered, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then he collapsed facedown across the bed.
"I died and I was born again," he said. "And then I died and was born again."
"That's the way to do it," she said. "Don't ever stop halfway."
He reached under the sheet, grasped her left foot, pulled it to his lips, kissed the instep. Then he looked up at her. "Don't ever leave me, Rita."
"Why should I do that? It's hard to find a sponsor like you." She saw the focus in his eyes change. "Why are you looking at me like that? A penny for your thoughts."
"They're worth more than that. I just had a great idea. I don't want to put you on my payroll, but I know how you can make a steady salary."
"Pushing your queer checks?"
"No, that seam's on hold. But the Palace gang and I are starting a new business, and we'll need a secretary."
"Yeah? What kind of business?"
"It's an investment company. Ellen St. Martin is looking for office space for us. We'll need someone to answer the phone and type a few letters. You can type, can't you?"
"Oh sure. Hunt and peck." "Good enough. How about it? Would you like an office job?"
"Does it mean I'll have to sit behind a desk eight hours a day?"
"Nah. We'll get you an answering machine, so you can come and go as you please."
"Sounds good," she said.
"To me, too. Because your salary won't be coming out of my pocket; just one-fifth of it."
"You think the other guys will go for it? Hiring me, I mean."
"Sure they will. We'll have an office and a secretary; everything on the up-and-up."
"What's this new business called?"
"The Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. Like it?"
"Love it," she said.
24
Simon Clark still resented what he considered a demotion to Florida. In the Chicago office of the U.S. Attorney he had been an executive, a man of substance. He rarely had been personally involved in outside inquiries. He sat at a desk, collected and assimilated reports from detectives, analyzed evidence, prepared briefs, obtained arrest warrants, and finally represented the DA's office in court.
Now he was being called upon to assume the role of what he had scathingly called a "gumshoe." But to his surprise, he found he was enjoying it. The investigation of Mortimer Sparco's discount brokerage required the talents of an actor, and nothing in Clark's education or experience had prepared him for the job. But his ego was not small, and he grudgingly accepted the fact that to nail Sparco, he had to prove himself the more accomplished liar.
There was no difficulty in obtaining sting money from Lester Crockett's office. The $10,000 was deposited in a local bank suggested by Crockett. It took less than a week to obtain a book of blank checks imprinted with Clark's name.
Meanwhile, he had another meeting with Sparco, and on his recommendation bought two different dollar stocks, neither of which was listed on any exchange.
One company, according to the broker, had developed an electronic booster for solar cells, and the other, Sparco claimed, was about to market a revolutionary remedy for baldness. The purchase of the two stocks almost depleted Clark's bank account.
Then Sparco called his hotel and asked him to drop by to hear "some really sensational news." When Clark arrived, the broker took him into his private office and announced he had sold out both stock positions, and Clark had a profit of slightly more than $3,000.
"Why, that's wonderful!" the investigator said. "You're certainly doing a bang-up job. I had no idea I could make so much money so quickly. I hope you have more suggestions as good."
Sparco looked about cautiously, then lowered his voice. "I have a special deal I'm restricting to a select list of clients. Even my account executives don't know about it. Look, there's a restaurant across the street called the Grand Palace. It has a bar in the back that should be deserted this time of day. Why don't we go over there for a drink and a private talk. This investment opportunity is so hot I don't even want to mention it in the office. The walls have ears, you know."
Sparco told the receptionist he'd be right back, and then they dodged through traffic on Commercial Boulevard and entered the Palace Lounge through the side door. They were the only customers, and Ernie brought their drinks to a rear table tucked into a shadowed corner.
"Do you know anything about commodities?" Sparco asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
"Commodities?" Clark said. "You mean like corn, wheat, soybeans?"
"Exactly. Well, about a week ago, a new, SEC-approved investment vehicle was organized on Wall Street. It's callea the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. I heard about it through a close friend. The man running the Fund is a genius in commodity trading. A geniusl He's made a lot of people multimillionaires, and now he's decided to do the same thing for himself. He's keeping a controlling interest, of course, but through my friend I was able to tie up a limited number of shares. Not as many as I wanted because when this fund is announced publicly, the share value will double overnight. At least! It's your chance to get in on the ground floor."
It was an impressive spiel and, Simon Clark reflected, shattered at least three regulations governing the sale of securities.
"The only problem," Sparco went on, "is that because of the limited number of shares I was able to get at the initial offering price, I had to set $50,000 as a minimum investment. I have one package left. Do you think you can swing it?"
"Gee, I don't know," Clark said. "I really don't have that much ready cash."
"Uh-huh," Sparco said, glancing at his watch. "Didn't you tell me your parents live down here?"
"That's right. They have a home in Plantation."
"Think your father would be willing to loan you the money? Just for a short time until
you take your profits."
"To tell you the truth, I don't think he has that much cash available. Everything he owns is tied up in his home and long-term government bonds."
"He could get a home-equity loan," Sparco said, looking at his watch again. "The bank doesn't have to know what it's really for. He can tell them home improvements, and they'll accept that."
"I can ask him," Clark said. "You're positive this is a sure thing?"
"Can't miss," Sparco said. "I've been in business fifteen years, and this is the hottest-"
The side door of the Lounge banged open, and a short, stout man came bustling in. He paused until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Then he looked around, spotted the two men at the rear table, and rushed over.
"Mort," he said, "you've got to get me another 50K of that commodity fund. I just heard that the price of shares in the secondary market is already up thirty percent and-"
Sparco rose and put a finger to his lips. "Shhh, Jimmy," he said. "Not so loud. Mr. Clark, this is James Bartlett, a valued client. Jimmy, this gentleman is Simon Clark. We were just discussing the Fund."
"Grab it," Bartlett said to Clark, shaking his hand. "And if you don't want it, I do. Mort, you've got to get me more."
"I'll do my best," Sparco said. "Call me in the morning and I'll let you know."
"I'm depending on you!" Bartlett cried. "Nice to have met you, Mr. Clark." And he scurried out.
Sparco smiled. "Jimmy's a banking consultant and knows a good deal when he sees one. How about it, Mr. Clark? Think you can get your father to take out a home-equity loan? It's the last package of Fund shares I have available, and I'd hate to see you miss out on a dynamite opportunity like this."
Clark considered a moment. "I'll convince my father," he said finally. "Can I call you later today?"
"Anytime before five o'clock. If you haven't called by then, I'll have to give it to someone else. Bartlett isn't the only client begging for more."
They left the Palace Lounge, shook hands, and separated. Sparco returned to his brokerage. When he walked into his office, James Bartlett was seated on the leather couch smoking a fat cigar.
Sullivan's sting Page 11
