Sullivan's sting

by Lawrence Sanders

  Whenever she tried to concentrate on the decisions facing her, that passionate sun made her muzzy and melted her resolve. She found her thoughts drifting, just sliding away, until her mind was a fog, and all she could do was groan with content and let the sun have her. But this time, determined not to become muddled, she sat up again, feet on the hot tiles. She turned off the radio and leaned forward, forearms on thighs, and reviewed her options as rationally as she could.

  She had no doubt that Tony Harker was speaking the truth when he said he loved her and wanted to marry her. That dear, sweet man could cleverly deceive the black hats he was hounding, but she was convinced that his dealings with her were frank, honest, open.

  No question about it: The guy would be a great husband. He'd work at it and do his damnedest to make a marriage succeed. He could be stuffy at times, but he wanted to change and was changing. Rita took some credit for that, but mostly it was Tony's own efforts that were making him less uptight. More human.

  But despite the thaw, he still represented Duty, with a capital D. He was a straight arrow and would never be anything else. If a conflict ever arose between his personal pleasure and the demands of his job, Rita knew which path he'd take.

  If Tony was good malt brew, David was champagne. It made Rita smile just to reflect on what a rogue he was. She knew all his faults, but she knew his virtues, too. He was generous, eternally optimistic, attentive to her needs, and loving. He was also the most beautiful man she had ever known, and that counted for something.

  She admitted he was a swindler, but did not agree with Harker's harsh condemnation of Rathbone as a sleazy crook, a shark, and possibly a drug dealer and counterfeiter. Those were heavy crimes and, Rita decided, totally out of character for David.

  It was also out of character for him to propose; she knew marriage played no part in his plans. The guy lived by his wits and had the typical con man's aversion to commitments. After his divorce, he was free, unencumbered by legal responsibilities, and he intended to stay that way.

  Both men were good in bed, but in different ways. Tony was all male. He was always there, solid and satisfying, if predictable. With David, she didn't know what to expect. Kinkiness was the norm with him and sometimes, during their lovemaking, he feverishly sought role reversal as if he needed desperately to surrender and be used. Punished?

  Rita lay back upon the chaise. She had sense enough to admit that neither man was totally or even mainly fascinated by her mental prowess or scintillating personality. She propped herself on her elbows, looked down at her tight, tawny body, at the sleek, black triangle, and wondered how long she could depend on that.

  43

  Termite Tommy climbed into the Bentley and put a battered briefcase on the floor.

  "Thirty grand in fifties," he said. "Queerest of the queer. Want to count it?"

  "Of course not," Rathbone said. "I trust you."

  "Going to stick it in banks?"

  "I've already opened four different accounts," David said. "I've got to keep each deposit under ten thousand. By the way, I had to make initial deposits of my own money to cover the minimum on checking accounts. My expenses come off the top. Okay?"

  "Sure. David, I think you better get this stuff in the banks as soon as possible. That nutsy German can't swear to how stable this batch of paper is."

  "How long do I have?"

  "Better figure two days tops."

  "All right, I'll deposit it first thing tomorrow morning."

  Termite Tommy lighted a cigarette. "How soon do you plan to cash in?"

  Rathbone shrugged and opened the windows. "A week or two."

  "That long?"

  "Tommy, I can't put money in one day and draw it out the next. Even a brainless banker would wonder what the hell was going on."

  "The problem is I need cash in a hurry. Legit cash. There's a payment due on that color laser copier, and the German and I have the shorts."

  "How much do you need?"

  "Ten grand."

  "By when?"

  "Yesterday. We've been stalling the guy who sold us the machine, but now he's threatening to repossess."

  "Ten thousand?" Rathbone repeated. "I'd advance it out of my own pocket if I had it, but right now I'm in a squeeze. Look, let me see if I can hit a couple of friends. If I can raise the ten, I'll give you a shout and you come down and pick it up."

  "I'd appreciate it," Tommy said. "I hate to put you in a bind, but I don't want to lose that copier."

  "Neither do I," David said. "Leave it to me; I'll raise the loot somehow."

  "Soon," the other man said, climbing out of the car. "The sooner the better."

  Rathbone watched him get into his pickup truck and drive away. Then he opened the briefcase and inspected the money. Tommy and Herman Weisrotte had done a good job weathering the bills, and none of the serial numbers were in sequence.

  He drove to the home of James Bartlett on Bayview. Jimmy opened the door wearing a lime-green golf shirt, lavender slacks, pink socks, white Reeboks.

  "You're a veritable rainbow," David said and held up the briefcase.

  "Got it?" Bartlett said. "Good. Let's go out to the pool. I have a pitcher of fresh lemonade and a bottle of port. Ever try port in lemonade?"

  "Never have."

  "Refreshing, and it's practically impossible to get stoned."

  They sat at an umbrella table, the briefcase on the tiles. Bartlett mixed them drinks in tall green glasses.

  Rathbone took a sip. "Nice," he said. "A little sweetish for me, but I like it."

  Jimmy kicked the scarred briefcase gently. "All there?" he asked.

  "I didn't count it, but I don't think they're playing games. The bills look good to me, but Tommy says the Kraut isn't sure how long the paper will last. He gives it two days."

  "No problem," Bartlett said. "My deposit at the Crescent in Boca is scheduled for tomorrow morning. After it's in the bank, I don't care what happens to it."

  They sat comfortably, sipping their drinks, watching sunlight dance over the surface of the pool. They could hear the drone of a nearby mower, and once a V of pelicans wheeled overhead.

  "By the way," Bartlett said, "the Corcoran brothers are back in town. They're ready."

  "Price still ten thousand?"

  Jimmy nodded. "They'll make it look good. Guy gets drunk, ends up in a canal. But we've got to figure a way to get him down here from Lakeland and finger him for the Corcorans."

  Rathbone stared at him. "I've got a way," he said. "Tommy needs a fast 10K. Says there's a payment due on the copying machine. You'll have the legit cash by tomorrow?"

  "Noon at the latest. The courier from Miami is coming tonight. Almost two hundred thousand. I sign for it. He leaves. I take out thirty grand in legit bills and replace them with this 30K of queer. Tomorrow morning I drive up to Boca and deliver the package to Mike Mulligan. He gives me a signed deposit slip. That's it."

  "All right," David said. "I'll call Tommy and tell him I've raised the ten thousand he needs. He comes down to Lauderdale, meets me at the Palace, and I hand over the ten grand. That's when the Corcorans pick him up and do their job. Their fee will be in Tommy's pocket. How does it play?"

  "Like Hamlet," Bartlett said. "I'm glad you're on my side. But what happens when Tommy doesn't return to Lakeland? The German will wonder what happened to him and worry about losing the machine."

  "I'll drive up there and snow him," David said. "I'll tell him Tommy got drunk, messed up, and is in the clink. He'll buy it. I'll give him ten grand for the machine and promise more to come. And I'll get him started on a new batch of the queer. Okay?"

  "Sounds good to me. Order fifty thousand in fifties and hundreds. I have a feeling this deal is going to work out just fine."

  "Can't miss."

  "Then why do you look so down?"

  "I guess it's because I've got to finger Tommy for the Corcorans."

  "It has to be done."

  "Sure," Rathbone said. "When are we going
to Miami to make a buy for the Fund?"

  "I'm working on it. The dealer I want to use is in Peru right now, but he's due back in a week or so."

  "How much do you think we'll have to pay?"

  "I'm hoping to get it for 13K per kilo. That would give the Fund a profit of ninety-seven thousand, five hundred on our first deal." "Beautiful," David said. "Will your guy take a check?"

  "I don't see why not; we're not asking immediate delivery. We have enough in the Fund's account to cover it, don't we?"

  "More than enough. Will he sign a contract?"

  "I think he will. We don't have the muscle to enforce it, but he doesn't know that. But contract or not, he'll make delivery. He's an honorable man."

  "We're all honorable men," Rathbone said, and they both laughed and poured more lemonade.

  44

  Henry Ullman was sticking close to Mike Mulligan in Boca. Four evenings a week he met the banker for drinks at the Navigator Bar amp; Grill. And on Saturday nights, Ullman took a bottle or two to Mulligan's pad, and they hoisted a few while waiting for the guests to arrive.

  Ullman figured the mousy banker had about a dozen women on the string. Some showed up alone, there were a few duos, and one trio: all reasonably clean and attractive, not too old, and marvelously complaisant after dipping into the toilet tank in Mulligan's bathroom.

  Henry wondered if, in the line of duty, he should be banging women zonked out of their gourds on high-quality coke. It was an ethical dilemma, and it bothered him for at least thirty seconds.

  He didn't have drinks at the Navigator with Mulligan on Friday evenings because on Fridays the Crescent was open till seven p.m. to cash paychecks and take deposits. Mike worked late, and Ullman spent the evening writing out his weekly report for Tony Harker. It was usually a brief, uneventful account, although Henry included the names of Mulligan's female guests and their addresses if he could discover them.

  Then, one Saturday night, just two days before Christmas, he showed up at Mulligan's apartment with two bottles of Korbel brut, and the weekly orgies came to a screeching halt.

  When the banker opened the door, he looked like death warmed over. His poplin suit had obviously been slept in, there were food stains on his vest and gray stubble on his chin. Even worse, the man was crying; fat tears were dripping down his cheeks onto his wrinkled lapels.

  "Mike," Ullman said, closing the door quickly behind him, "what in God's name is wrong?"

  Mulligan shook his head, said nothing, but collapsed onto the couch. He leaned forward, face in his hands, shuddering with sobs. Ullman took his champagne into the kitchen. The place was a mess: unwashed dishes, encrusted pans, a broken glass. The agent found a bottle of bourbon in the freezer. He poured a healthy jolt into a clean tumbler and brought it to the banker.

  "Come on, Mike," he said gently, "take a sip and tell me what's wrong."

  Mulligan took the drink with trembling hands and gulped it down. Then coughed and coughed. Ullman waited for the paroxysm to subside, then asked again, "What's wrong?"

  The other man wouldn't look at him; he just stared dully at the carpet. "I'm thirty thousand short at the bank," he said in a low voice.

  "And that's what knocked you for a loop? It's just a bookkeeping error, Mike; you'll find it."

  Mulligan shook his head. "It was a cash deposit. I signed for it without counting it. Then, last night, I discovered it was thirty thousand short."

  "I don't understand," Ullman said, but beginning to. "How much was the total deposit?"

  "Almost two hundred thousand."

  Ullman whistled, then put an arm across the man's

  thin shoulders. "Tell me all about it," he said softly. "I may be able to help."

  "I was just doing a favor for a close friend. I swear that's all it was."

  "So you accepted cash deposits over ten thousand and didn't report them?"

  "So much paperwork," Mulligan said. "Besides, we only held the funds for a short time and then they would go out in drafts."

  "But Crescent profited while the money was in the bank-right? Short-term paper? Overnight loans?"

  "Yes."

  "Who authorized the drafts? The depositor-your close friend?"

  "No. The president of the corporate account authorized the drafts."

  "Who was that?"

  "Mitchell Korne. It was just a name to me. I never met the man."

  "Who were the drafts paid to?"

  "Another bank."

  "Where?"

  "Panama."

  "How long has this been going on, Mike?"

  "Two years. At least."

  "You knew it was drug money?"

  Mulligan stared at him with the wide-eyed, innocent look of a guilty man. "I suspected but I had no proof. It could have been the cash proceeds from a real estate sale.''

  "Oh sure," Ullman said. "Or a yacht. Let's get back to your shortage. When was the deposit made?"

  "Yesterday morning."

  "In the lobby of the bank? Over the counter?"

  "No. Back door." "So the tellers didn't know about it?"

  "No."

  "Someone else in the bank must have known. Vice president? President?"

  "They knew, but they let me handle it."

  "I can imagine. All right, the two hundred grand was deposited at the back door of the bank yesterday morning and you signed for it without counting it."

  "It would have taken a long time. It was Friday and I was busy. Besides, previous deposits had always been accurate to the dollar."

  "How was the deposit made? I mean how was the cash delivered? In a shopping bag?"

  "A suitcase. A cheap vinyl suitcase."

  "What did you do with it-put it in the vault?"

  "No. I brought it home."

  "You did what?"

  "I couldn't leave it in the bank. The examiners are coming in first thing Tuesday morning, the day after Christmas."

  "Good enough reason. Where is the suitcase now?"

  "In the bedroom, under the bed."

  "No wonder you've got the jits. Mike, why don't you just tell your friend he was thirty thousand short and he'll have to come up with it."

  "He won't believe me. He'll say all his previous deposits were accurate. He'll say I signed for the total amount. He'll say I have to make up the loss."

  "So? You have thirty thousand in liquid assets, don't you? And if you don't, the bank does. If Crescent's top brass is in on this, they won't squeal too loud."

  "Don't you think I've thought of that? But what if we keep getting shortchanged on the deposits?" "There's an easy answer to that: Tell your friend to get lost."

  Mulligan lowered his head. "I can't do that."

  "Why not?" Ullman said. "Because he's got you by the short hair? Because for two years he's been paying you off with that white stuff you keep in your toilet tank?"

  The banker's head snapped up. His mouth opened; he stared at Ullman, horrified. "You're from the police, aren't you?" he said.

  "Sure I am," the agent said cheerfully. "But that doesn't mean I don't like you. I really want to help you."

  "You just want to put me in jail."

  "Nah. You're more valuable out. Look, if you cooperate maybe we can cut a deal. You'll get a fine and probation. Your career as a banker will be over, but you won't be behind bars with all those swell people. That's worth something, isn't it?"

  "When you say cooperate, I suppose you want me to name my friend, the man who made the deposits."

  "James Bartlett?" Ullman said casually. "No, you won't have to name him."

  Mulligan gasped. "How did you know?"

  "You just told me. What do you say, Mike? Will you play along?"

  "I don't have much choice, do I?"

  "Not much. Now you go take a quick shower, shave, and put on fresh clothes. Then I'm going to drive you down to Fort Lauderdale to meet a couple of men you can deal with.''

  "It'll be late," Mulligan objected. "They'll probably be asleep."

/>   "I'll wake them up," Ullman promised.

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "Let's just call it protective custody. Now go get cleaned up."

  "May I have another drink?"

  "No. You'll want a clear head when you start talking to save your skin."

  Mulligan went stumbling into the bathroom. Ullman went into the bedroom and dragged the vinyl suitcase from under the bed. He snapped it open and took out all those lovely bundles of twenties, fifties, and hundreds bound with manila wrappers. He stacked them neatly on the bed, then peered into the emptied suitcase. What he saw made him happy: a layer of confetti that felt oily to the touch.

  He left the fluff there, repacked the currency, and closed the suitcase. Mike Mulligan, showered and shaved, came into the bedroom to dress. Ullman took the suitcase into the living room. Then he went into the bathroom and lifted the jar of glassine envelopes from the toilet tank. He took that into the kitchen and found a shopping bag under the sink. He put the cocaine in the bag and added his two bottles of champagne. He went back into the living room, poured himself a shot of bourbon, and sipped slowly.

  They were ready to leave a half-hour later. Mulligan carried the shopping bag, and Ullman lugged the suitcase of cash. The banker carefully locked his front door, and then they waited for the elevator. The door slid open. Pearl and Opal Longnecker got out and stared with astonishment at the two men.

  Ullman smiled at the sisters. "The party's over, ladies," he said.

  45

  They spent a quiet New Year's, recovering from the noisy party at the Palace Lounge the previous night. It was a gray, sodden day; there was no sunning on the terrace. They read newspapers and magazines, watched a little television, lunched on cold cuts and potato salad. Both were subdued, conversing mostly in monosyllables, until finally David said, "The hell with resolutions; let's have a Bloody Mary."

  "Let's," Rita said, and they did.

  After that they perked up and began discussing all the outrageous things that had happened at the New Year's Eve party. Frank Little had dragged Trudy Bartlett under the table, and Nancy Sparco had to be restrained by her husband from completing a striptease atop the table.