"Great party," David said. "I'm going to miss those people."
"Miss them? Are you going somewhere?"
"Eventually," he said, smiling. "And so are you." He glanced at his watch. "But right now I have a business meeting. Shouldn't be gone for more than an hour or so."
"You'll be home for dinner? Blanche made a veal casserole for us."
"I'll be back in plenty of time," he assured her.
"If you're going to be late," she said, "give me a call. The phones are working fine now."
"What was wrong-did the repairman say?"
"A short at the junction box, or so he claimed. Whatever it was, he fixed it and checked all the phones.""
"Good. Lend me your car keys, will you? The Bentley's low on gas and nothing will be open today."
He drove Rita's white Corsica. It was only five o'clock, but the waning day was gloomy, and he had to switch on the wipers to keep the windshield clear of mist. He had deliberately picked this particular day and this particular time, figuring the gang would be home recovering from the party. And when he walked into the Palace Lounge through the side entrance, he was happy to see only Ernie, behind the bar and washing glasses used the night before. David swung onto a bar-stool.
"Happy New Year, Mr. Rathbone," Ernie said. "I'm surprised you're still alive. I didn't think you'd wake up for a week."
"Happy New Year, Ernie, and I feel fine. Mix me the usual, please. That was a dynamite party."
"I should do that much business every night," the bartender said.
He went back to his chores. Rathbone reached into his inside jacket pocket to make sure the envelope was there. Then he lighted a cigarette and sipped his vodka gimlet. Now that the time had come, he found he was calm, acting normally, hands steady.
He had just started his second gimlet when two men came in through the side entrance. Rathbone inspected them in the bar mirror. They matched Bartlett's description of the Corcoran brothers: short and burly with reddish hair cut in Florida flattops. Both were wearing cotton plaid sports jackets over black T-shirts. They took a corner table, and one of them came over to the bar.
"Beer," he said curtly.
"They almost cleaned me out last night," Ernie apologized. "All I got left is Miller's."
The man nodded. "Two bottles," he said.
He paid, then carried the bottles and glasses back to the table. The brothers sat stolidly, drinking their beers, not conversing. Rathbone finished his drink.
"More of the same," he called.
When Ernie started mixing his drink, David slid off the barstool and went into the men's room. He checked both stalls. Empty. He glanced at himself briefly in the mirror over the sink, then waited, not looking in the mirror again. In a few minutes one of the Corcoran brothers entered. He stared at Rathbone.
"From Jimmy Bartlett?" David asked.
The man nodded.
"The guy should be here any minute. He'll come through the side door. He's tall, skinny, and may be wearing a black suit. He'll join me at the bar, and we'll have a drink together. I'll slip him a white envelope. He'll probably take off first, but if he doesn't, I'll take off and leave him alone. He drives an old pickup truck. It'll be parked outside in the lot."
"Our fee's in the envelope?" Corcoran asked. His voice was unexpectedly high-pitched, fluty.
"That's right."
Corcoran nodded again, stepped to a urinal and unzipped his fly. David left hurriedly, went back to the bar, took a gulp of his new drink.
It was almost fifteen minutes before Termite Tommy showed up. He saw Rathbone at the bar and came over to stand next to him.
"Hey, Tommy!" David said heartily. "Happy New Year!"
"Same to you. And many of them."
"What're you drinking?"
"Jim Beam straight. Water on the side."
"If you had the kind of night I had, you better have a double."
"Yeah," Tommy said, "it was kinda wet."
David ordered the bourbon and another gimlet for himself. "Sorry you had to make the trip today," he said.
"That's all right. You got the dough?"
"Uh-huh."
"Good. We make the payment on the machine, everything's copasetic."
Rathbone took the envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it over, making no effort to hide the transfer. In the mirror, he saw the Corcoran brothers finish their beers, rise, and leave.
"Ten K," he said to Tommy. "Legit hundreds."
"I appreciate it, David. Everything go all right at the banks?"
"No problems. I'll start withdrawing next week and give you a call when you can pick up the balance due. Listen, I've got to split. My lady is expecting me home for dinner."
"That's okay; I'm leaving, too. Got a long drive ahead of me."
Rathbone stood, took his new black ostrich wallet from his hip pocket as if he was about to pay the tab.
"Thanks again," Termite Tommy said.
"Keep in touch," David said lightly.
Tommy took a swallow of water, then left. David put his wallet back in his pocket and sat down again.
"Another, Ernie," he called.
The bartender shook his head. "You're a bear for punishment, Mr. Rathbone," he said.
When he brought the drink, he leaned across the bar. "Did you see those two guys?" he asked in a low voice.
"What guys?"
"At the corner table. They had a beer, then went out."
"I just glanced at them. Why?"
"A couple of hard cases," Ernie said.
"You're sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. Wasn't I a cop for too many years? You wouldn't want to be caught in a dark alley with those yobs, believe me."
People entered, stayed for a drink or two, departed. Others took their place. The Lounge was quiet, jukebox stilled, conversation muted. David knew none of the customers, which was just as well; he didn't want to talk to anyone. He had another drink. Another. Another.
He floated in a timeless void, the room blurred, Ernie wavered back and forth. He could not concentrate, which was a blessing, but stared vacantly at the stranger in the mirror and watched the glass come up, tilt, pour out its contents. The throat constricted, the stranger grimaced and gasped.
" 'Nother," he said in a loud voice.
Ernie looked at him but said nothing. He was mixing the gimlet, taking his time, when he saw David fall forward onto the bar. He just folded his arms and his head went down. He sat there hunched over, not moving.
The bartender sighed, put aside the drink. He dug out his little red address book and looked up Rathbone's home phone number. He called from the phone behind the bar.
"The Rathbone residence."
"Rita?"
"Yes. Who's this?"
"Ernie. At the Palace Lounge."
"Oh. Hiya, Ernie. Happy New Year."
"Same to you. Listen, Mr. Rathbone is here, and he's a little under the weather. I hate to eighty-six him, but he's in no condition to drive. He'll kill himself or someone else."
Silence a moment, then: "I'll call a cab. I should be there in twenty minutes, half-hour at the most. Don't give him any more to drink and try to keep him from leaving."
"Okay."
"And thanks for calling, Ernie."
When she hurried in, raincoat slick with mist, David was still sprawled over the bar. Rita stood alongside and looked down at him.
"How many did he have?" she asked Ernie.
"Too many. And fast. Seemed like he just couldn't stop. It's not like him."
"No," Rita said, "it's not. What's the bill?"
"Don't worry about it. I'll catch him another night."
"Thanks, Ernie. The valet brought the car around to the side entrance. Will you help me get him out?"
Ernie came from behind the bar. Rita shook David's shoulder, first gently, then roughly until he roused.
"Wha?" he said groggily, raising his head.
"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," she said, "we're going home."
She and Ernie got him to his feet and supported him, one on each side.
"All right, all right," he said thickly. "I can navigate."
But they didn't let go of him until he was outside, leaning against the Corsica, his face pressed against the cool, wet roof.
"Let me get some fresh air," he said.
"Thanks again, Ernie," Rita said. "I can take it from here."
The bartender went back inside. Rita opened the car door. But suddenly David lurched away, staggered several steps, and vomited all over a waist-high sago palm. He remained bent over for five minutes, and Rita waited patiently, listening to him retch.
Finally he straightened up, wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, and then threw it away. He came back to the car slowly, taking deep breaths.
"Sorry about that," he said huskily.
"It happens," Rita said. "Get in the car and I'll drive us home. Have a cup of black coffee, you'll feel better."
"I don't think so," he said.
When they arrived at the town house, he went directly upstairs to take off his spattered clothing. Rita sat on his bed and listened to the shower running. He was in there such a long time she was beginning to worry. But then he came out in a white terry robe, drying his hair with a towel.
"I'd like a cognac," he said. "Just an ounce, no more, to settle my stomach."
"You're sure?" she said.
"I'm sure."
"All right, I'll bring it up here for you." "No, I'll come downstairs."
In the kitchen, he measured out an ounce of Cour-voisier carefully. He took a cautious sip, then closed his eyes and sighed.
"You okay?" she asked anxiously.
"I will be. Let me mix you something. A brandy stinger?"
"Just right," she said.
They took their drinks into the living room and sat on the couch.
"I don't suppose you feel like eating that veal casserole."
"Jesus, no!" he said. "I never want to eat again. But you go ahead."
"I can wait. Maybe you'll feel like it later."
He stared at her, then picked up her hand, kissed her knuckles. "Know why I love you?" he asked.
"Why?"
"Because not once, at the Palace, on the ride back, or since we've been home, have you hollered at me or asked why I made such a fool of myself."
"I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would. I don't pry; you know that."
"It was that business meeting I had."
"It didn't go well?"
"It went fine."
"I don't understand."
"Forget it. I'm going to. Oh God, what would I do without you? You're my salvation."
"Don't make a federal case out of it, baby. You got drunk and I brought you home. No big deal."
"You were there when I needed you; that's what counts. Rita, I swear to you I'll never do that again."
"Even Ernie said it wasn't like you." "Did you pay my bar tab?"
"He said he'd catch you another night."
"He's a good man. He called you?"
"Yep."
"And Florence Nightingale came running. Thank God. Listen, hon, I've been thinking; maybe we should take off sooner than I planned. Say in about six months."
"Whatever you say; you're the boss."
"On that drive home tonight, I got the feeling that things were closing in. Waiting around for just one more big deal is a sucker's game. Let's take the money and run."
"Where to?"
He grinned. "A secret. But believe me, you'll love it. Plenty of hot sun."
"A beach?"
"Not too far away. But a big pool."
"A private pool?"
"Of course."
"That's for me," she said.
"Will you have a lot of preparations to make?"
"Nope. Just pack my bikinis. I'll write my mother and tell her I'll be traveling awhile and not to worry."
He kissed her hand again. "You think of everything. You're not only beautiful, you're brainy." He raised his glass. "Happy New Year, darling."
46
She called Tony Harker a little before noon and told him that Rathbone had driven up to Lakeland and wouldn't be back until late that night. Tony locked up his office and ran. He was at his motel with a cold six-pack of Bud by the time Rita arrived. Ten minutes later they were in bed, blinds drawn, air conditioner set at its coldest.
She had never been more impassioned, but now he had the confidence of experience and her ardor didn't daunt him. They coupled like young animals eager to test their strength, and if there was no surrender by either, there was triumph for both.
When finally they separated, they lay looking at each other wildly. It had been a curious union, so glowing that it frightened both for what it might promise. It exceeded the physical, gave a glimpse of a different relationship that, if nurtured, might remake their lives.
"What happened?" he asked wonderingly, but Rita could only shake her head, as confused and fearful as he.
The real world intruded, and they laughed and pretended it had merely been a dynamite roll in the hay and sexual pleasure was all that mattered.
But having experienced that epiphany, they desired to know it again, despite their dread, if only to prove such rapture did exist. So after a time they made love again, slowly and deliberately, and waited for that un-equaled ecstasy to reappear. But it did not, leaving them satiated but conscious of a loss.
"Have you been taking lessons?" Rita asked him.
"Yes," he answered. "From you. My God, your tan is deeper than ever." His forefinger stroked the fold between her thigh and groin. "You're not worried about skin cancer?"
"Ahh," she said, "life's too short. And I drink too much, smoke too much, and pig out on fatty foods. It's stupid to give up all the pleasures of life just to squeeze out a few extra years. That's for cowards."
"Dying young doesn't scare you?"
"Sure it does. But what scares me more is living a dull, boring life." She sat up. "Let's talk business for a while," she said. "Have your guys come up with anything on David and the Palace gang?"
"Lots of things. I really think we're going to rack up the whole crew. Rita, why did Rathbone go to Lakeland?"
"He didn't say, and I didn't want to push."
"Has he mentioned anything about taking off permanently? Leaving the country?"
"Not really. A couple of times he's complained about how hard he works and how he'd like to retire. But it all sounds like bullshit to me. He's making a nice buck; he'd be a fool to cash in. And David's no fool."
"Don't be so sure of that. He's making a lot of mistakes."
"Like what?"
"Oh, this and that," Harker said vaguely. "Has he ever mentioned the names Herman Weisrotte or Thomas Keeffringer?"
"Nope. Never heard of them."
"How about Mitchell Korne?"
She shook her head. "No again. Who are all these guys?"
"Their names came up in our investigation. I'd like to tie them to Rathbone."
She drained her beer, got out of bed, began to dress.
"Hey," he said, "where you going?"
"You're itching to get back to the office," she said. "I can tell."
"Well, yeah, I've got a lot to do. Things are beginning to move."
"You're really after his balls, aren't you, Tony?"
"Rathbone? You betcha! I want him stuck out of sight for ten years at least. Maybe more."
"What'd he ever do to you?" she said in a low voice.
He stared at her. "What the hell kind of a question is that? I'm in the crook-exterminating business. Rathbone is a crook. So I'm going to exterminate him. Logical enough for you?"
"All right, all right," she said hastily. "Don't get steamed. It's just that you seem to have a personal feud with the guy, even if you've never met him."
"I know what he's done. Is doing."
"But it's more than just a cop doing his job. It's like a crusade. You're never going to let up until
you nail him."
"You've got it. But screw Rathbone. What about
us?"
She stood in front of the dresser mirror, combing her long black hair. "What about us?"
"You promised to think over what I said. Marriage. Have you?"
She whirled suddenly, hair flying. "Yes, I've thought about it. I think about it all the time. Don't lean on me, Tony, please don't. I told you it's a heavy decision, and it is. Right now I don't know what I want to do."
He came over to her and held her in his arms.
"Don't be angry with me, darling," he said. "I don't want to pressure you, but you mean so much to me that I get anxious. I don't even want to think about losing you."
She reached up to stroke his cheek. "I'm not angry with you, baby. It's just that I'm trying to figure things out, and it's going to take time."
"How much time?"
She pulled away. "Six months. Tops. How does that sound?"
He blinked once. "All right," he said. "Six months."
47
Roger Fortescue went home for Christmas Day and New Year's Eve. The rest of his time was spent in Lakeland, keeping a loose stakeout on Herman Weisrotte's printing shop and occasionally tailing Thomas J. Keeffringer just for the fun of it.
He hadn't uncovered a great deal. The German slept in a little room behind his shop, and Termite Tommy kipped in a motel even more squalid than Fortescue's. The two men spent a lot of time together, and the fact that Weisrotte rarely had a half-dozen customers a day convinced Roger that these two villains were engaged in some nefarious scheme that enabled them to get plotched almost every night at the Mermaid's Tail, a gin mill only a block away from the printshop.
It was, Fortescue decided, just about the dullest duty he had ever pulled, and only his nightly phone calls to Estelle enabled him to keep his sanity. But then, a few days into the new year, things started popping, and what had been a boring grind became a fascinating mystery.
It began when the agent realized he hadn't seen Termite Tommy around for three or four days. He didn't come to the printshop, and when Roger checked his motel, the surly owner said he hadn't been there since New Year's Day, and if he didn't show up soon with his weekly rent, the owner was going to chuck his sleazy belongings into the gutter.
Sullivan's sting Page 21
