Fortescue, sitting in his Volvo and keeping an eye on Weisrotte's shop, wondered if Tommy had split with the German and decided to try his larcenous talents elsewhere. But it didn't make sense that he'd take off without emptying his motel room. It could be, of course, that he was shacked up with a ladylove somewhere and would soon reappear.
While Roger was trying to puzzle out what had happened, he saw a black Bentley pull to a stop, and he straightened up in his seat. A handsome blond guy got out of the car, glanced around, and then sauntered into the German's shop. The agent made him for David Rathbone, but jotted down the license of the Bentley to double-check later.
Rathbone was in there almost two hours. Then he and Weisrotte came out and headed for the Mermaid's Tail, Rathbone talking a mile a minute.
The agent figured it was safe enough for him to move in. Rathbone had never seen him before, and if Weisrotte recognized him-so what? He was just a guy who had dropped by once to price business cards. So Fortescue entered the saloon, ordered a beer at the bar, and looked around casually. His targets were in a back booth, Rathbone still talking nonstop and the German downing shots of straight gin like there was no tomorrow.
This went on for almost an hour while Roger nursed a second beer. Then the two men got up, and Rathbone paid the tab. They started for the door, and as they passed, Fortescue noted the diamond ring on Rath-bone's left pinkie. At least a three-carat rock, he estimated, and wondered how many mooches had contributed their life savings to the purchase of that sparkler.
Rathbone got the printer back to the shop and went in with him for a few minutes. Then he came out, lighted a cigarette, and got into the Bentley. By that time Fortescue was in his Volvo, and he tailed Rathbone until it became obvious the man was heading south, probably returning to Fort Lauderdale. Then the agent turned back and drove to his motel, trying to figure out the significance of what he had just witnessed.
He came up with zilch and decided maybe he'd give Tony Harker a call, report what had happened, and let him chew on it awhile. But before he did that, he made his nightly call home. He jived with his sons awhile, got their promises that they were doing their homework and weren't planning to rob a bank, and then Estelle came on.
"Guess who called you this morning," she said.
"Elizabeth Taylor?"
"Even better. Sam Washburn."
"Yeah? What'd he want?"
"Didn't say. But he claims it's important and said to call him."
"Probably got another owl made of shells he wants to unload on me."
"Don't you take it! Don't you dare!"
"Trust me," he said.
He hung up, found Washburn's number in his notebook, and called the old retired cop.
"Roger Fortescue," he said. "How you doing?"
"Hey, old buddy!" Sam said. "Your wife said you were out of town."
"I am. I'm calling from Lakeland."
"What the hell are you doing there-picking oranges?"
"Something like that. What's up, Sam?"
"You remember the last time we talked you asked me about Thomas J. Keeffringer, aka Termite Tommy?"
"Sure. What about him?"
"Well, he showed up down here."
"No kidding. What's he up to now?"
"Not a whole hell of a lot," Washburn said. "At the moment he's occupying an icebox in the morgue."
Silence. Then: "Sheet," Roger said, "how did you find that out?"
"There was a short article in the Sun-Sentinel this morning. I called to ask if you had seen it, but then Estelle told me you were out of town, so I figured you hadn't. Anyway, according to the story a kid was testing his new scuba gear in a canal out near Coral Springs. He spotted an old pickup truck on the bottom. Nothing unusual about that. You know how many people ditch their clunkers in the canals and then claim the insurance, saying it was stolen."
"I know, Sam," Fortescue said patiently, "I know."
"But when this kid got close to the pickup, he saw there was a guy sitting behind the wheel. So he got out of the water, called the cops, and they drug the truck out. The guy behind the wheel was Termite Tommy himself."
"Cause of death?"
"They're not sure yet. I phoned Jack Liddite at Homicide, but he doesn't think it'll be their baby. He said the ME's report isn't complete yet, but it looks like Tommy got smashed, didn't make a curve, and just drove into the canal. They found an empty liter of juice in the cab of the truck. That's all I got. But you sounded
like you were working the guy so I wanted to make sure you knew about it."
"Thanks, Sam," Fortescue said. "I really appreciate it."
"Glad to help, old buddy. By the way, I got a shell penguin for you. It's a beaut."
"That's great," Roger said faintly. "Love to have it."
Then he called Tony Harker. He told him about Keef-fringer's disappearance, the meeting between David Rathbone and Herman Weisrotte, and the discovery of Termite Tommy's body in the Coral Springs canal.
Harker didn't hesitate. "Get back as soon as possible," he said. "The printer's not going anywhere; he'll be there when we want him. You schmooze with your buddies down here and see what you can pick up on the homicide."
"They're not even sure it was a homicide."
"I think it was," Harker said. "Don't you?"
"Yes," Fortescue said.
48
They rehearsed their roles on the drive down to Miami. Both men were quick studies, and it didn't take long to cobble up a scenario and decide how it was to be played.
"Korne is not a megadealer," Jimmy Bartlett said, "but big enough. Most of his stuff goes to New Jersey and New England. He isn't in New York, but the last time I spoke to him, he was talking about expanding into Montreal and Toronto. He's an ambitious lad."
"Lad?" David Rathbone said. "Just how old is he?"
"Mitch? I don't think he's thirty yet. He's come a long way in a short time."
"Do you call him 'Mitch' to his face?"
"I do, but I suggest you address him as Mr. Korne. He likes it when older men use Mister."
"How did he get so far so fast? Is he a hard case?"
"Not personally. But he hires very dependable muscle and pays them well. I think the secret of his success is his business sense. He's a Harvard MBA, you know, and treats drugs like any other consumer product. That's what he calls dopers-consumers. He talks about his product line, distribution network, the need to maximize profitability, and so forth. Bribery of officials he calls Public Relations. His only regret is that he can't advertise. But he's considering putting a brand name on all his products as a guarantee of quality."
"I'll snow him with Wall Street lingo," David said. "The smarter they are, the harder they fall."
"By the way," Bartlett said, "how did you make out with the German in Lakeland?"
"In like Flynn. I could have sold him the Brooklyn Bridge. He bought the story of Termite Tommy being in the slammer. He promised to get started on our 50K of queer fifties."
"And he agreed to accept twenty percent of the face value?"
"He did after I got half a jug of Beefeater in him. That guy must have a liver as big as the Ritz."
"Who cares," Bartlett said, "as long as he does the job."
The offices of Mitchell Korne Enterprises, Inc., were located in one of the raw, pastel-colored towers jazzing up downtown Miami. The firm was registered as an importer of South and Central American furniture, lamps, and decorative accessories. This business showed an annual profit apparently sufficient to justify a lavish suite of offices that doubled as a showroom for the company's legitimate imports.
Cocaine, marijuana, heroin, hashish, and other illicit substances were imported and marketed by another division with its own financial structure, personnel, and distribution. Both divisions, overt and covert, were controlled by the CEO, Mitchell Korne, although it was rumored that Mitchell Korne Enterprises, Inc., was actually a sub rosa limited partnership with several investors who financed the operation in return for a
n enormous quarterly cash distribution.
Korne's private office had none of the carved wood and Aztec-patterned upholstery of the reception room. It was severely modern: glass, chrome, leather, and built-in bookcases of polished teak. There were Japanese prints framed on the walls, and behind Korne's high swivel chair was a plate-glass picture window with a startling view of the Miami skyline and a small patch of blue water sparkling in the January sunshine.
After the introductions, they sat around a cocktail table: a single sheet of stainless steel supported on black iron sawhorses. There were no ashtrays in the room, no family photographs, mementos, or anything else that might yield a clue to the occupant's background and character. The office was as impersonal as an operating theater, and as sterile.
Korne was a tall, scholarly-looking young man with a hairline mustache and glasses framed in gold wire. Rathbone made him for a cold fish but was impressed by the dealer's three-piece suit of dove-gray flannel.
"How was Peru, Mitch?" Jimmy Bartlett asked.
"Impressive. I saw one huge valley that was almost totally coca shrubs. Very reassuring. Supply won't be a problem for the foreseeable future."
"Which means, Mr. Korne," Rathbone said, "that distribution and marketing will be the keys to your bottom-line profitability."
Korne looked at him with interest. "Yes, I think that's a reasonable assumption."
"David," Bartlett said, "why don't you make your presentation now. Mitch is a busy man."
"Of course," Rathbone said. "I'll keep it as brief and on-target as possible. Mr. Korne, I'm from Indianapolis, and a number of associates and I have formed an ad hoc organization that is exploring a variety of ways in which undeclared income might be invested."
Korne nodded. "I understand," he said.
"The associates I speak of are from Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa plus Ohio and western Pennsylvania. We have come up with a concept we feel has high upside potential and limited downside risk. In our home states are an enormous number of small colleges and universities. I can't quote the exact figure, but I assure you it's in the high hundreds. We feel the educational institutions in this area represent an exciting untapped market for your products. We propose to establish a network of distributors that would initially consist of one sales representative in each college and university. If initial results validate our optimistic computer analysis, we would eventually attempt to place a retail salesperson in every fraternity, sorority, and dormitory in every college throughout the target area."
Mitchell Korne straightened up in his suede director's chair, then leaned forward intently. "A very interesting game-plan. What specific product did you have in mind? Crack?"
Rathbone shook his head. "I don't think so. You must remember that these college students are relatively wealthy. Crack is consciously or unconsciously linked with poverty. But cocaine is considered daring, glamorous. Look at all the movie stars and rock singers who have admitted frequent use."
Korne nodded again. "Yes, I think your decision to avoid crack is wise. It is certainly not a recreational product. Tell me, Mr. Rathbone, have you done any market research?"
"No, sir, we have not," David said. "Which is the reason I am here today. We-my associates and I-have decided to conduct a test in a limited number of dem-ographically selected markets. We feel it will take three months to have trained sales personnel on station. We would like to purchase fifteen kilos of high-quality cocaine to be delivered in three months. As proof of our dependability and serious intent, I have been authorized to pay the agreed-upon price immediately."
"I see," Korne said, sitting back. "And what price did you have in mind?"
"Ten K per kilo."
The dealer smiled coldly. "I'm afraid not. It is far below the present market price, and the weight involved would not justify such a heavy discount."
"I realize," Rathbone said, "that the sale of fifteen kilos hardly represents a significant transaction to a man in your position, Mr. Korne. But I want to emphasize that this initial purchase is merely for a market test. If our computer predictions prove viable, I have every expectation of requiring a vastly increased and regular delivery of the product in the future. What I am suggesting, Mr. Korne, is that if you are willing to take a chance on us in the formative period of our operation, you will find us a grateful and loyal customer in the years to come."
"Another consideration, Mitch," Bartlett said softly, "is that you will have the use of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the three months prior to delivery. Surely the profits from investing those funds, even for a period of ninety days, will help offset the difference between what David is prepared to pay and the going rate."
Korne stared at Rathbone a long time while the other two men remained silent. Finally Korne said, "I like your idea of direct distribution to the colleges. Of course, a great deal will depend on the personality of your local salespersons, but I'm sure you are aware of the need for cheerful service and customer satisfaction. Very well, I'm willing to take a flier. If you'll accept delivery in Miami in three months, you may have fifteen kilos at 10K per kilo."
"Thank you, Mr. Korne," Rathbone said.
"Call me Mitch," the other man said.
On the drive back to Lauderdale, still astounded by their good fortune, they calculated the take on the fifteen kilos. Sold for $19,500 per kilo to Lou Siena. Purchased at $10,000 per kilo from Mitchell Korne. Profit: $142,500.
"Amazing!" Bartlett said. "He didn't haggle a bit. I thought sure we'd have to up the ante to 12K per kilo."
"And he signed the contract for chairs and accepted the Fort Knox Fund check," Rathbone marveled. "Jimmy, we've got to get another, bigger deal in the works immediately. Different buyer, different seller, but let's stick to the same plot. It worked once, it'll work again."
"Fine with me," Bartlett said. "Let's have a meet with Sparco, Little, and Coe. We'll tell them the good news and figure ways to build up the Fund's working capital. It's a marvelous con, David."
"Only it isn't a con," Rathbone said. "Not really. The scenarios might have been a swindle, and maybe we're clipping the marks who bought shares in the Fund, but essentially the deal is legitimate. We're buying low and selling high. That's the religion of Wall Street, isn't it?"
49
The tape clicked off, and Tony Harker switched it to fast rewind. Then he went into the cramped kitchenette and made himself a sandwich. The tape had rewound by the time he returned to the living room, and he settled down to listen again, reflecting that in the distant future his son might ask, "What did you do, Daddy, when your world was falling apart?" And he might reply, "I ate a bologna on rye with mustard."
He heard Rita Sullivan and David Rathbone, apparently on New Year's Day, discuss a party they had attended the previous night. He heard Ernie call Rita to come to the Palace and take care of Rathbone, who was "under the weather." He heard the subsequent conversation inside the town house during which Rathbone made it obvious that he was planning to leave the country in six months, and Rita practically promised to go along.
It was possible, of course, that she had been playing her assigned role, trying to lure Rathbone into revealing his destination. But that was hard to believe; a few days later Rita, seated in the chair now occupied by Harker, had assured him that Rathbone had spoken of leaving only in general terms. She had been vague about that, but definite in promising Tony to answer his marriage proposal in six months. That would be after Rathbone had skedaddled. And Rita with him?
There were other things she should have told him but hadn't: the description of Rathbone's intended hideaway, a place in the sun, not too far from the beach, with a big private pool. That matched Rathbone's ranch in Costa Rica. And she mentioned nothing of his business meeting on New Year's Day, probably at the Palace, that "went fine" but resulted in Rathbone drinking himself into insensibility.
All those lapses were worrisome enough, but it was the content and tone of her conversations with Rathbone, obviously in
a bedroom, that shattered Tony Harker. He could not believe that she was such an accomplished actress that she could fake the passion in the things she said and, presumably, did.
The intimacy and fervor of the pillow talk between David and her was at once arousing and depressing. He listened to it, feeling like a sick voyeur but unable to turn off the machine, knowing that even if he did, the hurt would not end.
When, finally, the tape ran out, he still heard the moans of delight. And he sat alone in a shoddy motel room, trying to puzzle out reasons for her possible duplicity. It was easy to say Rathbone was handsome, wealthy, loving, and she had succumbed to his charms. But Tony had to believe there was more to it than that. Rita was a hardheaded cop who could spot a phony a mile away. Yet here she was apparently embracing pho-niness and willing to risk her future with an insubstantial man whose entire life was based on sham.
What were Harker's options in response to what he had heard? He could confront Sullivan with the tapes. Her defense, he reckoned, was that she was doing her assigned job. She had delivered information on the Fort Knox Fund, hadn't she? And on Rathbone passing the forged Treasury check. And on the activities of Irving Donald Gevalt.
She could claim that she had done what she was ordered to do. But how she accomplished her assignment was her business, not Harker's. And how could he answer that? He could not, but the worm still gnawed.
He might take the actual tapes to Lester Crockett rather than submitting an expurgated precis, and let the boss decide where the truth lay. But that, Harker decided, would be surrender of his responsibility. Sullivan was his agent, and if he was willing to profit from her work, he should be willing to accept the blame if she turned sour.
He was convinced that the entire case was progressing well and nearing its denouement. Pulling Rita out might well rob the investigation of vital intelligence. He needed her as much as he needed Clark, Fortescue, Suarez, and Ullman.
And there was always the possibility-slim though it might be-that she was acting a role with Rathbone. And that she would deliver David's head to Tony Harker as soon as she had the evidence.
Sullivan's sting Page 22
