Timothy's Game (13 page)

“Then by all means come ahead.”

Timothy is in the office of P&B in twenty minutes, and moments later is closeted with the Chief of Internal Security. The plump little man is sagging. All he can manage is a tinselly smile.

“It’s a merger,” he tells Cone. “Two food processing companies. I prefer not to mention the names.”

“Sure. That’s okay.”

“Anyway, it’s still in the early stages. Surely no more than fifty people know about it. But there’s already increased trading in the stock of the smaller company. The share price is up two dollars since Monday.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “I suppose documents have been prepared.”

“Of course. Preliminary proposals. Suggestions for stock swaps between the two companies. Analyses of the problems of merging the two management groups.”

“And the documents have been printed up and distributed to those fifty people?”

“Naturally. They’re all involved and have to be kept informed of what’s going on.”

“Who’s your printer?”

“Bechtold Printing on Tenth Avenue. We’ve been using them for years. Absolutely trustworthy. Every Christmas Frederick Bechtold sends me a smoked ham.”

“Do you know anyone at Snellig Firsten Holbrook?” Cone asks suddenly.

Twiggs looks at him, puzzled. “Yes, I know Greg Vandiver, a risk arbitrage attorney. He crews for me in the Saturday yacht races at our club.”

“Will you call him right now, please, and ask him the name of the printer used by Snellig Firsten Holbrook. They got caught, too.”

Twiggs makes the call and asks the question. Then he hangs up and stares grimly at Cone.

“Bechtold Printing on Tenth Avenue,” he reports.

“Sure,” Cone says. “And I’ll bet a dozen other investment bankers and brokerage houses print at Bechtold.”

“You mean Frederick Bechtold, that fine, upstanding man who sends me smoked hams, is leaking all his customers’ secrets?”

“Nah, he’s clean. But he’s throwing out some valuable garbage.”

Then Cone explains what’s going on: How first press proofs are invariably discarded and more proofs are pulled until the density of the ink is correct, colors are in register, copy is properly centered on the page.

“All those fouled-up proofs are wadded up and thrown out. And along comes a private carter who picks up the barrels of trash and empties them into a truck. In this case, it’s a garbage collector called Steiner Waste Control, on Eleventh Avenue. The boss is Sally Steiner, and she’s a stock market maven. She knows what kind of work Bechtold is doing, and whenever a pickup is made at the printer, she has the barrels taken to her home in Smithtown. Then she paws through all those discarded press proofs looking for goodies. And finds them.”

Twiggs’ face reddens, he seems to swell, and for a moment Cone fears the senior partner is going to have cardiac arrest, or at least bust his braces. But suddenly Twiggs starts laughing, his face all squinched up, tears starting from his eyes. He pounds the desk with his fist.

“The garbage collector!” he says, spluttering. “Oh, God, that’s good! That’s beautiful! I’ll dine off that story for years to come! And I believe every word of it.”

“You can,” Cone says, nodding. “A few years ago a financial printer was reading the stuff delivered to him by his Wall Street customers and buying and selling stocks on the basis of the documents he was given to print. He did great, and the SEC charged him with inside trading. I think it was the first insider case to end up in the Supreme Court. They found the guy Not Guilty, but they never did define exactly what constitutes inside trading. The garbage angle is just a new variation on an old scam.”

“And what do we do now?”

“Nothing you can do about the merger that’s in the works. The cat is out of the bag on that one. But for the future, you’ve got some choices. You can get yourself a new printer, with no guarantee that the same thing won’t happen again. Or stick with Bechtold, but every time you give him something to print, send over a couple of guys who can make sure all preliminary proofs are destroyed. Or—and I like this one best—equip your Mergers and Acquisitions Department with the new desktop printers. You won’t get six-color work or jazzy bindings, but you’ll be able to reproduce most of the documents you need right here in your own shop, including graphs, charts, and tables. It’s all done by computers, and the finished documents can be counted and coded so none of them go astray. The machines aren’t cheap, but they’ll save you a mint on commercial printing costs. And your security will be umpteen times better than if you send your secrets to an outside printer.”

“I’ll look into it immediately,” Twiggs says. “It makes sense. You’re going to report this garbage collector to the SEC?”

“As soon as possible.”

“And what’s going to happen to—what’s her name?”

“Sally Steiner. Well, I figure her for a smart, nervy lady. She probably thinks that if she’s caught, she’ll walk away from all this with a smile on her lips and a song in her heart. If she’s the stand-up gonnif I think she is, she’ll fight any attempt by the SEC to charge her or make her cough up her profits. What, actually, did she do? Dig through some barrels of rubbish, that’s all. She’s home free. That’s what she thinks, and I hate to admit it, but she may be right.”

“I wonder,” says G. Fergus Twiggs thoughtfully, “if she’d consider employment with an investment banker.”

Cone smiles and rises to leave. “You could do a lot worse,” he says. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Twiggs. You put in that electronic printing system. It’ll help.”

The senior partner shakes his hand fervently. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Mr. Cone. It’s a pleasure dealing with someone who enjoys his work.”

“Do I?” Timothy Cone says. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Neal Davenport is right: Sergeant Joseph D’Amato looks and dresses like a college professor. He’s a tall, gawky guy with a Mt. Rushmore face and big, spatulate hands. His tweed jacket has suede patches on the elbows, and his cordovan kilties are polished to a mirror gloss. He’s smoking a long, thin cigarillo, so Cone thankfully lights up his ninth cigarette of the day.

He calls the local deli for cheeseburgers, fries, a couple of dills, and four cold cans of Bud. They talk and eat at the same time, occasionally waving a pickle slice or French fry in the air to make a point.

“Those names you gave me,” D’Amato says. “All illegals. Members of the same Family.”

“New York?” Cone asks.

“Yeah, but not the Big Five. These schmoes belong to a second-rate gang, bossed by a slimy toad whose monicker is Alonzo Departeur. He’s not even an Italian, I’m happy to say, let alone Sicilian. He’s known as Fat Lonny, and if you ever see him, you’ll know why. The guy is obscenely obese.”

“This Family of his—what’re they into?”

D’Amato gestures with a pickle. “Think of them as hyenas, waiting around for scraps after the big Families make the kill. They couldn’t operate without permission of the heavies. And, of course, they pay through the nose for the go-ahead.”

“How do you know all this?” Cone asks curiously.

“Snitches,” the sergeant says promptly. “We have informants in every New York Family. We catch a guy pulling something foul, and we give him a choice: Either he does ten years in the slammer or he turns and becomes our property. You’d be surprised at how many of those scuzzes are willing to work for us; singing their rotten little hearts out. We’ve even got some of them wired.”

“Whatever happened to the code of silence?”

“Omertà? Forget it. Maybe ten years ago, but today it’s every pirate for himself. Organized crime is becoming disorganized crime. Anyway, the names you gave me are all associated with the Departeur mob, headquartered in New York but with people all over the country. They do routine collections for the Big Five and are allowed to run some drug deals, loansharking, extortion, and a few other things like restaurants, nightclubs, and after-hour joints.”

“Any connection with garbage collection?”

“Oh, yeah. And linen supply, liquor wholesaling, and some minor ripoffs of concrete companies, construction unions, plumbing contractors, and electrical equipment suppliers.”

“Anything on Wall Street?”

“Not to my knowledge. The Big Five keep a lock on that. The reason I’m telling you all this is that one of the biggies in the Departeur Family was, until recently, a hood named Vic Angelo. You probably read of how he was scratched outside the Hotel Bedlington not too long ago. His job was taken over by his underboss, Mario Corsini. And Corsini was one of the names on your list—so that accounts for our interest.”

“You think this Corsini arranged for Vic Angelo being chilled?”

“Definitely. It’s common talk on the street, but we can’t get enough real evidence to justify busting Corsini, let alone indicting him. But we keep hoping.”

“Is this Corsini into extortion of private carters and garbage collectors?”

“Sure he is. Why do you ask?”

So, for the second time that morning, Cone describes the activities of Sally Steiner, and how she’s been able to come up with those profitable stock tips.

“That’s lovely,” D’Amato says when Cone finishes. “I’d guess that she’s passing her inside information along to Corsini. For what reason I don’t know. Maybe she’s got the hots for the guy. Some women think mobsters are king shits.”

“Maybe,” Cone says, “or maybe he’s leaning on her, and those stock tips are what she has to pay to stay in business.”

“Could be,” the sergeant says. He blots his mouth delicately with a paper napkin, sits back, and lights another of his long cigarillos. “On the list you gave me, Mario Corsini’s address was given as Atlantic City. Actually he lives in Queens but probably bought his stock through an Atlantic City broker. No law against that. Maybe the broker’s a pal of his, or maybe one of the Departeur Family. Something bothering you?”

“I don’t know,” Cone says fretfully. “We’ve been blowing a lot of smoke, but there are damned few hard facts. It’s all ‘suppose’ and ‘maybe’ and ‘perhaps.’ I don’t think
every
private garbage and rubbish collector in New York is paying dues to the mob. I mean, we have no hard evidence that Mario Corsini or any other Mafia type is ripping off Steiner Waste Control. How can we prove a connection?”

Sergeant D’Amato gives Cone a soft smile. “About seven or eight months ago, Corsini brought a cousin over from the Old Country. It’s legal; the kid has all his papers. His name is Anthony Ricci. Anyway, in that list you gave me, there were two heavy stock buyers in Atlantic City. One was Mario Corsini. The other was Anthony Ricci.”

“So?” Cone says. “What does that prove?”

“Anthony Ricci works for Steiner Waste Control.”

“Let me buy you another cheeseburger,” Timothy Cone says.

“T
HERE YOU ARE,” EDDIE
Steiner says, gesturing. “In all your primitive glory.”

Sally stares at the completed oil painting propped on an easel. “Jesus!” she bursts out. “You made me look like a tough bimbo.”

“You
are
a tough bimbo,” her brother says. “But forget your vanity for a minute; what do you think of it as a painting?”

“It’s good, Eddie,” she says grudgingly.

“Good? The goddamned thing is magnificent. It’s just one hell of a portrait. The best I’ve ever done. Ever will do. But then I’ll never find a model like you again.”

She moves closer to inspect the canvas.

“Careful,” he warns. “Don’t touch. It’s still wet; I just finished it last night.”

“I’m going to have to lose some weight,” Sally says. “Look at those hips. And that ass. My God!”

“You’re just a strong, solid woman, sis. Don’t knock it.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I told you about that gallery in the East Village that wants to give me a show. I finally agreed. I’ll bet this thing will be the first to sell.”

“I hope you’re not going to call it
My Sister
or anything like that.”

“Nah,” he says, laughing. “I’m calling it
Manhattan.”

Good title, she thinks. In the nude body of a thrusting woman, he’s caught the crude, exciting world she lives in. The colors are so raw they shriek, and sharp edges and jagged composition reflect the demonic rhythm of the city.

“Yeah,” she says, “I think you got something there. If no one wants it, I’ll buy it.”

“And cut it up?” he teases.

“Never. When I’m old and gray, I’ll look at it and remember,” she says, smiling. “Well, look, here’s a package for Paul. Cash and a note telling him what stocks to buy. Okay?”

“Sure. I’ll give it to him. He likes the idea of being the Boy Wonder of Wall Street. Listen, Sal, you’re not going to get into any trouble on this, are you?”

“Trouble? What trouble? I’m giving stock tips to a good friend, that’s all. Nothing illegal about that.”

“I hope not,” Eddie says. “I’d hate to visit you up the river on the last Thursday of every month, bringing you some of Martha’s strudel.”

“Not a chance,” she says confidently. “No one’s going to lay a glove on me.”

She walks back to the office, thinking of her portrait. It lights up that entire dingy apartment. The more she recalls it, the better she likes it. It’s Manhattan, all right, but it’s also Sally Steiner, shoving belligerently from the canvas.

“That’s me,” she says aloud. “A tough bimbo.”

It’s almost noon when she gets back to Steiner Waste Control. There are four big yellow trucks on the tarmac, waiting to unload. Most of the guys have gone across to the Stardust Diner for lunch, but Anthony Ricci is waiting in the outer office. She knows what he wants.

“Why don’t you go to lunch,” she says to Judy Bering. “I’ll hold down the fort until you get back.”

“I may be a little late, Sal. I want to get over to Bloomie’s. They’re having a sale on pantyhose.”

“Take your time. Tony, come into my office.”

The kid really is a beauty, no doubt about it, and she wonders what Eddie could do with him—and then decides she’s never going to bring them together and find out. Paul Ramsey would kill her.

Ricci has a helmet of crisp, black curls, bedroom eyes, and a mouth artfully designed for kissing. That chiseled face might be vacuous except that, occasionally, the soft eyes smolder, the jaw sets, lips are pressed. And there, revealed, are temper, menace, an undisciplined wildness when the furious blood takes over.