Timothy's Game (32 page)

These rank musings occupy his mind during his sodden toddle back to his cave. There he finds that Cleo, apparently surfeited with garlic salami, has upchucked all over the linoleum.

He spends the remainder of that day futzing around the loft, smoking too many cigarettes and drinking too much vodka. He goes over the caper a dozen times in his mind, looking for holes in the solution. No holes. Then he wonders if another meet with Dorothy Blenke or Eve Bookerman would yield anything of value. He decides not.

In the evening, warned by what happened to Cleo, he shuns the salami and opens a can of pork and beans.

“Beans, beans, the musical fruit,” he sings to the cat. “The more you eat, the more you toot.”

He finishes the can (eaten cold), leaving just a smidgen for the neutered tom, figuring to give the poor creature’s stomach a rest. Then he gets caught up on his financial newspapers and magazines, devouring them with the avidity of a baseball maven reading box scores. Wall Street is his world, and he’s long since given up trying to analyze his love-hate feelings about it.

On Wednesday morning, he calls Samantha Whatley at the office.

“I won’t be in for a couple of days,” he tells her. “I’m sick.”

“Oh?” she says. “Don’t tell me it’s the fantods and megrims again. You pulled that one on me once before.”

“No,” he says, “this time I think I got coryza and phthisis. With maybe a touch of biliary calculus.”

“I’ll tell you what you’ve got, son,” she says. “More crap than a Christmas goose. Hiram was asking about you. He hasn’t seen you around lately and wanted to know if you still worked here.”

“Tell fatso to stuff it,” Cone says angrily. “I’m working the Dempster-Torrey file and he knows it.”

“How you coming on that?”

“Okay.”

She sighs. “I should have known better than to ask. Will you be in tomorrow?”

“Probably not.”

“Friday?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s payday, you know.”

“Well, if I don’t make it, will you pick up my check?”

“No,” she says. “If you want it, do us the honor of stopping by.”

“Now you’re acting like a shithead.”

“Asshole!” she says and hangs up.

He goes out to buy cigarettes, food, cat litter, newspapers, and to replenish his liquid assets. The low-pressure area is still hanging over the city, and the denizens are beginning to snarl at each other. That’s all right with Cone; at least it’s better than everyone giving him a toothy “Have a nice day.”

If it wasn’t for the Dempster-Torrey case, he would have enjoyed that solitary day in the loft. The phone never rings—not even a wrong number—and Cleo snoozes away the hours under the bathtub. Cone rations his drinks carefully, just keeping a nice, gentle buzz as he reads his newspapers, takes a couple of short naps, showers with his stiff brushing and cornstarch treatment, and changes his underwear and socks.

Several times he’s tempted to call Davenport and McDonnell, but resists. He just hopes to God they’re doing their jobs. If not, it’ll take him weeks, maybe months, to bring down David Dempster and put that gonzo behind bars.

Late that night, stripped to his briefs, he’s ready to sack out. He’s got a little high-intensity lamp he uses for horizontal activities. He’s also got his copy of
Silas Marner,
which he’s been reading for four years now. He’s already up to page 23, and has discovered it’s a better somnifacient than any flurazepam he can buy on the street.

He reads another half-page and has just enough strength left to put the book aside and turn off his lamp.

Thursday starts in the same lethargic pattern. But then, close to noon, Detective Neal K. Davenport calls, and things start jumping.

“Hiya, sherlock,” Neal says breezily. “I called your office but they said you were home sick. I figured that was horseshit, and you’re just fucking off.”

“You got it,” Cone says. “What’s doing?”

“Everything’s coming up roses. Today is D-Day and H-hour is three o’clock. That’s when we’re going to raid Paddy’s Pig. Sam Shipkin’s done a great job. He found the motorcycle, and guess where they’ve been keeping it.”

“In the john?”

“Close but no cigar. There’s another building behind the tavern. Like a big shed. Sam says it looks like a department store—everything from condoms to cassettes. All hot. The cycle is the same make, model, and color used in the Dempster kill.”

“But you don’t know if it’s the actual bike?”

“Of course not. But it’ll do as corroborative evidence. The icing on the cake is that it’s owned by the Ryan brothers, a couple of no-goodniks who got their start as smash-and-grabbers when they were in their teens. They’ve both done time for strongarm stuff and have sheets that don’t end. They fit the witnesses’ description of the guys on the motorcycle when Dempster was put down. And to top that, Shipkin says that when he met them, they were both wearing steel-toed boots. How does that grab you?”

“Sounds okay,” Cone says cautiously, “but I wouldn’t call it an airtight case. Any two-bit shyster could get them off in five minutes if all you’ve got is a similar motorcycle, descriptions by eyewitnesses, and the boots.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Davenport says indignantly. “That’s why Sam Shipkin made a big drug buy from Louie about an hour ago with marked bills. So we got him cold, and we can lean on him. I figure he’ll make a deal and sing. Anyway, we’re going to give it the old college try. Listen, the raid on Paddy’s Pig is going to be what you’d call a media event. We’ve tipped the newspapers and TV stations, so it should be a circus. I figured you might want to be there.”

“Yeah,” Cone says. “Sure. Neal, there’s a guy named Hamish McDonnell in the Federal DA’s office. I think you should call him and invite him to the bust.”

“No way!” the NYPD man says. “This is our party, and we’re not sharing the headlines with the Feds or anyone else.”

“Now look,” Timothy says, “right now you got peanuts. If this Louie is afraid of the Westies and decides to clam up and take his lumps, then where the hell are you? The Ryan brothers waltz away and you guys are left looking like idiots. Is that the kind of headlines you want?”

Silence. Then: “Well, yeah, that could happen. But what’s this Hamish McDonnell got to do with the price of tea in China?”

“He’s coming at David Dempster from a different angle. Dempster was the brain behind all the industrial sabotage I was assigned to investigate. If McDonnell pins him on that—and I think he will—you’ll have insurance in case Louie decides to keep his mouth shut. David Dempster will take a fall either way—or both.”

“Goddamn it!” Davenport yells. “Why the fuck couldn’t you have told me all this from the start?”

“Because it’s outside your jurisdiction,” Cone explains patiently. “Granted that the dusting of those three guys on Wall Street is local. And the Department deserves the credit for breaking it. But there’s more to it than just those homicides; there’s arson, sabotage, bribery, and maybe conspiracy to commit murder. I think David Dempster is up to his ass in all that shit, but they’re
federal
raps, Neal. Like crossing state lines to commit a felony. I really think you should invite Hamish McDonnell on the Paddy’s Pig raid. You’ll make a friend—which might prove a benefit. And you’ll have a fallback if you can’t nail the Ryan brothers on a homicide charge.”

“Well … maybe,” the city bull says reluctantly. “I’ll have to get an okay from the brass. What kind of a guy is this McDonnell?”

“He thinks he’s hard-boiled,” Cone says, “but I think he’s half-baked. But that’s neither here nor there. Come on, Neal, once you guys get this thing wrapped up and tied with a ribbon, there’ll be enough glory to go around. The Department will get their headlines, and the Feds will get theirs, and everyone will live happily ever after. Will you call McDonnell?”

“I don’t like it,” Davenport says grumpily. “This is our baby, and I don’t want people thinking we can’t clean up the garbage in our own gutters. But like you say, it could be insurance for getting an indictment. Okay, I’ll see what the higher-ups think about it. If they say go ahead, I’ll give the Feds a call. And next time, for Christ’s sake, will you try to be a little more open so I know what’s going on?”

“I certainly will,” Cone says warmly. “See you at three.”

But Davenport has already hung up. Cone replaces the wall phone slowly, and his hand is still on it when it rings again. He picks up, wondering if the city dick has already changed his mind.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Tim? This is Jeremy Bigelow. You really sick?”

“Slightly indisposed. What’s with you?”

“I got some good news. I went to my boss with the story of the short traders, and he got the Commission to issue a formal order of investigation. That means we can get subpoenas and question the guys who were selling short so heavily before the dates you gave me.”

Cone takes a deep breath. “Jerry,” he says, “why did you do that? I thought you turned the whole deal over to the Federal DA. You contacted Hamish McDonnell—remember?”

“Well … yeah,” Bigelow says, “but why should they get all the credit? It was the SEC that uncovered it—right?”

Cone doesn’t comment on that. “You’ll get your share of the credit,” he tells the investigator, and then repeats what he said to Neal Davenport: “There’ll be enough glory to go around. Take my advice, Jerry, and give McDonnell a call before you go ahead with your subpoenas. Otherwise you’re going to find there are two identical investigations going on, with everyone walking up everyone else’s heels, and bad blood between you and the Feds.”

“You really think so?” Bigelow says worriedly.

“I really think so. Be smart and play it cool. Call McDonnell and tell him the SEC has launched a formal investigation and can issue subpoenas, but you don’t want to do it if it’ll interfere with what he’s doing. Be nice and you’ll score brownie points. And meanwhile, call your favorite reporters and leak just enough to get their juices flowing. Tell them it’s going to be the biggest Wall Street scandal since Boesky. They’ll jump at it.”

“Yeah,” Bigelow says happily, “I could do that.”

“Just make sure they spell your name right,” Cone says.

He hangs up, shaking his head in bemusement. He can’t understand all these headline-hungry guys. Cone couldn’t care less about personal aggrandizement, and he doesn’t give a tinker’s dam about the reputation of Haldering & Co. In a hundred years, who’ll remember all this shit?

But meanwhile it’s fun. By three o’clock he’s tooled his Ford Escort up to 45th Street. He finds a parking space around the block and walks back to join the small crowd of rubbernecks that’s appeared out of nowhere to watch the police raid on Paddy’s Pig.

There’s not much to see. No excitement. No wild-and-woolly shoot-outs. The tavern is blocked off by a jam of official and unmarked cop cars. There’s also an NYPD truck pulled up in front, flanked by a mobile TV van. Cone edges into the mob and watches.

There’s a parade of sweating cops going into Paddy’s Pig empty-handed and coming out lugging cartons, crates, unpacked television sets and VCRs. Then two come out wheeling a black motorcycle, and that’s hoisted into the truck.

Louie is brought out, cuffed, held firmly between two uniformed mastodons. He’s thrust into a squad car. A younger guy, similarly cuffed, is treated the same way. He’s grinning like a maniac. One of the Ryan brothers, Cone assumes. Finally Detective Davenport and ADA Hamish McDonnell exit from Paddy’s Pig and stand on the sidewalk, talking rapidly and gesturing.

The vehicles begin to pull away, the rubbernecks disperse. A non-event, Cone figures, and wonders why he bothered to show up. He’s about to leave when Hamish McDonnell spots him, yells, “Hey, Cone!” and beckons. Davenport gives him a wise-ass grin and goes back inside the bar.

“You sonofabitch,” McDonnell says furiously, “why the hell didn’t you tell me the NYPD was after David Dempster for the homicides?”

“Hey,” Cone says, “don’t get your balls in an uproar. First of all, you had no need to know. Those killings are a Department squeal—correct? I work with the locals just the way I work with you. Everyone gets a piece of the pie.”

McDonnell gives him a close look. “I gotta admit you didn’t shaft me. Those names you gave me are panning out. All we had to do with one guy was mention the name David Dempster, and he broke. Started blubbering. You know what worries him most? That we’ll take his vintage Daimler away from him. How d’ya like that?”

“Beautiful,” Cone says. “You got enough on the short-selling and sabotage?”

“We’re getting it,” the ADA says. “All these guys are going to do time. Maybe not a lot, but some.” Suddenly he becomes Mr. Nice. “Listen, Cone,” he says, “I’m sorry if I came on heavy. I apologize.”

“That’s okay. You’re entitled. You didn’t know me from Adam and probably figured I was handing you a crock.”

“Yeah, something like that. Tell me, how did you get onto David Dempster?”

“It was easy,” the Wall Street dick says. “I didn’t have anyone else.”

McDonnell laughs. “And what are you getting out of it?”

“I’ll get my reward in heaven.”

“Loser!” McDonnell jeers. Then: “Look, I owe you one. We’re taking David Dempster tomorrow at four o’clock at his office. Davenport will be there. You want to be in on the kill?”

“I got nothing better to do,” Timothy says.

Neal Davenport is waiting in the overchilled lobby of David Dempster’s steel and glass office building on Friday afternoon when Cone shows up. They waste no time in greetings.

“How you doing with Louie?” Timothy wants to know.

“We’re not ready to dance the fandango yet,” the NYPD man says, “but his lawyer sounds like he wants to make a deal. I think we’ll nail the Ryan brothers on the kills.”

“What about the sabotage?”

“My guess is that David Dempster was directing the whole operation, and paying for it. He gave the orders to Louie, and that shmegegi sent the Westies into action. It was a sweet setup. Louie was Dempster’s cutout; he never met the mugs who were doing his dirty work. So naturally they can’t finger him.”

“Yeah, that’s how I see it. But if Louie doesn’t talk, Dempster walks away from the homicide rap?”