Lawrence Sanders - The seventh commandment

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"We're not going to pay him, are we?"

"No way," he said. "If we did, it would just be a down payment. He'd bleed us dry."

"So?" she said. "What are our options?"

He turned to stare at her. "Not many," he said. "Only one, in fact. We've worked too hard to split our take with a bastard like Sid."

She nodded. "Could Ramon handle it?" she asked him.

"He could, but I don't want to ask him. First of all, it's a personal thing, and Ramon has no need to know about you and Clayton. Second, it would give him too much of an edge on me. I'm afraid we'll have to handle this ourselves, babe. You willing?"

"Hell, yes!" she said, and he kissed her.

Chapter 26

Dora Conti figured she'd spend the day on Jewelry Row- West 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth-talking to merchants and salespeople, hoping to find answers to some of the questions nagging her. She was heading for the door when her phone rang, and she went back to answer it. The caller was Gregor Pinchik, the computer maven.

"Hiya, lady," he said. "Listen, I'm in my new place, my hardware is all hooked up, and after I check it out I'll be ready to roll. Probably by tomorrow. Meanwhile I've been making a lot of phone calls, trying to get a line on that Turner and Helene Pierce you gave me."

"Any luck?" she asked.

"Maybe yes, maybe no. There's a hacker in Dallas who's a good friend of mine. I've never met him, but we been talking on computers for years. He's paralyzed and works his hardware with a thing he holds between his teeth. You wouldn't believe how fast he is. Anyway, I asked him about this Turner Pierce, gave him the physical description and all, and he says it sounds like a young hustler who was operating in Dallas almost ten years ago. This guy's name was Thomas Powell, but the initials are the same so I figured it might be our pigeon. What do you think?"

"Could be," Dora said cautiously. "Wrongos who change their name usually stick to the same initials so they don't have to throw away their monogrammed Jockey shorts."

Pinchik laughed. "You're okay, lady," he said.

"What was this Thomas Powell up to?"

"Dallas hackers called him Ma Bell because his specialty was telephone fraud. He started out by developing a cheap whistle that had the same frequency the phone company used to connect long distance calls. You blew the whistle into a pay phone and you could talk to Hong Kong as long as you liked. He sold a lot of those whistles. Then, when the phone company got hip to that and changed their switching procedure, this Thomas Powell started making and selling blue boxes. Those are gadgets that give off tones that bypass the phone company's billing system and let you make free long distance calls. Listen, the guy was talented, no doubt about it."

"Didn't they ever nab him?"

"My pal says he always stayed one step ahead of the law. For instance, he never sold the whistles or blue boxes to the end-user; he always sold to a crooked wholesaler who sold to crooked retailers who sold to the crooked customers. Powell was always layers away from the actual fraud. By the time the cops traced the merchandise back to him, he was gone."

"Where to? Does your friend know?"

"He talked to a couple of local hackers and called me back. One guy says he heard that Thomas Powell took off for Denver when things got too hot for him in Dallas. I have some good contacts in Denver, and as soon as my machinery is up to speed I'm going to try to pick up Ma Bell's trail there. Okay?"

"Of course," Dora said. "It may turn out to be a false alarm, but it's worth following up. Did your Dallas friend say anything about Helene Pierce?"

"Nope. He says this Thomas Powell was a handsome stud with a lot of women on the string, but no one special. And no one in Dallas knew he had a sister; they thought he was a loner."

"Keep after him," Dora said, "and let me know if anything breaks."

"You got it, lady," Pinchik said.

Chapter 27

The bistro was on 28th Street between Lexington and Third, and nothing about it was attractive. The plate glass window needed a scrub, the rolled-up awning had tatters, and one pane of beveled glass in the scarred door had cracked and was patched with adhesive tape. Inside, it was obvious the designer had striven for intimacy and achieved only gloom.

Sidney Loftus strolled in and looked about curiously. He was wearing a tweed sport jacket and flannel slacks under his trench coat, and the Father Callaway collar was missing. Instead, a silk foulard square was knotted rakishly at his throat. He saw Helene Pierce seated alone in a back booth, lifted a hand in greeting, and sauntered slowly toward her. Only two of the dozen tables in the restaurant were occupied and, except for Helene's, the eight booths were empty.

"Good evening, luv," Sid said lightly. He hung his coat on a wall hook and slid into the booth opposite her. "What an elegant dump. I can't believe you dine here."

"I don't," Helene said. "Probably instant gastritis. But the drinks are big. I'm sticking to Tanqueray vodka."

"Sounds good to me," Loftus said. He signaled a waiter, pointed to Helene's glass, held up two fingers. "I was surprised to hear from you," he said. "I figured Turner might call, but not you."

"I thought we should get together," she said, looking at him directly. "In some place that Turner isn't likely to visit and where you wouldn't be recognized."

"My, my," he said, "that does sound mysterious. Then Turner doesn't know we're meeting?"

"No, he doesn't."

"Uh-huh," Sid said, and didn't speak while the dour, flat-footed waiter served their drinks, placing the glasses on little paper napkins that had a black Scottie printed on the front.

"Charming," Loftus said, holding up the napkin with his fingertips. "Real class. Well, whatever your motives, dearie, I'm happy to have a drink with you without Turner being present. Where is the lad tonight?"

"If you must know," she said, "he's out of town trying to raise fifty thousand bucks: your finder's fee."

Loftus sampled his drink. "Good," he pronounced. "Not quite chilled enough, but good. I can't believe raising fifty grand will be a problem. I'm sure the two of you have the funds available."

"I don't think you fully understand, Sid," Helene said earnestly. "Those 'mighty profits' you mentioned have yet to be realized. I admit the potential is there, but so far the actual receipts have been anemic. Clayton pays my rent and he's given me a few pinhead diamonds, but that's about it. The business at Starrett Fine Jewelry will pay off eventually-no doubt about it-but right now the returns are practically nil. Don't get me wrong, I'm not pleading poverty, but Turner will have to get a loan to come up with the fifty G's. And that means heavy vigorish, of course."

Sid took another sip of his drink and smiled bleakly. "Don't tell me you invited me to haggle over the price, Helene. Haggling is so demeaning, don't you think?"

"No," she said, "no haggling. Turner will come up with the fifty thousand. We don't have much choice, do we?"

"No choice at all," he agreed.

"But Turner expects some of that to come out of my take," she said stonily. "I don't like that. Which is why I wanted to talk to you privately."

"No disrespect intended, luv, but you don't mind if I have the teensiest-weensiest suspicion that Turner may have sent you to set me up."

"Listen to my proposition first," she advised, "and then make up your mind."

"I'm all ears," he said, smiling, and summoned the waiter for another round.

They waited silently while their fresh drinks were brought and the waiter left. Then Helene leaned across the table. She was wearing a V-necked sweater of heavy wool in periwinkle blue, and as she leaned forward the neckline gaped and he could see tawny skin, the softness of her unbound breasts.

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