Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 33, No. 2, July 1973

“You must have pretty complete files, counselor. It happened like that.”

“How many times in six months?”

“Five or six, to the best of my recollection. The phone books will tell you.”

“Back to that question then, Sol. What happened to the unpaid difference?”

“It was applied to the principal.”

“And began earning a five per cent vig?”

“Yeah.”

John Woolstock turned and addressed Esmond. “What happened here, Jim, was a total disaster to the Kessell Construction Company and its two partners. Three weeks after they borrowed the money from Public Opportunities, a wildcat carpenters’ strike halted all their home building. This strike went on for two months. The Kessells had to strain hard to meet notes due at their legitimate money sources and even harder to come up with the weekly payments to Public Opportunities. Within six months they were bankrupt and Paul Kessell was in the hospital on the critical list.”

“I was wondering when you were going to get to the meat of the case,” Sol said.

“The meat of the case?” Bemused, Woolstock raised his black brows.

“Conspiracy, usury, assault and battery, maiming.”

“Quite an indictment,” Woolstock said. “But the United States is not interest in any of it per se. If One-eye Ollie hadn’t taken Paul Kessell across a state line to collect a pound of flesh, we wouldn’t have been able to hold you.”

“Dumb bastard.”

“Lucky for Uncle Sam.”

“What have we been talking about then?”

“The Kessell case. Which is one of many. All alike in many ways, with a variety of endings, some happier, some much sadder. As you know, Sol, all too well.”

Woolstock found a cigarette and took his time about lighting it.

“Let’s follow the Kessell case to its bitter financial end. From what Peter Kessell tells us, and which I’m sure Sol’s phone books will verify, Kessell Construction over a period of six months paid to Public Opportunities the sum of one hundred and eleven thousand dollars and still owed ninety-six thousand. Is that about right, Sol?”

“You’ve been peeking, counselor.”

“Now let’s take a look at Public Opportunities Corporation. It holds title to a couple of parking lots and that’s all. So another question arises, Sol. Where did Oliver Pace obtain the money he lent Kessell Construction?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

“Of course we know. But tell Marie anyway.”

“He got it from us.”

“Who is us?”

“Truck Garden Distribution, Herman Ventura. Who else?”

“All of Truck Gardens’ corporate records indicate that it is operating a bare thread away from red ink. Now where in the world would Ventura raise a hundred grand overnight for the Kessells, not to mention all those other thousands and thousands he has out on the street right now?”

“You know that too, Mister Woolstock. It comes from Scarpino, and Scarpino gets it, as far as I know, from his gambling operations.”

“Does Scarpino appear himself with a satchelful of money upon demand?”

“No, not at all. I’ve never seen him in person. He sends that bird you mentioned from the bank. Martino — Martin, he calls himself now.”

“It’s not bank money though?”

“Hell, no. The receipt is always made out to the County Grain Company. Martin tucks it in his pocket and leaves.”

“Does Truck Garden ever repay County Grain?”

“Never. I guess there’s no such profit. They don’t tell me everything.”

“I understand that, Sol. But obviously Ventura doesn’t keep all the profits gleaned from this money Martin so readily turns over to him. Where does it go? Back to Martin?”

“Martin’s not on the receiving end. And we keep another set of records for this. In the Queens directory under B.”

“B for what?”

“B for Boss, which is what they all call Scarpino.”

Woolstock looked over at Esmond, who was already reaching for the telephone. “That’s right, John. Make sure the warrant includes all the directories, especially Queens.” Back to Sol, he said. “Exactly what is the financial arrangement, Sol, and how is it handled?”

“Well, the principal and interest of twenty per cent must be repaid at the end of a twelve-month period. This covers each transaction and no transaction is ever less than fifty thousand dollars.”

“Spell that out in a little more detail.”

“All it means is that Ventura is never allowed to take less than fifty grand, even though he may have an immediate need for only ten or twenty.”

“I see. Scarpino won’t condescend to deal in chickenfeed, like the non-existent County Grain.”

“I guess so.”

“On every hundred grand invested, Scarpino gets back within a year a hundred and twenty. Lovely. How much has he got out on the street right now, Sol? Give a guess.”

“I don’t have to guess. Two million one hundred and fifty.”

“That’s a clear profit of four hundred and thirty thousand. On that little game alone. And Ventura’s doing very well too, with all that overage on his rate of interest. Five hundred or so per cent per annum.”

“You add pretty well, counselor.”

“Do you know how much income Scarpino declared last year on his tax return?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Eighty-seven thousand.”

“Cool, cool.”

“Ventura declared only twenty-two thousand.”

“I declared more than that.”

“We know you did, Sol. You’ve got the makings of a good citizen. One-eye Ollie declared nothing. Not a cent.”

“Figures.”

“One more thing, Sol. How does Ventura get the shy lock money back to Scarpino if not through Martin.”

“It’s placed in a safe deposit box in the Broad Street Savings Bank. I often make the deposit myself, always cash. The box is in the name of J. Livingston. After each deposit the key is mailed directly to Guido Scarpino.”

Nearly a minute passed in silence. Woolstock broke it. “What do you think, Jim?”

“I think we’ve got the makings of a case, John,” Esmond said.

Sol Steinbach, isolated in a fairly comfortable cell, had a number of bad moments before the trial. The worst one was when a new guard tossed a folded piece of paper through the bars and moved away without a word.

Ten grand to slit your throat has been offered. And accepted. So long, rat.

Sol had the shakes until a Woolstock aide named Carlson arrived in response to his summons. The young lawyer read the typed note with a brow that grew deeper in furrows and then he arranged, within minutes, to have Sol removed from the cell in the county jail and transported secretly to a military installation.

At the trial a month later he tried, when testifying, to avoid Ventura’s eyes. He somehow didn’t worry too much about Scarpino because he didn’t really know him at all, and besides the old man seemed pretty tired, as if surrendering to an inevitable end. But Ventura’s smouldering gaze scorched him once without mercy.

One-eye wasn’t present. He’d been tried by the State on a variety of charges and found guilty. He was now doing time.

Mark Martin hadn’t been charged. The newspapers reported that no evidence had been developed to prove that he was any more than a glorified messenger boy for Scarpino. This grave misconception caused Steinbach to break out in a cold sweat.

Finally it was finished. Scarpino and Ventura were found guilty of income-tax evasion. Each was heavily fined. Scarpino drew a sentence of five to ten years, virtually life in his case. Ventura, only forty-one, got three to five.

Sol Steinbach’s skin crawled.

Appeal bonds were filed.

He suffered sleeplessly at night.