Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

Eddie’s phone rings. Three times. Then stops.

“That’s Paul,” he says. “He’ll be up in about ten minutes. You can get dressed now. I got some good stuff. But I’ll need a couple more sessions.”

“Sure,” she says. “Anytime.”

To her surprise, she finds she’s no longer self-conscious, and when Eddie helps her hook up her bra in back, she thinks it’s a nice, brotherly thing for him to do. By the time Paul Ramsey shows up, Sally is dressed and sipping a glass of their lousy chianti.

Paul is a tall blond with a sweet smile and more teeth than he really needs. He’s got a laid-back manner, and Eddie says that when the world blows up, Paul is going to be the one who murmurs, “Oh, yeah? Cool.”

Sally has already decided what she wants to do. She’s going to continue picking through Bechtold Printing trash. But if she finds another lead on a takeover, merger, or buyout, she can’t invest in her own name, or in the name of anyone else connected with Steiner Waste Control. Too risky. And the stock purchase has got to be less than 10,000 shares.

“Paul,” she says, “I got a proposition for you.”

“Sorry,” he says with his seraphic grin, “my evenings are occupied.”

She tells him what she wants. She’ll give him the name of a stockbroker. He’s to open an account by purchasing shares of AT amp;T. She’ll give him the money. After that, he’ll buy and sell on her instructions.

“I’ll pay all the losses,” she says. “You get five percent of the profits. How about it?”

The two men look at each other.

“Go for it, Paul,” Eddie Steiner advises. “My little sister is a financial genius.”

“Okay,” Paul Ramsey says, shrugging. “Why not?”

Sally has come prepared. She hands over a manila envelope with $2,500 in cash and the name and phone number of her stockbroker.

“Stick with me, kid,” she tells Paul, kissing his cheek, “and you’ll be wearing diamonds.”

“I prefer emeralds,” he says.

She goes back to the office, pondering her next move. She’s walking from her parking slot when she meets Anthony Ricci. The kid is wearing tight jeans and a Stanley Kowalski T-shirt, and he looks beautiful.

“Hey, Tony,” Sally says. “How’s it going? You like the job?”

“No,” he says with his 100-watt smile, “but the money is good.”

“All money is good,” she tells him. “The loading-you can handle it?”

“Sure,” he says. “I’ve done worse. Maybe someday I’ll be a driver-no?”

“Why not? We have a lot of turnover. Hang in there, kiddo.”

She goes into her office, parks her feet on her desk, and tries to figure how to paw through the Bechtold garbage without endangering Steiner Waste Control. She decides she can’t do it by herself. She’s got to use fronts, some bubbleheads who won’t have a glimmer of what she’s doing. She looks out the window and sees Terry Mulloy and Leroy Hamilton wheeling onto the tarmac to dump their load. “Oh, yeah,” Sally breathes.

The next morning, at breakfast, Jake Steiner says to his daughter, “You better take your car. I’ll be gone all afternoon. I got things to do.”

“Sure, pa,” she says. “I’ll drive in.”

They don’t look at each other. She knows about his “things to do.” He’s going to shtup his twist in Brooklyn.

He drives to the dump in his Cadillac and she follows in her Mazda. By the time she arrives at the office, Jake is on his second cigar and third black coffee. He’s also nibbling on a tot of schnapps from a bottle he keeps in his desk.

“You’re killing yourself, pa,” Sally says.

“Tell me about it,” he says, not looking up from his Times.

She keeps glancing out her window, watching for the big Loadmaster crewed by Mulloy and Hamilton. Finally, a little after noon, she sees it coming in. She knows the guys are going to take their lunch break. She grabs her shoulder bag and goes running out. She has to wait until they wash up in the locker room.

“Hey, you bums,” she says. “Want a free lunch?”

“Whee!” Leroy says. “Christmas in May. What’s the occasion, Sally baby?”

“She wants to make nice-nice,” Terry says. “I told you she’d come around eventually.”

“This is strictly business, you schmuck,” Sally says. “Come on, let’s go over to the Stardust.”

She picks out a table in a back corner of the diner. They give Mabel their order: three cheeseburgers, home fries, cole slaw, and beer.

“Can either of you guys get hold of a pickup or a van?” she asks them.

They look at each other.

“What for?” Mulloy says.

“It’s a special job. I need a pickup every Tuesday and Thursday. I want you to load it with the barrels of Bechtold Printing scrap, drive out to my house in Smithtown, and leave the barrels in the garage. The next Tuesday or Thursday when you bring the new barrels out, you pick up the old ones and bring them back here to the dump for baling. Got that?”

“What’s this all about?” Terry asks.

“It’s about an extra hundred a week for each of you. In cash. Off the books.”

They think about that awhile, chomping their cheeseburgers.

“I got a cousin with an old, beat-up Chevy van,” Hamilton says slowly. “I could maybe borrow it on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Probably get it for five bucks a shot and gas.

“I’ll pay,” Sally says promptly. “However you want to work it. Just get those Bechtold barrels out to Smithtown twice a week. I’ll rig your Tuesday and Thursday schedules so you’ll have plenty of time to make the round trip. Maybe one of you better stick in town on the big truck, and the other guy makes the drive out to the Island in the van.”

“But we get a hundred each?” Mulloy says.

“That’s right. Per week. Cash. Off the books.”

“No trouble with the buttons?” Hamilton says.

“What trouble?” Sally says. “Anyone asks questions, you know from nothing; you’re just following the orders of the boss.”

“Sounds good to me,” Mulloy says, glancing at Hamilton.

“I’ll play along,” Hamilton says.

She goes back to the office, sets to work rearranging pickup schedules. She lightens up on Mulloy and Hamilton’s Tuesday and Thursday assignments so one or both of them will be able to work in the round trip to Smithtown. It’s about three o’clock, and Jake is long gone in his Cadillac, when Judy Bering comes into her office.

“There’s a woman on the phone,” she says. “She’s crying. Sounds hysterical. Something about your father.”

“Jesus,” Sally says, knowing this can’t be good. “All right, put her on my line.”

She listens awhile to the wails, the sobs, the incoherent babbling. Finally she figures out what has happened.

“What’s your name?” she says sharply, interrupting the woman’s desperate howls.

“What? What?”

“Your name. What’s your name?”

“Dotty. My name is Dotty.”

“Dotty what?”

“Uh, Dotty Rosher.”

“All right now, Dotty, listen to me. Lock your door and get dressed. Go into the living room and just sit there. Don’t do a goddamn thing. Don’t call anyone or talk to anyone. I’m coming to help you. To help you, Dotty. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Now give me your address and phone number.”

She makes quick notes, hangs up, then has the presence of mind to go to the office safe. They keep the petty cash in there, but it’s hardly “petty”-almost five thousand in small bills in case the local cops come around, or the fire inspectors, plumbing inspectors, electrical inspectors, sanitation inspectors. The petty cash is not for bribes, exactly. Just goodwill.

Sally grabs up a handful of twenties and fifties, stuffs them in her shoulder bag. She stalks out, grim-faced.