Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

“Good tip,” he says, his raspy voice revealing neither joy nor enthusiasm. “You buying more?”

“Thinking about it.”

“How high do you think it’ll go?”

“Who knows?” she says. “Ten. Twelve maybe.”

“Twelve?” he says cautiously. “If it hits twelve, you think I should bail out?”

“Hey,” she says, “I’m not your financial adviser. I gave you a good tip. What you do with it is your business. And what about my business? What’s going to happen to Steiner Waste Control?”

“I’m working on it,” he says. “Listen, one of the reasons I called: Tony Ricci will be late for work tomorrow. There’s a family funeral, and I want him to be there. He’ll show up around noon. Okay?”

“I guess it’ll have to be,” Sally says. “It’ll screw up my truck schedules, but I’ll work it out.”

“You do that,” Corsini says. “And if you get any more tips, let me know.”

He hangs up abruptly, leaving Sally staring angrily at her dead phone. It infuriates her that she’s enabling that gonnif to make even one lousy buck. It’s she who’s breaking her nails digging through garbage from Bechtold Printing. All Corsini has to do is call his broker.

She drives to work early the next morning, checks in at the office, then crosses Eleventh Avenue to the Stardust Diner. Terry Mulloy and Leroy Hamilton are seated at the back table. Both men are working on plates of three eggs over with a ham steak, a mountain of home fries, a stack of toast with butter and jelly, and coffee with cream and sugar. Sally joins them.

“You’re both going to have coronaries,” she says, and tells Mabel to bring her a plain bagel and a cup of black coffee.

It’s payoff day, and she slips each man an envelope under the table.

“I thank you kindly,” Hamilton says, pocketing his hundred. “And the best part is my wife don’t know a thing about it.”

“How long is this going to last?” Mulloy wants to know.

“Till I tell you to stop,” Sally says. “What’s the matter-getting all worn out, poor baby? I can always find two other imbeciles to handle Bechtold Printing.”

“Nah,” Leroy says, “no call to do that. We like the job, don’t we, Terry?”

“Well, yeah,” the redheaded harp says. “The money’s good, but I’d like to know what’s going down. I don’t want to get my ass busted for a hundred a week.”

“You worry too much,” Sally says. “You know those three monkeys: See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil. That’s the way you monkeys should be.”

At about the same time, a silver gray Cadillac limousine pulls into a No Parking space in front of the marquee of the Hotel Bedlington on upper Madison Avenue.

“What’re we stopping here for?” Angelo asks.

“Vic,” Mario Corsini says, “we got plenty of time to get downtown for the meet. I figured we’d grab some breakfast. You like it here. The French toast-remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Angelo says. “Good idea.”

They get out of the car. The uniformed doorman comes forward, and Corsini slips him a sawbuck. “Take care of it,” he says. “You have any trouble, we’ll be in the dining room.”

“No trouble, sir,” the doorman says. “No trouble at all.”

The cavernous dining room is almost deserted; just one wimp by himself and two old ladies together, sipping tea and nibbling on dry rye toast. The two men take a corner table so their backs are against the wall. Vic Angelo orders a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, French toast with plenty of butter and syrup, and decaf coffee. Mario Corsini has warm blueberry muffins and regular coffee, black.

“Nice quiet place,” Angelo says, looking around.

“Yeah,” Corsini says. “You could plan a revolution in here and no one would be the wiser. Also, it gives me a chance to speak my piece.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Angelo says, groaning. “Not that Steiner thing again. Lay off, Mario. We been over that twice, and what I said still goes.”

“I gotta tell you, Vic, I called and leaned on her. She gave me that stock tip she told us about. I played it-on my own, Vic, on my own-and it’s almost doubled in a week.”

Angelo stares at him, face rigid. “That wasn’t very smart, Mario. I told you I want no part of Wall Street. We’re going to take over the Steiner dump and that’s it.”

“Vic, will you listen just for a minute,” Corsini says, leaning over the table. “She wasn’t conning us; she really does have an inside pipeline. Maybe I’ll triple my stake. Jesus, we can make more with her than we can from garbage and linen supply. And the-”

But then their breakfasts are served, and neither man speaks until the waiter moves away.

“And the best part,” Corsini continues earnestly, “is that we don’t have to kick anything upstairs. Let’s face it, Vic, we’re hired hands. Messenger boys-right? Sure, we collect plenty, but how much sticks to our fingers after we pay our dues and grease the lousy politicians, the cops, the union guys, and everyone else and their uncles? This thing with Sally Steiner is a nice clean deal. What we make is what we keep. No dues, no payoffs.”

“You’re talking shit,” Angelo says, smothering his French toast with butter and syrup and beginning to wolf it down. He talks with his mouth full. “How long do you think it would take Fat Lonny to find out what’s going on? He’s no dope. Then he’ll want to know why we didn’t cut him in, and our ass is in a sling. Just forget about it, will ya, and let me finish my breakfast in peace. No more stock deals with Sally Steiner. As soon as the papers are ready, we’re moving in on her. And that’s final.”

“If you say so, Vic. You’re the boss.”

They finish their food in silence, then light up cigars from Mario’s gold Dunhill. When they get up to leave, Corsini stays behind a moment to inspect the check. He leaves enough cash on the table to cover it, with a generous tip.

They exit from the hotel together. Their Cadillac is still parked in front of the marquee.

Corsini slaps his jacket pocket. “Shit,” he says, “I must have left my lighter on the table. I’ll be right back.”

He reenters the hotel. Vic Angelo gets into the front seat on the passenger side. He has closed the door when a young man comes out from between parked cars behind the limousine. He’s wearing a black raincoat with the collar turned up and a black slouch hat with the brim pulled down.

He walks swiftly to the Cadillac. He pulls an automatic pistol from the pocket of his raincoat. He sticks his arm through the open window and fires four rapid shots into the startled face of Vic Angelo.

Then he walks quickly to a car double-parked north of the hotel. He gets in. The car pulls away.

The doorman, hearing the shots, comes running from the lobby. Mario Corsini comes running from the hotel. Pedestrians come running from all directions. They peer into the front seat of the limousine where Vic Angelo lies sprawled in a fountain of blood, still spouting. His face and half his head are blown away.

“Oh, my God,” the doorman cries.

“I saw who done it,” someone shouts. “It was a guy in a black raincoat.”

“Call the police,” someone yells.

“There’s never a cop around when you need one,” says Mario Corsini.

Sally Steiner wasn’t born yesterday; after watching TV reports and reading newspaper accounts of the assassination at the Hotel Bedlington, she makes a shrewd guess at what actually went on and who’s responsible. It’s no skin off her teeth. Let the bastards kill each other; she couldn’t care less.

The only thing that concerns her is how the death of Angelo is going to affect the future of Steiner Waste Control. She doesn’t have to wait long to find out. Three days after the murder, she gets a call at the office from Mario Corsini.