Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"Shouldn't be too difficult. I still have some good contacts in the bank biz. Do I get an office?"

"Afraid not. We're cramped for space as it is. You'll have to settle for a desk and phone in the bullpen."

"I'll manage," the investigator said.

The first thing Henry Ullman did was to go shopping for clothes. He had come down from D.C. wearing a three-piece, navy blue, pin-striped suit, and he saw at once it might attract a lot of unwanted attention in south Florida. So he bought four knitted polo shirts in pink, lavender, kelly green, and fire-engine red; two pairs of jeans, khaki and black; and a polyester sports jacket in a hellish plaid.

He went back to his motel room to change and inspected himself in a full-length mirror. "Jesus!" he said. Then he went back to the office and started making phone calls. He worked until almost midnight, then found a steakhouse on the Waterway and treated himself to a twenty-four-ounce rare sirloin, baked potato, double portion of fried onion rings, and two bottles of Molson ale.

On the second day he looked up James Bartlett in the Pompano Beach phone directory. None listed. But there was one in the Fort Lauderdale directory and Ull-man hoped that was his pigeon. To make sure, he changed back into his vested pinstripe and drove out to Bay view Drive in his rented Plymouth.

He whistled when he saw the homes in that neighborhood: big, sprawling places with a lot of lawn, palm trees, and usually a boat on a trailer sitting in front of a three-car garage. There were gardeners and swimming-pool maintenance men at work, and the parked cars Ullman saw were Cadillacs, Mercedeses, and top-of-the-line Audis. He figured no one who lived on that stretch of Bay view was drawing food stamps.

He parked, locked the Plymouth, and marched up to the front door of the Bartlett residence. When he pushed the button, there was no bell, but melodious chimes sounded out "Shave and a haircut, two bits."

The man who opened the door was a short roly-poly with a wispy mustache that didn't quite make it. He was wearing Bermuda shorts that revealed pudgy knees, and his fat feet were bare.

"Mr. James Bartlett?" Ullman asked.

He got no answer. "Who're you?" the guy said, giving him a slow up-and-down.

"Sam Henry from Madison, Wisconsin, sir. I'm with the First Farmers' Savings and Loan up there. I'm sure you don't remember me, but I met you at the Milwaukee convention years and years ago."

"Oh? The one where I gave the keynote speech?"

Ullman wasn't about to get tripped up by a trick question like that. "To tell you the truth," he said, laughing, "I was so smashed for the entire convention, I don't remember who gave the speeches or what they talked about."

The man smiled. "Yes," he said, "it was rather wet, inside and out. Sure, I'm Jim Bartlett. What can I do for you?"

"The wife's got arthritis bad, and the doc thinks she'd do better in a warm climate. So I came down to south Florida to scout the territory. I hear it's booming."

"It's doing okay. This year."

"Well, I heard you had relocated here, and I thought I'd look you up and chew the fat awhile."

"I'd ask you in," Bartlett said, "but the house is full of relatives down for the season."

"That's okay," Ullman said. "This won't take but a minute. If we move down here, I'll have to find a slot. I was wondering if you know of any local banks looking for experienced officers."

"What's your specialty?"

"Home mortgage loans."

Bartlett shook his head. "I don't know of anything open at the moment, but I'll ask around. If I hear of anything I'll let you know. How do I get in touch with you?"

Ullman fished in his pocket. ''Here's the card of the motel where I'm staying. It's a ratty place, and I'm looking for something better. If I leave, I'll give you a call. All right?"

"Sure," Bartlett said, taking the card. "Sam Henry of the First Farmers' S and L in Madison-right?"

"You've got it," Ullman said.

Bartlett nodded and pumped the big man's hand. "Nice to see you again, Sam," he said, and closed the door softly.

Ullman drove back to the office and asked Tony Harker for ten minutes. He related the details of his meeting with James Bartlett.

"He's a cutie," he said. "I'll bet he's on the phone right now calling First Farmers' in Madison. But that's okay; I set up my cover with them. They were happy to cooperate with the Secret Service. Here's what I've got on Bartlett so far: He did a year and nine for bank fraud. He's only been in south Florida for seven years, but his most recent tax return shows an adjusted gross of more than eight hundred thousand, and that house he lives in has got to go for a million, at least. He lists himself as a bank consultant, but no one in banking down here has ever heard of him. Or so they say. Something ain't kosher."

"Yeah," Tony said, and pondered a moment. Then: "Hank, that business of Rathbone having our agent open a phony account at the Crescent Bank in Boca-how do you figure that?"

"I don't. A scam of some kind, but it's hard to tell what's going down."

"So what's your next move?" Harker asked. "Tail Bartlett?"

"I don't think so," Ullman said. "In that neighborhood he'd spot my dusty Plymouth in a minute. How about if I take a different angle. According to that transcript, Bartlett has Mike Mulligan of the Crescent Bank in his hip pocket. Suppose I drive up to Boca and get a look at this Mulligan. I'd like to know what the connection is."

"Sounds good to me," Harker said. "Maybe you can turn Mulligan. The only way we're going to flush this gang is by getting someone to sing."

"I'll give it the old college try," Hank said, rose to leave, then paused at the door. "By the way, Bartlett is married. Three kids. The oldest, a girl of nineteen, OD'd on heroin about two years ago."

They stared at each other.

"You better get up to Boca as soon as possible," Tony said.

"I think so," Ullman said.

He explained to her that once a month the five men in the Palace gang met for a night of poker. The party was held in their homes, on a rotating basis, and tonight was Rathbone's turn.

"It's strictly stag," he told Rita. "No women allowed. I had Blanche make up a dozen sandwiches, and we'll mix our own drinks. The guys will be over around six o'clock. The rule is that no matter who's winning or losing, or how much, the game ends promptly at midnight. So I want you to take off at six and don't come back until after twelve. All right?"

"And what am I supposed to do for six hours?"

"Go shopping. Have dinner at some nice place. Take in a movie. Spend! You like to spend, don't you? Here are two yards; go enjoy yourself."

"Okay," she said. "Have a good time and win a lot of money, hon."

"I intend to," he said.

After she left, he put all the bottles of booze out on the countertop in the kitchen, along with containers of lemon peel, lime wedges, pearl onions, and some fresh mint for Jimmy Bartlett, who had a fondness for juleps. Glasses were lined up, and there was a big bucket of ice cubes with more in the freezer.

The doorbell rang a little before six o'clock, and

Rathbone put on a pair of rose-tinted sunglasses before he opened up.

"Good evening, girls," he said, giving them his high-intensity smile. "Thank you for being so prompt."

Their names were Sheila and Lorrie, and both were dancers at the Leopard II, a nudie joint on Federal Highway. They were in their early twenties. Sheila did two lines of coke a day, and Lorrie had a four-year-old dyslexic son.

David took two envelopes from the inside pocket of his suede sports jacket and handed one to each woman. "Payable in advance," he said, still smiling. "And a nice tip before you leave if you do a good job."

"But no push?" Lorrie said.