Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"You're too young for retirement," Sparco said, still smiling. "Your company transfer you down here?"

"Not exactly. My parents live in Lauderdale, and I thought it would be nice to be closer to them. I'm a freelance writer for how-to magazines-you know, like Home Mechanics-and you can do that from anywhere."

"Fascinating," Sparco said. "Why don't you come back to my office and talk about your investment aims."

"My aim is to make money," Clark said.

"You've come to the right place," Sparco said. "This way, please."

The office was all leather, chrome, and glass, and smelled of cigar smoke. The entire rear wall was covered with a mural: a Florida beach scene with sand, palm trees, sailboats on the ocean, pelicans in the sky. The painted sun looked like a toasted English muffin.

The two men sat at either end of a tawny leather couch and turned to face each other.

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Sparco," Clark said. "I've never bought a share of stock in my life. I know zilch about the market. But I've become dissatisfied with the rates I'm getting on my savings account and CDs."

"Completely understandable," the broker said.

"I've been doing some reading on stock investing and learned that discount brokers may charge as little as half the commissions of the big brokerage houses, but they don't provide a full range of services."

"Generally that's true. But at Sparco, while our fees are competitive with those of other discount brokers, we pride ourselves on offering services the others don't. Most of them are merely order-takers. But at Sparco we believe in personalized service, tailored to our clients' needs. Tell me, Mr. Clark, how much were you thinking of investing?"

"Well, I thought I'd start slow, sort of dip my toes in the water. I'm sure you'll think it's chicken feed, but I'd like to begin with ten thousand dollars."

The broker leaned forward, very earnest. "Let me tell you something: At Sparco we treat a client with ten thousand exactly the same way we treat one with ten million. We take our responsibility to all our clients very seriously, and provide the most up-to-date information and the best advice we possibly can. You say you are dissatisfied with the current rates on your CDs. Does that mean you're willing to assume a limited amount of risk to increase your yields?''

"Well. . not too much risk."

"Of course not. Sparco wouldn't put you in anything where the risk-benefit ratio is not in your favor. But occasionally we learn of special situations that demand fast decisions. I would advise you to open a discretionary account with us. That will authorize Sparco to buy and sell in your name, on your behalf. It relieves you of the need to watch your portfolio every day. After all, you're just interested in results. Am I correct?"

"That's right."

"And, with your approval, we can trade on margin in your account. That will give you a lot more leverage; your ten thousand can have the clout of fifteen or even more."

"Sounds good to me," Clark said.

Mortimer Sparco leaned closer and lowered his voice. "In addition," he said, almost whispering, "we help make the market in certain specialized stocks that are not listed on the exchanges. They customarily sell for less than a dollar a share and represent ownership in new companies with an enormous potential for growth. Sparco has a select group of clients who have done very well with these little-known equities. I think you'd be amazed at how fast your money can double, even triple, with stocks that most investors never even heard of."

"With no risk?" the attorney asked.

"There is risk in every investment, even government bonds. But in this case the risk is minimal and the possible profits simply unbelievable."

"Then let's do it."

"You're making a wise decision, Mr. Clark. Now if you'll just step over to my desk, there are a few documents I'd like you to sign."

She loved to drive the Bentley.

"It's so solid," she said. "And it even smells of money."

So she was at the wheel as they headed up A1A to Boca Raton. Traffic was surprisingly light going northward, but out-of-state cars, jammed with vacationers, were flocking south.

Rathbone sat relaxed, smoking his first cigarette of the day.

"After you finish at the bank," he said, "let's have lunch in Boca, maybe do some shopping. We'll get back in time to catch some sun on the terrace."

"Sounds good to me."

"Nervous?" he said.

"Nah. You said it will be a piece of cake."

"Sure it will," he said. "Just sail in, pick up the money, and sail out. You'll do fine."

They parked in front of the bank. Rita got out, and David slid over behind the wheel.

"I'll be right here," he told her. "I'm not going anyplace."

She nodded and marched into the bank. Rathbone spent the next twenty minutes making "air bets," declaiming them aloud: "I'll bet fifty that the next woman to come out of the bank will be wearing blue.

"I'll bet a hundred that the next man to come around the corner will have a mustache.

"I'll bet a thousand that the next car to park will be a white two-door."

And so on.

By the time Rita returned, he was two hundred dollars ahead, which he took as a good omen.

She opened the door on the passenger side, slid onto the leather seat. She tossed a fat manila envelope into his lap. "Bingo!" she said.

He smiled and leaned to kiss her lips. "Any problems?" he asked.

"Nope. They wanted to give me a bank check, but I told them I was flying home to San Antonio tonight and needed the cash. So they came across."

"Beautiful," he said.

He took a thousand in hundred-dollar bills from the envelope and handed them to her.

"Invest it wisely," he said.

"With you?"

"You could do worse," he said. "Now let's go eat. I know a place that makes a great chef's salad."

"Can I have a hamburger instead?"

"You can have anything you want," he said, and kissed her again. "Partner," he said.

They had a nice, relaxed lunch, did a little shopping at the Town Center, then headed home.

"Can we pull that bank dodge again?" she asked him.

"Oh-ho," he said. "Getting ambitious, are you?"

"It's so easy," she said.

"Sure it is. The problem is whether or not to use the

Gloria Ramirez ID again, and if we do, hit another Boca bank or try somewhere else. I'll have to think about it."

"Who printed up that queer check?" she asked idly, staring out the side window.

"A genius," he said, and she didn't push it.

An hour later they were lying naked on the terrace lounges. The sun was behind a scrim of high cloud cover, but it was strong enough to cast shadows and hot enough to make them sweat. They drank iced tea from a thermos.

"I'm going to have to change my plans," he said.

"What plans?"

"A schedule I had mapped out. I was going to give it maybe another six months and then retire, get out of the game."

She raised her head to look at him. "What about me?"

"Not to worry," he said. "I'll take care of you; you know that. But this check scam changes things. The possibilities are tremendous if it's handled right. Also, something else came up the other night that could be a gold mine. So I think I'll stick around for a while."

"Where were you going?"

"Oh. . there are a lot of places in this world I haven't seen yet."

"When you decide to go, can I go with you?"

"We'll see. Let's take another half-hour of sun and then go shower."

"And then what?"

"You know what," he said.

That night they dined at an Italian restaurant on Atlantic Boulevard, and David ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon to celebrate their triumph at the Crescent

Bank. Then they drove to the Grand Palace and found the gang already assembled at the big table in the Lounge. Rita sat in one of the mate's chairs and watched as Rathbone beckoned James Bartlett over to the bar. The two men stood close together, talking with lowered heads.