Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"Sorry," Harker said, "all my guys are out. What's your idea?"

Ullman described it to him. "It's a neat scam," he finished. "A variation of the good cop-bad cop routine. I've used it before, and it works. But I need someone who can put on an act."

"I think I could do it," Tony said.

"You sure?" Hank said. "If you blow it, I never will be able to get close to the guy."

"I won't blow it," Harker said. "Come on, let's do it today."

"Okay," Ullman said. "We both better take our cars because if this thing goes down, we won't be coming back together."

They discussed the details, and the Secret Service man drilled Tony on the role he was to play. Then they went out for hamburgers and fries before heading up Federal Highway.

They got to Boca Raton about three-thirty, Ullman leading the way in his dusty Plymouth. He pulled up in front of the Navigator Bar amp; Grill, signaled by waving an arm out the window, then drove away. Harker parked nearby, locked up, and walked back to the bar.

It was a long, narrow room, bar on the right, booths on the left. There were no customers. When Tony entered, the tall, rawboned barmaid put down the supermarket tabloid she was reading and gave him a gap-toothed smile.

"Am I ever glad to see youshe said. "I was beginning to wonder if we had a quarantine sign on the door.''

As instructed by Ullman, Harker went to the rear and took the last barstool.

"Want to be by your lonesome, huh?" the barmaid said, coming down to stand before him. "What can I get for you, honey?"

"Vodka on the rocks. Splash of water."

"Any special brand?"

"Nah," he said. "The house vodka will do. They're all alike."

"If you say so," she said, made his drink, and put it on a cork coaster in front of him.

He drank it off in four deep swallows and set the empty glass down.

"Another," he said.

"Hoo, boy," she said, "someone was thirsty. Take it easy, honey; the day is young."

He made no reply and she gave up on him, going back to her tabloid. After he finished his second drink, he deliberately knocked over the glass, spilling ice cubes onto the bar.

"Clean this up, will you?" he said.

"Sure," the barmaid said, mopping up. "Happen to anyone. Another?"

"Yeah," Harker said. "Make it a double. This lousy vodka's got no kick." He threw a twenty on the bar.

"You're the boss," she said, but she was no longer smiling.

As he worked on his drink, patrons began to straggle in, taking seats at the bar. Two couples arrived and took a booth. At four-thirty Henry Ullman came in and stood near the center of the bar.

Harker signaled the barmaid. "Another double," he said in a loud voice. "You sure you're not watering this booze?"

She didn't reply but poured him a refill. Then she went back to where Ullman was standing. She leaned across the bar and whispered to him, jerking her head in Tony's direction.

At five after five, precisely, a white-haired man entered the Navigator. Harker figured he had to be Mike Mulligan. He was small, skinny, in a three-piece suit of gray tropical worsted. And he was wearing hornrimmed specs. He went directly to the last booth and slid in. The barmaid was at his side almost instantly with a martini in a stemmed glass.

In about fifteen minutes, Tony glanced at Henry Ullman, and the big man nodded once. Tony got off his barstool and staggered slightly. He didn't have to fake that. He looked around a moment, then carried his drink over to Mike Mulligan's booth.

"Mind if I join you?" he said in a voice he hoped was suitably drunken.

"Yes, I would," Mulligan said. "I prefer to enjoy my drink alone."

"What're you, a goddamn hermit or something?" Harker said boozily. "Wassamatter, I'm not good enough for you?"

"Please," Mulligan said, staring straight ahead. "I just want to be left alone. All right?"

"Well, screw you, buster," Harker said in a loud voice. "I could buy and sell you any day of the week."

Now the bar had quieted, and all the customers were looking in their direction.

"I have to go now," Mulligan said, and tried to get out of the booth. But Harker blocked his way.

"I don't like your looks," he said. "You look like a real wimp to me."

The barmaid was heading toward the booth, hefting

an aluminum baseball bat. But Henry Ullman got there first. He put a meaty hand on Tony's shoulder, spun him around.

"Okay, buddy," he said, facing Harker toward the door. "Out!"

"What?" Tony said, wavering on his feet. "Who're you to-"

"You heard what I said. Out!"

Tony hesitated, then looked up at the big man. "Lis-sen," he said. "I was only-"

Ullman pushed him toward the door. "On your way," he said. "Go sober up."

Harker stumbled toward the street, mumbling to himself, not looking at the people he passed. The joint didn't relax until he was gone.

"Thank you, sir," Mike Mulligan said to Ullman. "What a nasty fellow that was."

"He's drunk," Hank said. "But there's no excuse for acting like that."

"You're absolutely right," Mulligan said, "and I appreciate your assistance. May I buy you a drink?"

"Only if you let me buy the next round."

"Why not?" said Mike Mulligan.

The best thing about this job, Roger Fortescue decided, was that his boss, Tony Harker, was letting him run free. None of this "Call me every hour on the hour" bullshit. Harker seemed to feel Roger was capable of figuring out what had to be done and then doing it. The investigator appreciated that. Maybe he moved slowly, but sooner or later he got there.

The worst thing about the job was that Estelle kept busting his balls about the hours he was keeping.

"I never know when you're coming home for dinner," she complained. "Or if you're coming home at all."

"It's my job, hon," he explained patiently. "It's what puts bacon on the table."

He looked up Frank Little's home address. It was way out in the boondocks, in Parkland north of Sample Road. Roger drove by slowly, but when he saw a sign on the fence, unleashed pit bulls, he decided not to stop. It was flatland with no cover or concealment, and Fortescue knew a stakeout would be impossible.

Little's home was really a ranch with a separate garage, outbuildings, and what looked big enough to be a three-horse stable. Roger figured the spread for maybe five acres. There was a guy on a sitdown power mower working one of the fields, and another guy with a long-handled net fishing dead palm fronds from the surface of a big swimming pool.

"Two million," Fortescue said aloud. "Sheet, three million!"

He drove back to Copans Road and cruised by the FL Sports Equipment layout. No activity. Just a car parked outside the office. And what a yacht that was! A 1959 white Cadillac convertible that appeared to be in mint condition. That grille! Those tailfins! Roger's Volvo seemed like a pushcart.

He noted again the boarded-up fast-food joint next to Little's place. That would be it, he suddenly decided; his home away from home.

He was right on time for dinner that night, bringing a five-pound boneless pork loin as a peace offering to Estelle. They put the pork in the fridge for the next day because she had already baked up a mess of chicken wings with hot barbecue sauce. They had that with home fries and pole beans. Beer for the adults, Cokes for the kids.

After dinner, Roger went upstairs, kicked off his loafers, and crashed for almost two hours, sleeping as if he had been sandbagged. Then he rose, changed to dungarees, checked his armament, and began assembling his Breaking amp; Entering kit: small crowbar, set of lockpicks, penlight, bull's-eye lantern, a shot-filled leather sap, binoculars, small transistor radio, and a cold six-pack of beer.

At about nine p.m. he drove back to Copans Road, past FL Sports Equipment, looking for a place to park. He finally located a likely spot, alongside a darkened garage that did muffler and shock replacements. He loaded up with his gear and trudged back to the deserted fast-food joint.