Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

Back at the motel, Rita climbed into bed fully clothed. Still shivering, she pulled sheet and blanket up to her chin. Tony made her a cup of black coffee and brought it to her with a pony of cognac.

"Can't have you getting sick," he told her. "You're too valuable."

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched as she sipped coffee and brandy.

"That's better," she said. "I'm beginning to thaw. I really got a chill. I've never been sick a day in my life, and I sure don't want to start now."

He leaned back against the footboard. "Rita, how come you joined the police? Was your father a cop, or maybe a brother?"

"Nah, I'm an only child. And my father was a carpenter. He died five years ago. What happened was that a girlfriend was going to take the police exam and talked me into going along with her and taking it, too. Well, she flunked, and I passed. So then I thought, why not? It sounded more exciting than a typing job or working at K-Mart."

"Ever regret it?"

"Never. It's been a hoot. Something new and different every day. I love it. Honey, turn off the light, will you. It's shining in my eyes."

He switched off the overhead light. When the brightness faded, their voices lowered, almost becoming murmurs.

"Do you plan to get out of it someday?" he asked. "Marry, settle down, have kids?"

"Who can plan a life? Looking ahead is a drag. I just take it day by day. When it gets routine, maybe I'll look around for a change. But right now I'm having a ball. How about you?"

"I like what I'm doing, and I happen to think it's worthwhile. There are worse ways to earn a living than putting crooks behind bars. Listen, Rita, I'd like to ask you something, but I'm afraid you'll get angry."

"Why don't you ask and find out."

"You're not falling for Rathbone, are you?"

She finished coffee and cognac, and leaned out of bed to put cup and glass on the floor. "I honestly don't know how I feel about him," she admitted. "Sometimes he can be so sweet and considerate that I have to keep reminding myself that he's an out-and-out thief. Also, he knows how to treat a woman. He washes my hair, gives me a super massage, goes shopping for clothes with me. And he's always giving me unexpected gifts. It's hard to hate a guy like that."

"I can imagine," Tony said.

"But I know I've got a job to do," she went on. "If I ever get to the point where the way I feel about him interferes with that job, I'll tell you and ask you to pull me out. Okay?"

"Sure," he said. "And not only for the sake of the job. Getting involved with that guy could be dangerous for you."

"I can handle it," she said. "Hey, I'm all warmed up now. So what I'm going to do is get undressed. And let nature take its course. How does that grab you?"

Just before nature took its course, she held his face between her palms, peered closely into his eyes.

"Are you sure you're not jealous?" she whispered. "Of David?"

"Maybe," he said. "Maybe I am. Because he spends so much more time with you than I can."

"That's sweet," she said. "Which means we'll have to make the most of the time we do have. Right?"

"Right," he said, and gently pulled her closer.

"Don't be afraid, honey," she said. "I bend, but I don't break."

The living room of Frank Little's ranch was decorated in faux Texan: Indian rugs on the polished wood floor; deer antlers on the whitewashed walls; exposed beams overhead; a gun rack; sling chairs covered with pony hides. Looking at this set for a Western movie, and then inspecting Little in his silk slacks and sports shirt unbuttoned to the waist, hairless chest festooned with gold chains and amulets, David Rathbone could only think of the classic definition of a would-be Texan: "All hat; no cattle."

The five men were served drinks and cigars by Jacques, Little's Haitian houseboy. Jacques was nineteen, olive-skinned, sloe-eyed. He would last a year. Little replaced his houseboys annually, all clones of Jacques.

Rathbone waited until all five had drinks and Jacques had left the room. Then he said, "Here's what this is all about."

He outlined the proposed commodity trading fund, dealing only in "controlled substances," meaning marijuana, cocaine, heroin, and other illicit drugs. The fund would buy and sell options and futures, making a profit by the spread between buy and sell orders, and from the investors, who would, of course, be unaware of the true nature of the commodities being traded.

Bartlett would sign buy contracts with his clients. Little would sign sell contracts with his customers. Mort Sparco would organize the fund and peddle shares of the penny stock to his local accounts. Sid Coe would push the shares in his boiler room. Rathbone would serve as comptroller and chief executive officer.

"But none of us risks his own money," he said. "Start-up cash comes from Mort's suckers and Sid's mooches. We start out small and see how it goes. If it looks like a winner, we tie up with bucket shops all over the country and with penny stock brokers in Denver, giving them a piece of the action. All profits are split evenly five ways. How does it sound?"

"Let me get this straight," Frank Little said. "You want me to get my customers to sign contracts to buy?"

"Right," Rathbone said. "The drugs will be given code names, and you'll set a price for delivery in three, six, nine, and twelve months. Jimmy will do the same with the imports. The only way this is going to work is by analyzing what the future market will be like: how big the supply, how big the demand."

"I think you got a hot idea," Sparco said. "But take my advice and forget about trying to push options and futures. My pigeons just don't understand them. Buy low and sell high-that they can understand. But not the mechanics of future and option trading."

"Ditto the suckers on my lists," Coe said. "My yaks have a limited time to close a deal. They've got to keep their pitch short and sweet."

"That's what I told David," Bartlett said. "My clients work on a simple business principle: make a sale, get cash on delivery. They're willing to sign contracts at preset prices, but they know nothing about options."

"All right," Rathbone said, "then let's stick to basics. We set up the fund financed by sucker money. We pull a Ponzi to keep the early investors eager. But we invest the bulk of the cash in purchases for future delivery. Jimmy, can you trust your clients to honor signed contracts?"

"Some of them, sure. I know which ones we can trust. But buying the stuff is less a risk than selling it. Frank, will your customers honor a signed contract if, say, the price drops before you deliver? You follow? I mean if you promise H at 18K a kilo in six months, and then in six months the going price falls to 16K a kilo, will your guys ante up the 18K or will they renege?"

"Some of them will welsh," Little said. "But some I deal with have this big macho honor thing; they'll pay what they agreed on even if they have to take a bath."

They all fell silent as Jacques padded in with a tray of fresh drinks. They waited until he left the room before resuming their discussion.

"What about timing on this?" Rathbone asked. "Mort, how long will it take to set up the fund and get the shares printed?"

"A week or ten days. No more than that. My paper-man works fast, and he turns out beautiful stuff. Old engravings on the shares. They really look legit."

"And what about you, Sid?" David' said. "It shouldn't take long to write a script for your yaks on the new fund."

"I could do it tonight," Coe said, "if I knew what the name was. What are we going to call this thing?"

They stared at each other a moment.

"How about the Croesus Commodity Trading Fund?" Bartlett suggested.

Rathbone shook his head. "It won't fly," he said.