Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"I should do that much business every night," the bartender said.

He went back to his chores. Rathbone reached into his inside jacket pocket to make sure the envelope was there. Then he lighted a cigarette and sipped his vodka gimlet. Now that the time had come, he found he was calm, acting normally, hands steady.

He had just started his second gimlet when two men came in through the side entrance. Rathbone inspected them in the bar mirror. They matched Bartlett's description of the Corcoran brothers: short and burly with reddish hair cut in Florida flattops. Both were wearing cotton plaid sports jackets over black T-shirts. They took a corner table, and one of them came over to the bar.

"Beer," he said curtly.

"They almost cleaned me out last night," Ernie apologized. "All I got left is Miller's."

The man nodded. "Two bottles," he said.

He paid, then carried the bottles and glasses back to the table. The brothers sat stolidly, drinking their beers, not conversing. Rathbone finished his drink.

"More of the same," he called.

When Ernie started mixing his drink, David slid off the barstool and went into the men's room. He checked both stalls. Empty. He glanced at himself briefly in the mirror over the sink, then waited, not looking in the mirror again. In a few minutes one of the Corcoran brothers entered. He stared at Rathbone.

"From Jimmy Bartlett?" David asked.

The man nodded.

"The guy should be here any minute. He'll come through the side door. He's tall, skinny, and may be wearing a black suit. He'll join me at the bar, and we'll have a drink together. I'll slip him a white envelope. He'll probably take off first, but if he doesn't, I'll take off and leave him alone. He drives an old pickup truck. It'll be parked outside in the lot."

"Our fee's in the envelope?" Corcoran asked. His voice was unexpectedly high-pitched, fluty.

"That's right."

Corcoran nodded again, stepped to a urinal and unzipped his fly. David left hurriedly, went back to the bar, took a gulp of his new drink.

It was almost fifteen minutes before Termite Tommy showed up. He saw Rathbone at the bar and came over to stand next to him.

"Hey, Tommy!" David said heartily. "Happy New Year!"

"Same to you. And many of them."

"What're you drinking?"

"Jim Beam straight. Water on the side."

"If you had the kind of night I had, you better have a double."

"Yeah," Tommy said, "it was kinda wet."

David ordered the bourbon and another gimlet for himself. "Sorry you had to make the trip today," he said.

"That's all right. You got the dough?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. We make the payment on the machine, everything's copasetic."

Rathbone took the envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it over, making no effort to hide the transfer. In the mirror, he saw the Corcoran brothers finish their beers, rise, and leave.

"Ten K," he said to Tommy. "Legit hundreds."

"I appreciate it, David. Everything go all right at the banks?"

"No problems. I'll start withdrawing next week and give you a call when you can pick up the balance due. Listen, I've got to split. My lady is expecting me home for dinner."

"That's okay; I'm leaving, too. Got a long drive ahead of me."

Rathbone stood, took his new black ostrich wallet from his hip pocket as if he was about to pay the tab.

"Thanks again," Termite Tommy said.

"Keep in touch," David said lightly.

Tommy took a swallow of water, then left. David put his wallet back in his pocket and sat down again.

"Another, Ernie," he called.

The bartender shook his head. "You're a bear for punishment, Mr. Rathbone," he said.

When he brought the drink, he leaned across the bar. "Did you see those two guys?" he asked in a low voice.

"What guys?"

"At the corner table. They had a beer, then went out."

"I just glanced at them. Why?"

"A couple of hard cases," Ernie said.

"You're sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. Wasn't I a cop for too many years? You wouldn't want to be caught in a dark alley with those yobs, believe me."

People entered, stayed for a drink or two, departed. Others took their place. The Lounge was quiet, jukebox stilled, conversation muted. David knew none of the customers, which was just as well; he didn't want to talk to anyone. He had another drink. Another. Another.

He floated in a timeless void, the room blurred, Ernie wavered back and forth. He could not concentrate, which was a blessing, but stared vacantly at the stranger in the mirror and watched the glass come up, tilt, pour out its contents. The throat constricted, the stranger grimaced and gasped.

" 'Nother," he said in a loud voice.

Ernie looked at him but said nothing. He was mixing the gimlet, taking his time, when he saw David fall forward onto the bar. He just folded his arms and his head went down. He sat there hunched over, not moving.

The bartender sighed, put aside the drink. He dug out his little red address book and looked up Rathbone's home phone number. He called from the phone behind the bar.

"The Rathbone residence."

"Rita?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"Ernie. At the Palace Lounge."

"Oh. Hiya, Ernie. Happy New Year."

"Same to you. Listen, Mr. Rathbone is here, and he's a little under the weather. I hate to eighty-six him, but he's in no condition to drive. He'll kill himself or someone else."

Silence a moment, then: "I'll call a cab. I should be there in twenty minutes, half-hour at the most. Don't give him any more to drink and try to keep him from leaving."

"Okay."

"And thanks for calling, Ernie."

When she hurried in, raincoat slick with mist, David was still sprawled over the bar. Rita stood alongside and looked down at him.

"How many did he have?" she asked Ernie.

"Too many. And fast. Seemed like he just couldn't stop. It's not like him."

"No," Rita said, "it's not. What's the bill?"

"Don't worry about it. I'll catch him another night."

"Thanks, Ernie. The valet brought the car around to the side entrance. Will you help me get him out?"

Ernie came from behind the bar. Rita shook David's shoulder, first gently, then roughly until he roused.

"Wha?" he said groggily, raising his head.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," she said, "we're going home."

She and Ernie got him to his feet and supported him, one on each side.

"All right, all right," he said thickly. "I can navigate."

But they didn't let go of him until he was outside, leaning against the Corsica, his face pressed against the cool, wet roof.

"Let me get some fresh air," he said.

"Thanks again, Ernie," Rita said. "I can take it from here."

The bartender went back inside. Rita opened the car door. But suddenly David lurched away, staggered several steps, and vomited all over a waist-high sago palm. He remained bent over for five minutes, and Rita waited patiently, listening to him retch.

Finally he straightened up, wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, and then threw it away. He came back to the car slowly, taking deep breaths.

"Sorry about that," he said huskily.

"It happens," Rita said. "Get in the car and I'll drive us home. Have a cup of black coffee, you'll feel better."

"I don't think so," he said.

When they arrived at the town house, he went directly upstairs to take off his spattered clothing. Rita sat on his bed and listened to the shower running. He was in there such a long time she was beginning to worry. But then he came out in a white terry robe, drying his hair with a towel.

"I'd like a cognac," he said. "Just an ounce, no more, to settle my stomach."

"You're sure?" she said.

"I'm sure."

"All right, I'll bring it up here for you." "No, I'll come downstairs."

In the kitchen, he measured out an ounce of Cour-voisier carefully. He took a cautious sip, then closed his eyes and sighed.