Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

It was, Fortescue decided, just about the dullest duty he had ever pulled, and only his nightly phone calls to Estelle enabled him to keep his sanity. But then, a few days into the new year, things started popping, and what had been a boring grind became a fascinating mystery.

It began when the agent realized he hadn't seen Termite Tommy around for three or four days. He didn't come to the printshop, and when Roger checked his motel, the surly owner said he hadn't been there since New Year's Day, and if he didn't show up soon with his weekly rent, the owner was going to chuck his sleazy belongings into the gutter.

Fortescue, sitting in his Volvo and keeping an eye on Weisrotte's shop, wondered if Tommy had split with the German and decided to try his larcenous talents elsewhere. But it didn't make sense that he'd take off without emptying his motel room. It could be, of course, that he was shacked up with a ladylove somewhere and would soon reappear.

While Roger was trying to puzzle out what had happened, he saw a black Bentley pull to a stop, and he straightened up in his seat. A handsome blond guy got out of the car, glanced around, and then sauntered into the German's shop. The agent made him for David Rathbone, but jotted down the license of the Bentley to double-check later.

Rathbone was in there almost two hours. Then he and Weisrotte came out and headed for the Mermaid's Tail, Rathbone talking a mile a minute.

The agent figured it was safe enough for him to move in. Rathbone had never seen him before, and if Weisrotte recognized him-so what? He was just a guy who had dropped by once to price business cards. So Fortescue entered the saloon, ordered a beer at the bar, and looked around casually. His targets were in a back booth, Rathbone still talking nonstop and the German downing shots of straight gin like there was no tomorrow.

This went on for almost an hour while Roger nursed a second beer. Then the two men got up, and Rathbone paid the tab. They started for the door, and as they passed, Fortescue noted the diamond ring on Rath-bone's left pinkie. At least a three-carat rock, he estimated, and wondered how many mooches had contributed their life savings to the purchase of that sparkler.

Rathbone got the printer back to the shop and went in with him for a few minutes. Then he came out, lighted a cigarette, and got into the Bentley. By that time Fortescue was in his Volvo, and he tailed Rathbone until it became obvious the man was heading south, probably returning to Fort Lauderdale. Then the agent turned back and drove to his motel, trying to figure out the significance of what he had just witnessed.

He came up with zilch and decided maybe he'd give Tony Harker a call, report what had happened, and let him chew on it awhile. But before he did that, he made his nightly call home. He jived with his sons awhile, got their promises that they were doing their homework and weren't planning to rob a bank, and then Estelle came on.

"Guess who called you this morning," she said.

"Elizabeth Taylor?"

"Even better. Sam Washburn."

"Yeah? What'd he want?"

"Didn't say. But he claims it's important and said to call him."

"Probably got another owl made of shells he wants to unload on me."

"Don't you take it! Don't you dare!"

"Trust me," he said.

He hung up, found Washburn's number in his notebook, and called the old retired cop.

"Roger Fortescue," he said. "How you doing?"

"Hey, old buddy!" Sam said. "Your wife said you were out of town."

"I am. I'm calling from Lakeland."

"What the hell are you doing there-picking oranges?"

"Something like that. What's up, Sam?"

"You remember the last time we talked you asked me about Thomas J. Keeffringer, aka Termite Tommy?"

"Sure. What about him?"

"Well, he showed up down here."

"No kidding. What's he up to now?"

"Not a whole hell of a lot," Washburn said. "At the moment he's occupying an icebox in the morgue."

Silence. Then: "Sheet," Roger said, "how did you find that out?"

"There was a short article in the Sun-Sentinel this morning. I called to ask if you had seen it, but then Estelle told me you were out of town, so I figured you hadn't. Anyway, according to the story a kid was testing his new scuba gear in a canal out near Coral Springs. He spotted an old pickup truck on the bottom. Nothing unusual about that. You know how many people ditch their clunkers in the canals and then claim the insurance, saying it was stolen."

"I know, Sam," Fortescue said patiently, "I know."

"But when this kid got close to the pickup, he saw there was a guy sitting behind the wheel. So he got out of the water, called the cops, and they drug the truck out. The guy behind the wheel was Termite Tommy himself."

"Cause of death?"

"They're not sure yet. I phoned Jack Liddite at Homicide, but he doesn't think it'll be their baby. He said the ME's report isn't complete yet, but it looks like Tommy got smashed, didn't make a curve, and just drove into the canal. They found an empty liter of juice in the cab of the truck. That's all I got. But you sounded

like you were working the guy so I wanted to make sure you knew about it."

"Thanks, Sam," Fortescue said. "I really appreciate it."

"Glad to help, old buddy. By the way, I got a shell penguin for you. It's a beaut."

"That's great," Roger said faintly. "Love to have it."

Then he called Tony Harker. He told him about Keef-fringer's disappearance, the meeting between David Rathbone and Herman Weisrotte, and the discovery of Termite Tommy's body in the Coral Springs canal.

Harker didn't hesitate. "Get back as soon as possible," he said. "The printer's not going anywhere; he'll be there when we want him. You schmooze with your buddies down here and see what you can pick up on the homicide."

"They're not even sure it was a homicide."

"I think it was," Harker said. "Don't you?"

"Yes," Fortescue said.

They rehearsed their roles on the drive down to Miami. Both men were quick studies, and it didn't take long to cobble up a scenario and decide how it was to be played.

"Korne is not a megadealer," Jimmy Bartlett said, "but big enough. Most of his stuff goes to New Jersey and New England. He isn't in New York, but the last time I spoke to him, he was talking about expanding into Montreal and Toronto. He's an ambitious lad."

"Lad?" David Rathbone said. "Just how old is he?"

"Mitch? I don't think he's thirty yet. He's come a long way in a short time."

"Do you call him 'Mitch' to his face?"

"I do, but I suggest you address him as Mr. Korne. He likes it when older men use Mister."

"How did he get so far so fast? Is he a hard case?"

"Not personally. But he hires very dependable muscle and pays them well. I think the secret of his success is his business sense. He's a Harvard MBA, you know, and treats drugs like any other consumer product. That's what he calls dopers-consumers. He talks about his product line, distribution network, the need to maximize profitability, and so forth. Bribery of officials he calls Public Relations. His only regret is that he can't advertise. But he's considering putting a brand name on all his products as a guarantee of quality."

"I'll snow him with Wall Street lingo," David said. "The smarter they are, the harder they fall."

"By the way," Bartlett said, "how did you make out with the German in Lakeland?"

"In like Flynn. I could have sold him the Brooklyn Bridge. He bought the story of Termite Tommy being in the slammer. He promised to get started on our 50K of queer fifties."

"And he agreed to accept twenty percent of the face value?"

"He did after I got half a jug of Beefeater in him. That guy must have a liver as big as the Ritz."