Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

Nancy Sparco had delivered a copy of her husband's Super Sucker list, and it looked good to Clark: twenty-four names, addresses, and telephone numbers with notations on net worth, personal peccadilloes, and the kind of scams they bought: oil wells, grain futures, computer leasing, real estate, even fish farms and Arabian mares.

His Chicago checking account was getting low, and it hurt him to run up unpaid balances on his credit card accounts, considering the usurious interest those bastards charged, so Clark figured it was time to hit Mort Sparco. He thought about buying a gun-God knows it was easy enough in Florida-but decided against it. With the ammunition he had, a gun just wasn't necessary.

He arrived at the discount brokerage a little after one p.m., but had to cool his heels in that ratty reception room for almost a half-hour because "Mr. Sparco is busy with a client right now." Clark doubted that, but waited patiently until the summons, "Mr. Sparco will see you now," like the guy was a brain surgeon or something.

The broker was Mr. Congeniality, greeting Clark warmly, shaking his hand, getting him seated in a low club chair alongside his desk.

"Well now," he said briskly, "I suppose you want a progress report on your investment in the Fort Knox Fund. I can sum it up in one word: dynamite! Let's see, you put in a total of about sixty thousand, didn't you?"

"About that."

"What would you say if I told you the value of your stock now is close to seventy-five? Is that a barn-burner or isn't it?"

"Mr. Sparco," Clark said, "I'd like to cash in. I've decided to move back to Chicago. But first, of course, I have to pay off my father's home-equity loan. So if you'll sell my stock as soon as possible, I'd appreciate it."

He had to admire the broker. Sparco didn't seem shocked or startled, and his affable smile didn't fade. Instead, he leaned back in his swivel chair, took a cigar from his desk drawer, bit off the tip and spat it into his wastebasket. Then he lighted the cigar with a wooden kitchen match scratched on the underside of his desk. He blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling.

"Now why would you want to do that, Mr. Clark?" he asked pleasantly. "The fact that you're moving back to Chicago needn't make any difference; you can keep your account open here. We have a number of active clients who go north eight months out of the year. They phone collect whenever they want to trade or ask a question."

"I don't think so. I'd like to sell my Fort Knox Fund and close out my account. How soon can I get the money?"

"But why should you want to unload such a money-making investment? You're already showing a twenty-five-percent profit, and that stock has nowhere to go but up."

"I want to sell," Clark repeated stubbornly. "I want my money. Immediately."

Sparco showed the first signs of discomposure, tapping his cigar frequently on the ashtray rim, blinking rapidly. He licked his lips a few times, leaned toward Clark, tried a smile that didn't work.

"That might present some difficulties," he said. "As I'm sure you've noticed, the Fort Knox Fund is not listed on any of the exchanges. That means we'll have to negotiate a private trade for you. It may take some time."

"You mean I can't get my money?"

"Oh no," Sparco said. "No, no, no. Your investment is perfectly safe. It's just not as liquid as you might have thought."

"How long will it take to sell it?"

"Well, that's hard to say. We'll certainly make a best-faith effort to unload it, but I can't guarantee you'll get top market price."

"That's all right," Clark said. "I'll forget about the profit. I'll be satisfied if I just get my sixty thousand back."

"Mr. Clark," Sparco said earnestly, "one of the first things I learned about this business is that a broker should always try to fit the investment to the client. It's not always a matter of dollars and cents; it's frequently an emotional thing. The client should be comfortable with his investments. If he's not, then I'm not doing my job."

Clark listened closely to this spiel, wanting to remember the phraseology since it might prove valuable in his new career as a shark.

"Now it's obvious to me," the broker continued, "that you are not comfortable with the Fort Knox Fund, regardless of how well it's doing. All right, I accept that. Around here, the client calls the shots. Now what I suggest is this: Instead of closing out your account, you roll over your funds, including your profit, into another investment. I can suggest a number of equities as good or better than Fort Knox. I see no reason why you can't double your money in six months or less."

Simon Clark was silent, staring steadily at the other man. The silence went on so long that the broker began to fidget, relighting his cigar with fingers that trembled slightly.

Clark sighed, leaned back in the armchair, crossed his legs. "Mr. Sparco," he said quietly, "I want sixty thousand dollars from you. Cash, not a check. And I want it now."

"That's ridiculous!" the broker burst out.

"Do you know Sidney Coe?" Clark asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Do you know a man named Sidney Coe?"

"No, I've never heard the name."

"He runs a business on Oakland Park Boulevard."

Sparco shook his head. "Don't know him."

"He has a really rotten temper," Clark said. "Alleged to be a wife-beater. A dangerous, violent man."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Well, since I've been in Florida I've had the time to poke around a little. I've talked to some interesting people and found out some interesting things."

"So?"

"So one of the interesting things I discovered is that office you rent up in West Palm Beach."

The cigar dropped from Mortimer Sparco's mouth onto the desktop. He made no effort to retrieve it but sat rigidly, gripping his chair arms.

"I also discovered," Clark went on, "that you've succeeded in turning several of Sid Coe's yaks. Although from what I understand about the man, it probably didn't take much persuasion. My informant tells me you've been clipping Sid Coe for about a hundred grand a month."

"What the hell's going on here?" Sparco cried.

"It's called blackmail," Clark said tonelessly. "I'm sure you've heard of it. Either I get my sixty thousand immediately or I leave your office, go directly to Coe's boiler room, and show him the evidence of how you've been jobbing him."

"What evidence? You've got no evidence!"

"A signed statement from your landlord in West Palm Beach who copied the license number on your black BMW. A Polaroid photo of the sign on the door

of your office up there. It says Instant Investments, the name of Coe's business. And I can finger the yaks who've been working this scam with you. I figure all that'll be enough to convince Sid Coe. Ten minutes after I leave him, he'll come busting in here with steam coming out his ears. What do you think he'll do to you, Mr. Sparco? I hear he carries a gun."

Sparco gnawed furiously at his thumbnail. "Suppose I pay," he said. "Just suppose I give you back your sixty grand. How do I know you won't hit me again?"

"Easy," Clark said. "You pay me. Then you close down that West Palm Beach office. Tell the yaks the picnic is over. Drop the steal and figure a new way to cheat your friends. I'll be up in Chicago and won't know a thing about it."

"I haven't got 60K in the office."

"Sure you have. All you chiselers keep bribe and getaway cash available."

"I've got maybe thirty grand. No more than that. I'll have to go to the bank."

"That's okay," Simon Clark said cheerfully, rising. "I'll go with you."

David Rathbone had a long, tiring day. He drove to Lakeland in the morning, picked up the fifty thousand in queer from Herman Weisrotte, then turned around and drove back to Fort Lauderdale. On the trip home he stopped for a club sandwich and a bottle of Rolling Rock.