Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"Yessir, gents," he said, "what's your pleasure?"

"Mine's pussy," Suarez said, and turned to his partner. "What's yours?"

"A boneless pork loin with yams," Fortescue said, and displayed his ID.

"The sheriff's office?" the bartender said. "I know some of the guys there. They stop by occasionally. What division you in?"

"Community relations," Roger said. "This is my partner, Manuel Suarez. Your name is Ernest Hohl-man?"

"That's right. Everyone calls me Ernie." "Uh-huh. Did you work here on New Year's Day, Ernie?"

The bartender stalled a beat. "Sure I did," he said finally. "Got paid triple-time because of the holiday."

The agent placed the morgue photo of Termite Tommy on the bar. "Know this guy?"

Ernie glanced at it. "Nope. Never saw him before in my life."

"That was queek," Suarez said. "Wasn't that queek, Roger?"

"Quick?" Fortescue said. "Sheet, it was fuckin' instantaneous. Take another look, Ernie. A nice long look."

The bartender stared. "Dead?" he asked.

"Couldn't be deader," Manny said cheerfully. "Ever see him when he was alive and kicking?"

"No, I don't make him. Listen, this is a busy bar. Maybe he stopped by once for a drink. You can't expect me to remember every customer.''

"Did he stop by on New Year's Day?" Suarez said.

"I don't recall him being here."

"That's odd," Fortescue said. "The parking valet on duty that day, A1 Seymour, says this guy was here."

"Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. I can't swear to it either way. You men want a drink? On the house?"

"No, thanks," Fortescue said. "We never drink on duty, do we, Manny?"

"Never," Suarez said. "Against regulations."

"David Rathbone a customer of yours?" Roger asked suddenly. "One of your regulars?"

"Mr. Rathbone?" Ernie said cautiously. "Yeah, he stops by occasionally. Hey, what's this all about? If you could tell me, I'll be happy to help you any way I can. I used to be a cop myself. In New York."

"Yeah, we heard about that," Suarez said. "I wouldn't want to be a cop in New York with all those crack dealers running around with Uzis. How come you left the NYPD, Ernie?"

"I just got tired of the cold weather up there."

"Cold?" Manny said. "I thought maybe it was because it was too hot. So David Rathbone was in here on New Year's Day?"

"He could have been. I really don't remember. Hey, those guys are signaling for another round of beers. I gotta go wait on the customers."

"Go ahead," Fortescue said, "but don't try to make a run for it. The place is surrounded."

"Very funny," Ernie said.

By the time he returned behind the bar, the two officers had decided to lean a little harder.

"We're going to level with you, Ernie," Fortescue said. "After all, you used to be a cop so we know you'll cooperate."

"Sure I will," Ernie said.

"So we'll tell you some of what we've got. The clunk in the photograph was a two-bit con man who went by the moniker of Termite Tommy. We know he was here on New Year's Day. That night someone stuck an ice pick in his right ear. We're talking homicide, Ernie. We also know David Rathbone was here on New Year's Day. Now all we want to know is whether or not Rathbone and Termite Tommy met, maybe had a drink together, maybe talked awhile."

"I don't remember," Ernie said.

"Oh Ernesto," Suarez said sadly. "You are not cooperating, and you promised."

"Listen, I can't tell you something I don't remember, can I?"

"Try," Fortescue urged. "Surely you recall how Rathbone got drunk that evening and you had to call his woman to come get him. You remember that, don't you?"

Ernie wiped the top of the bar with a rag, making slow circles, not looking at them. "Well, maybe he had a few too many," he said in a low voice. "Yeah, now I remember; he got smashed."

"But you don't remember his meeting with Termite Tommy?"

They waited, but Ernie was silent.

"Why you protecting this guy Rathbone?" Suarez demanded. "He's your brother or something? You talk or you don't talk, he's going to take a fall. But you don't talk, you fall right along with him."

"Me?" Ernie said indignantly. "Take a fall? What the hell for? I haven't done anything illegal."

Manny sighed. "Tell him, Roger," he said. "Tell him the good news."

"Well, first of all, Ernie, is the problem of your making book. That's not a capital crime, I admit, but you gotta agree it's illegal. And then we got the grass and coke you been peddling. Not pushing it exactly, but it's available here just for your friends-and from what we hear, you haven't got an enemy in the world. Then we have the stuff that 'fell off the truck' and the stolen credit cards. That adds up to quite a total, wouldn't you say, Manny?"

"Oh yeah," Suarez said. "Years and years."

"Now we haven't dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's on these things," Fortescue said to the bartender. "You've been a cop; you know the drill. We get a squeal or pick up a tidbit from a snitch, and then we go to work, turning over rocks to see what's underneath. That means pounding the pavement and ringing a lot of doorbells. You could save us all that time and trouble."

Suarez tugged at his sleeve. "The puta, Roger," he said.

Fortescue snapped his fingers. "Right, Manny," he said. "Thanks for reminding me. That hooker you're running," he said to Ernie with a bright smile. "Your daughter. We'll have to pick her up and take her in for questioning, of course."

"The gossip sheets will love it," Manny said. " 'Ex-Cop's Daughter Accused of Soliciting.' On local TV, too."

Ernie had listened to all this like a spectator at a tennis match, his head turning back and forth as each agent spoke. But when his daughter was mentioned, he froze and stared directly at Roger.

"Listen," he said hoarsely, "maybe we can make a deal."

"I don't see why not," Fortescue said.

Simon Clark imagined that having decided to flip from the side of the law to the side of the lawless, he might suffer guilt or shame. But he discovered that converting from a U.S. assistant district attorney to a south Florida shark was no more painful than switching jobs, going from one corporation to another.

All it entailed was redirecting his energies and talents. His skills at organizing, managing, setting goals and achieving them-all that was still important. Even more crucial was his courtroom experience, the ability to convince and manipulate witnesses, judges, and juries. He called this "human relations," and he knew how vital they would be in his new business.

Best of all, of course, was that he would now be self-employed, and no longer have to play the degrading game of office politics. To be one's own boss-that was exhilarating but scary. If the profits of success were to be all his, so would be the losses of failure. Still, he was convinced the risk-benefit ratio was in his favor.

On Tuesday evening, January 30, he sat at a florid imitation of a Louis Quinze desk in his new condo and worked on his accounts: cash on hand, debts, expected income. He figured he could squeak by for six months without cutting a deal. But he was confident that long before his funds were exhausted, he would be flush with

Other People's Money, and on his way to becoming wealthy.

He had already made progress. He had learned, for example, that his real estate agent, Ellen St. Martin, would be willing to introduce him to potential mooches in return for a finder's fee. And he found that one of the best places to meet and cozen pigeons was at public seminars on investing hosted by legitimate stock brokerages. And, of course, to get him started, he had that copy of Mortimer Sparco's Super Sucker list.

He was reviewing the list when his phone rang, and he knew that if it wasn't a wrong number, it was either Nancy Sparco or Ellen St. Martin. It was Nancy.