Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"Hi, big man," she said breezily. "Feel like having company?"

"At this time of night?" he said. "How come?"

"Because my jerko husband is out playing poker with his crummy pals and won't be home till midnight."

"All right," Clark said, "come on down."

"Don't I always?" she said. "Be there in a half-hour."

He had discovered her favorite drink was Pimm's Cup No. 1 with seltzer and a lemon slice, and he had stocked the makings. He had a drink ready for her when she arrived, and was working on his second gin and bitters.

"I'm glad you called," he told her. "I've got something for you."

"An erection?" she said. "Just what I wanted."

"Even better than that," he said, and took two envelopes from the desk drawer. He handed the thin one to her. "Twenty-five hundred for the Super Sucker list." He thrust the plump one into her hands. "And twenty-five thousand for your new business."

She opened the flaps frantically, and when she saw the green, she just squealed.

"Oh you sweetheart!" she cried. "I love you, love you, love you!"

He watched, amused, as she counted the money with nimble fingers. Then she looked up, still amazed.

"You got your stake back from Morty?"

"Uh-huh."

"How did you manage that?"

"Oh, I just persuaded him. He listened to reason."

"Bullshit," she said. "You must have held a gun to his head. But I don't care how you did it; it's a whole new life for me."

"Listen," he said, "don't stick all that money in your bank account. If a cash deposit is ten grand or over, the bank's got to report it to Uncle Sam."

"I know that, dummy. Don't worry, I'll spread it around. Then it's ta-ta, Morty."

"You're moving out on him?"

"You bet your sweet ass. By this time tomorrow, my hubby will be frying his own calamari. I always hated that stuff."

"Where are you going when you leave?" Simon asked.

She shrugged. "Probably check into a motel temporarily until I can find a decent place."

He drained his drink and mixed himself another. "How about moving in with me? Temporarily. I've got an extra bedroom."

She looked at him shrewdly. "Expect me to pay half the maintenance, utilities, and food bills?"

He was offended. "Of course not," he said huffily.

She patted his cheek. "Simmer down, sport," she said. "I'm willing to pay my own way. But if you want

to take it out in trade, that's okay, too. Tell me something: What are you going to be doing while I'm setting up my new business?"

"Setting up my new business. I told you I'm going to join the game."

"I thought you were just blowing smoke."

"No, I meant it. I'm going to become an investment adviser."

She looked at him doubtfully. "Don't you need a license for that?"

"Nope. Anyone can call himself a financial planner or a money manager. You don't need a license to steal. All you need is a plentiful supply of mooches. When you get your escort service organized, maybe you'll be able to steer some marks my way.''

"Of course I will, honey. After all you've done for me. . Hey, let's celebrate our new careers with a bang."

She tugged him by the hand into the master bedroom, a flossy place. She stripped down swiftly. She was wearing white nylon panties with a red heart embroidered on the crotch.

"See?" she said. "I've got a heart on, too."

She flipped down the top sheet, then suddenly stopped.

"Wait a minute!" she yelled.

She ran into the living room, came back with the two envelopes of money. She dumped them around to make a green, crinkly layer, then threw herself naked on top.

"I've always wanted to do this," she said throatily, and rolled around, burrowing into the money, eyes closed, mouth open, almost panting with pleasure.

Then she opened arms and legs to him, and that's how they screwed, on a bed of cash.

At noon on Tuesday, David Rathbone drove over to Bartlett's home on Bayview Drive in response to Jimmy's phone call. The two men sat in the Bentley in the driveway, and Rathbone lighted a cigarette.

"You're smoking too much," Bartlett observed.

"And drinking too much," Rathbone added. "So what else is new? Why the hurry-up call?"

"I'm making a deposit at the Crescent in Boca at noon on Friday. Mitchell Korne says it will be more than a million."

"Wow," Rathbone said. "And you can quote me on that."

"I think we can safely take out two hundred grand," Bartlett said, "and replace it with our funny money. Providing the German can print that much by Thursday night."

"Printing isn't the problem," Rathbone said. "It's getting the stuff at the last minute, while the bills are still in one piece. Print it up too soon and we'll have a sackful of shit. How about this: I'll drive Up to Lakeland first thing tomorrow morning and tell Weisrotte we want the queer by late Thursday afternoon. Then on Thursday, I'll drive back to Lakeland again to pick it up."

"That's a lot of driving."

"For two hundred thousand I'd drive to LA and back."

"All right then," Bartlett said, "let's do it your way. You get the stuff to me by late Thursday, and we're in business. I haven't read anything more about Termite Tommy, have you?"

"Not since that first story. It just fell out of the news. I guess the cops figure he got drunk and drove into the canal. They have more important things to worry about than the accidental death of a lush."

"Of course," Bartlett said.

Rathbone drove back to the town house and went directly to his office. He jotted some numbers on a pad. Two hundred thousand dollars. Deduct the German's fifteen percent and Bartlett's forty. That left Rathbone with ninety thousand clear. He grinned at that. Not bad for two trips to Lakeland.

He was working on his personal ledger when the office phone rang, and for a moment he was tempted to just ignore it until the caller gave up. But then he figured it might be Bartlett wanting to add more details on the deal. He picked it up.

"David Rathbone Investment Management."

"David!" Birdie Winslow said, and her laugh was a trill. "How nice to catch you in. I've been calling and calling."

"I've been awfully busy, Birdie," he said. "How have you been?"

"In seventh heaven," she said, "dreaming about our trip. I can't begin to tell you all the wonderful things I've bought. Luggage and dresses and hats and shoes and just everything."

"Why not," he said. "You deserve it."

"But that's not why I called. I just wanted you to know that I think I've won you a new client."

"Oh?" he said, suddenly cautious. "How did you do that?"

"Well, you know that man you gave my name to, that Anthony Harker, he stopped by last Saturday and asked a lot of questions about you and if I was satisfied with your services, and of course I said I was, and I think by the time he left he was convinced that you were the right investment adviser for him. He said he was going to have a talk with you. Have you heard from him yet?"

"Anthony Harker? No, not yet."

"Well, I'm sure you will. I showed him my last statement, and he was just amazed at how much money you were making for me. I told him you were the best in the business, and everyone said so. Aren't you proud of me?"

"I certainly am," he said. "Thank you for the recommendation."

He finally got her off the phone and sat awhile, staring at his big green safe. Then he dragged out his telephone directories and looked up the name. No Anthony Harker in Lauderdale, Boca Raton, or Pompano Beach. He sat back and lighted another cigarette with hands that were not quite steady. He recalled what Irving Donald Gevalt had told him, and wondered if Anthony Harker was interested in McGuffey first editions.

He left for Lakeland early Wednesday morning, January 31. Rita was still asleep, so he scribbled a note saying he'd return in time to take her to dinner and maybe stop by the Palace for a few drinks with the gang.