Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

It was a cool, crisp morning, but he knew it would warm up later. He didn't wear a suit, just linen slacks and an aqua polo shirt with a bolo tie, the clasp set with a thirty-carat emerald-cut blue topaz.

He drove with the windows down; the new world smelled sweet and clean. But he was in no mood to enjoy it; all he could think about was what Gevalt and Birdie had told him. Live like a jackal, he told himself, and you develop an animal instinct for danger. And right now he had the feeling he was being stalked, but by whom and for what reason he could not fathom.

So intent was he on trying to puzzle it out that he was not aware of how fast he was driving until he was pulled over by a state trooper on Highway 27.

"Know what you were doing?" the officer asked, writing in his pad.

"To tell you the truth I don't," Rathbone said with a nervous laugh. "My wife's having our first baby in a hospital in Lakeland, and I'm in a hurry to get there."

"Nice try but no cigar," the trooper said, handing him the ticket. "I clocked you at eighty, at least. Take it easy and maybe you'll live to see your first kid."

"I'll do that," Rathbone said, and then, after the officer went back to his car, "Up yours!"

He was in Lakeland by noon and was happy to find Weisrotte reasonably sober. He told the printer he wanted two hundred thousand in fake 100s by late Thursday.

"Zo," the German said. "And when my share do I receive?"

"Early next week," Rathbone promised. "You can count on it. You're the most important man in this operation, Herman, and we want to keep you happy."

"Goot," Weisrotte said, and insisted Rathbone have a glass of schnapps with him before leaving. It was caustic stuff, and David wondered if the printer used it to clean his presses.

On the drive home he tried to convince himself that he was foolish to worry; the guy at Gevalt's could have been a rube hoping to buy forged ID at an old-book store, and Birdie's Anthony Harker could have been a legit investor looking for an adviser. But none of that really made sense, and Rathbone felt someone closing in on him, a faceless hunter who came sniffing at the spoor, hungry for the kill.

He was pulled over again for speeding; same stretch of highway, same trooper.

"How's the wife?" the officer asked, writing out the ticket. "Have the kid yet?"

"Not yet," Rathbone said with a sick smile. "False alarm.''

"Uh-huh," the trooper said, handing him the ticket. "Have a nice day."

He was in a vile mood by the time he got home, but after a vodka gimlet and a hot shower, he felt better, reasoning that he had been in squeezes before and had always wriggled out. The important thing was to keep his nerve.

The sight of Rita helped lift him out of his funk. She wore a tight miniskirt of honey-colored linen and an oversized nubby sweater with a deep V-neck that displayed her coppery tan and advertised the fact that she was bra-less. Her gypsy hair swung free, and when they sauntered into an elegant French restaurant on the Waterway, she made every other woman in the place look like Barbie.

They did the whole bit: escargots; a Caesar salad for two; rare tournedos with tiny mushroom caps and miniature carrots; Grand Marnier souffle; and chilled Moet.

"This is living," Rita said. Then: "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Ever hear of a man called Anthony Harker?" he asked.

She fumbled in her purse for a cigarette and signaled the hovering waiter for a light. "Nope," she said. "The name rings no bells with me."

The bill arrived, and Rathbone offered his stolen credit card. It went through without a hitch, and he gave munificent cash tips to the waiter and maitre d'.

They drove to the Palace and found everyone partying up a storm at the big table: Trudy and Jimmy Bartlett, Cynthia and Sid Coe, Frank Little, Ellen St. Martin, and, by himself, Mort Sparco.

"Where's Nancy?" Rathbone asked him.

"The bitch walked out on me," Sparco said glumly. "This afternoon while I was at work. Took most of her clothes, jewelry, and a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil I've been saving."

"Don't worry about it," Rita consoled him. "She'll be back."

"Damned right," Mort said. "Where's she going to go? She'll be lost without me."

Rathbone went to the bar for drinks, but Ernie wasn't on duty; Sylvester, a waiter from the dining room, was filling in as bartender.

"Where's Ernie?" David asked.

"Called in sick, Mr. Rathbone. Hasn't worked for the past two days. He wants you to phone him. Here's his number. He said to be sure and tell you to call him from outside, not from here."

"Okay," Rathbone said, stuffing the scrap of paper into his pocket. "Now let me have a couple of brandy stingers."

"What's a stinger?" Sylvester asked.

Rathbone went behind the bar and mixed the drinks himself.

It was the kind of night he needed. He caught the bubbly mood of the others, and his premonitions disappeared in the noise, jokes, laughter, chivying, and just plain good fellowship of these splendid people. When he and Rita departed a little after midnight, they waited, hand-in-hand, for the valet to bring the Bentley around, and they sang "What'll I Do?"

Theodore and Blanche had left a light on downstairs. They had also left the air conditioning turned so low that the town house felt like a meat locker. David switched off the air and opened the French doors.

"I'm going upstairs and change," Rita said.

"Go ahead," Rathbone said. "I'll pour us a nightcap, and then I have to make a phone call."

He brought two small snifters of cognac from the kitchen and placed them on the glass-topped cocktail table. Then he settled down in one corner of the big couch and used the white phone on the end table. He took the scrap of paper from his pocket and punched out the number.

"Ernie?" he said. "This is David Rathbone."

"Hiya, Mr. Rathbone. Where you calling from?"

"From my home. Why?"

"I just didn't want you to call from the Palace. The phone there may be tapped. My own phone probably is. I'm not home now. I'm staying with a friend."

"Ernie, what's all this about? Why should the Palace phones be tapped? Or yours?"

"Listen, Mr. Rathbone, two cops from the sheriff's office came to see me at the Lounge on Monday. I thought at first they were a couple of clowns wanting to put the arm on me for a contribution-if you know what I mean. But it was more than that. They showed me a picture of a dead guy they said went by the name of Termite Tommy. The picture had been taken in the morgue. This Termite Tommy had been wasted. Someone stuck an ice pick in his ear.''

Rathbone leaned forward and picked up one of the brandy snifters. He took a deep swallow, then held the glass tightly.

"They wanted to know if this guy had been in the Lounge on New Year's Day. I told them I didn't remember. But they said they knew he had been there; one of the parking valets had seen him. Then they asked if you had been there at the same time, Mr. Rathbone."

David finished the cognac, put the empty glass on the table, picked up the other one.

"I tried to cover for you, Mr. Rathbone, really I did. But they knew all about your passing out and how I had to call Rita to come get you. Now how in hell did they know that?"

"I have no idea," Rathbone said hoarsely.

"Well, they knew, all right. They kept asking if you had talked to that Termite Tommy, if the two of you had a drink together. Mr. Rathbone, you've always treated me decent so I got to level with you. Those jokers knew all about my little sidelines, so I'm talking a deal with them. Or rather my lawyer is. I'm sorry, Mr. Rathbone, but my ass is on the line. If they want to throw the book at me, I'm liable to end up doing heavy time. I've got to cooperate with them. You can understand that, can't you, Mr. Rathbone?"