Lawrence Sanders - Sullivan's sting

"Yeah," Tommy said slowly, "I can see that."

"What I figure is this: We'll make a trial run. Have the Kraut make up a fake U.S. Treasury check, complete with computer code. Make it look like an IRS refund or something. Then we'll get the pusher to set up a checking account in a local bank. After the account is established, the fake government check is deposited. The next day the pusher takes out the money and disappears."

Tommy lighted another cigarette. "The way you explain it makes sense. Let's try it and see how it works. But don't expect me to do the pushing. I've done all the time I want to do."

"No," Rathbone said, "not you and not me. I think I've got the right player for the part. As soon as you have the check ready, let me know.''

"How much you want to make it for?"

"Some odd number. Like $27,696.37. Not over fifty grand. We'll start small and see how it goes."

Termite Tommy nodded and got out of the car. Then he leaned back in. "You'll have to give me the name of the pusher. It's got to be printed on the check."

"I'll let you know," Rathbone said, and took a business card from his Mark Cross wallet. "Here's my front; it's legit. David Rathbone Investment Management, Inc. Call me there when you're set."

"Will do," Tommy said, and walked away.

Rathbone went back into the Grand Palace Lounge. All the gang had assembled, and everyone was laughing up a storm. David took his chair at the head of the table and winked at Rita. She rose and came behind him, leaned down and nuzzled his cheek.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

"Business," he said.

"Monkey business?"

"Something like that. How would you like a job?"

"I've got a job: keeping you happy."

"And you succeed wonderfully. This is just a little errand with a super payoff."

"Lead me to it," she said.

Knowing the ways of officialdom, Harker asked Crockett for ten more warm bodies. He got four, which was one less than he had hoped for. They were reportedly all experienced investigators from agencies lending personnel to Crockett's operation.

Tony started with a local from the Broward County Sheriff's Office. He was a tall black named Roger For-tescue.

"That's an unusual moniker," Harker said. "English, isn't it?"

"Beats me," Roger said. "Could be. My folks come from tidewater Virginia. I got a grandpappy still alive. When he talks, I catch about every third word he says. What kind of an outfit is this?"

"Mostly white-collar crime."

"Nobody in south Florida wears white collars. We got red, green, yellow, all-colored golf shirts. Call it purple-collar crime and you'll be closer to the mark."

"I guess," Harker said. He passed Frank Little's business card across the desk. "This is your subject."

Fortescue held the card a moment without reading it. "What's his problem?"

"Unsavory associates."

"Sheet," the investigator said, "they could rack me

up on that charge. I guess you want the inside poop on this guy."

"You've got it. He may turn out to be clean, but I want him checked out."

"No strain, no pain. I report to you?"

"That's right. Here's my night number. If I'm not in, you can leave a message."

"This Frank Little-is he a heavy?"

"You tell me."

Fortescue nodded and rose lazily. "I'll take a look at him. Keep the faith, baby."

Harker said, "They stopped saying that twenty years ago."

"Did they? Well, I still say, That's cool,' but I always was old-fashioned."

Fortescue ambled down to his four-year-old Volvo and took another look at Frank Little's business card. The guy was out on Copans Road. The snowbirds were beginning to flock down, and Federal Highway would be crowded. But the investigator figured he had all the time in the world. That Harker seemed laid-back; not the type to crack a whip.

He found FL Sports Equipment, Inc., sandwiched between a shed that sold concrete garden statuary and a boarded-up fast-food joint that still had a weather-beaten sign: our grits are hits. Fortescue parked and eyeballed Little's place.

Not much to it. A cinderblock and stucco building, painted a blue that had been drained by the south Florida sun. Behind it was what appeared to be a warehouse surrounded by a chain-link fence with a locked gate. A wide blacktop driveway led from the road past the office to the warehouse. And that was it-except for an American flag on a steel flagpole in front of the blockhouse.

Roger locked the Volvo and shambled up to the office. The door was unlocked. The inside was as bare and grungy as the exterior. There was a cramped reception room with one desk, one chair, one file cabinet, one coat tree. No inhabitant. An open door led to an inner office.

"Hello?" Fortescue called. "Anyone home?"

A man came out of the inner office. He had hair as fine and golden as corn silk. He was wearing a sharp suit that Roger recognized as an Armani. His embroidered shirt was open to the waist, and he wore a heavy chain supporting a big gold ankh. It lay on his hairless chest.

"Yes, sir," he said briskly. "Help you?"

"Hope so," Fortescue said. "I'd like to buy a dozen baseballs."

The man's smile was cool and pitying. The investigator didn't like that smile.

"Oh, we don't sell retail," he said. "We're importers and distributors."

"I was hoping maybe you could sell me a dozen baseballs wholesale. Give me a break on the price."

"We don't even sell wholesale. As I said, we're distributors. We sell to wholesalers."

"Sheet," Fortescue said. "Well, can you tell me any local place that carries your stuff?"

"Sorry, we have no wholesale or retail outlets in south Florida. All our sports equipment goes north."

"You sure?"

The flaxen-haired man gave him that irritating smile again. "I'm Frank Little. I own the business, so I should be sure. I think your best bet would be Sears or any sporting goods store on the Strip in Lauderdale."

"I guess so," Fortescue said. "Thanks for your trouble. Sorry to bother you."

"No bother," Little said. "I wish I could help you out, but I can't. Tell me something: Why do you want a dozen baseballs?"

"I coach an inner-city Little League," the investigator said. "We haven't got all that many bucks. That's why I was trying to shave the price."

Unexpectedly Little took out a fat wallet and handed Fortescue a crisp fifty. "Here," he said. "For your kids."

"That's mighty kind of you," Roger said, "and I do appreciate it."

Back in the Volvo he slipped the fifty into his pocket and decided he liked the way this case was shaping up.

He drove to Federal Highway and stopped at a discount liquor store. He shot the fifty plus on a liter of Absolut, a bottle of Korbel brut and another of Cour-voisier cognac. His twin sons were still awake when he arrived home, and he roughhoused with them awhile until Estelle packed them off to bed. She returned to the kitchen to find her husband had mixed a pitcher of martinis with the Absolut. The other bottles were on the countertop.

"What's the occasion?" she asked.

"A nice man gave me a tip," he said. "A nice, freaky man."

They each had two martinis and drank the champagne with a fine dinner of broiled grouper, corn on the cob, and creamed spinach. Then they took cognacs and black coffee into the living room to watch TV.

"I wonder what the poor folks are doing," Fortescue remarked.

"I don't want to know," his wife said.

It was close to midnight when he rose, strapped on a hip holster with a.38 Police Special, and checked a little two-shot derringer he carried in an ankle pouch. Estelle watched these preparations without asking questions.

"A little business," he told her. "Should be back in an hour or two. You go on to bed."

"You know I won't," she said. 4'Listen, you get yourself killed, and I'm not going to bury you, I swear it. I'll prop you up on the couch in front of the TV until you just turn to dust. Then I'll sweep you out-y'hear? You remember that."