Timothy's Game (28 page)

The Wall Street dick considers that a moment, takes another swallow of his drink. “A motorcycle?” he suggests. “I got a buddy looking for a good buy.”

“You’re talking to the right man. You name it—make and model—and you got it.”

“I’ll send him around,” Cone says. “You hang here?”

“Every night. I own the joint. Name’s Louie.”

Cone nods, finishes his drink. He slaps a finif on the bar, turns to go. The tall gink has disappeared. Suddenly there’s a great crash behind him and he whirls. A wild, drunken fight has erupted between two men and two women seated at the tables. Screaming curses, they go at each other with fists, feet, elbows, weighty handbags. The melee grows more vicious, with bottles swung, tables upset, chairs splintered.

“Tommy,” the fat guy calls, and points under the bar. He’s handed an aluminum baseball bat. He slides off the stool and waddles into the donnybrook. He starts bouncing the bat off the skulls of everyone within reach. The hard guys in the booths are spitting with merriment. Timothy decides it’s time to leave.

He’s heading back to his car, walking along 45th Street, when someone calls, “Hey, mac.” He stops and turns slowly. The tall, jittery cat from Paddy’s Pig comes up close. He’s got a knife in his hand that looks to be as long as a saber.

“Let’s have it,” he says in a whispery voice.

Cone backs up a step. “Have what?” he asks.

The guy sighs. “Whaddya think? Money, credit cards, whatever you got.”

“Oh, my God!” Cone cries, clutching at his chest. “My heart! My heart!” He doubles over as if in agonizing pain, bending low. When he comes up, he has the S&W .357 in his fist. “Here’s what I got,” he says.

The man looks at the gun. “Hey,” he says, “wait a minute.”

“Drop the toothpick,” Cone says. “Drop it!”

The knife clatters to the sidewalk. The Wall Street dick steps in and kicks the stupe’s shin, just below the knee, as hard as he can. The mugger screams, bends, and Cone cold-cocks him behind the ear with the short-barreled Magnum. The guy goes flat out on the pavement, but Timothy takes him with his heavy work shoes, heeling the kidneys and family jewels.

He finally gets control of himself, tries to breathe slowly and deeply. He picks up the knife and drops it through the first sewer grating he comes to. He drives home to the loft, deciding he shouldn’t have given the guy the boot. That was overkill, and it wasn’t nice.

“Not nice?” he asks aloud, and wonders if he’s ready for the acorn academy.

“What did you do last night?” Samantha Whatley asks.

“Nothing much,” Cone says. “Had a few drinks, went to bed early.”

“Liar,” she says. “I called you around midnight; you weren’t in.”

“Was that you?” he says. “I was sacked out. I thought I heard the phone ringing, but by the time I got up it had stopped.”

“Uh-huh,” she says.

It’s Sunday afternoon, they’re lying together in her fancy bed, and she really is reading the Real Estate Section of the
Times,
the rest of the paper scattered over the sheet. She’s sitting up, back against the headboard, heavy, horn-rimmed glasses down on her nose. Cone is just lying there lazily, not caring if school keeps or not.

“Will you listen to these rents?” Sam says. “A studio for twelve hundred a month. A one-bedroom for fifteen hundred. How does that grab you?”

“It’s just money,” he says.

“Just
money? Don’t try to be so fucking superior. You like it as much as anyone else.”

He turns his head to look at her. “Sure I do. But I wouldn’t kill for it. Would you?”

“You’re the only one I want to kill, and you don’t have all that much gelt.”

“Bupkes is what I’ve got. No, seriously, would you kill for money?”

“Of course not.”

“Ever talk to a homicide dick about why people kill?”

“I dated a guy from Homicide for a while, but I had to give him the broom. Whenever he got bombed he started crying. But no, I never talked to him about why people kill.”

“I’ll tell you why,” Cone says. “Subtract the weirdos who murder because God told them to. And subtract the ones who kill because they find hubby or wifey in the sack with someone else. Those are impulse murders.”

“Crimes of passion,” Sam says.

“If you say so. Well, subtract those cases and just consider the murders that are premeditated—sometimes for a long while—and carefully planned. Now you’re dealing with two main motives. One is revenge, which isn’t too important unless you’re a Sicilian.”

“And the other is money,” she says.

“Bingo,” Cone says. “I’d guess that greed tops everything else. It may be for a couple of bucks in a muggee’s pocket or for a couple of billion in a corporate treasury.”

“Oh-ho,” Whatley says, peering at him through her half-glasses. “Now I know why I’m getting this lecture on mayhem on a nice, bright, Sunday afternoon. You’re brooding about the Dempster case, and you think greed was the motive for the industrial sabotage.”

“And for John Dempster’s murder. What else could it be?” he says fretfully. “I’m not saying other motives might not be involved, but it was greed that sparked the whole thing.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

“I don’t,” he says. “And that’s what’s sending me up the wall. I thought I had it figured, but I struck out.”

Then he tells her about his great inspiration: a corporate raider trying to put Dempster-Torrey into play, and conniving to reduce the price of the stock by sabotage and, eventually, assassination.

“Good thinking, Tim,” she says.

“Not good,” he says mournfully, shaking his head. “Simon Trale, the CFO, checked it out for me, and there’s no evidence at all, not even a rumor, that some pirate is making a move. So that’s that. Ahh, the hell with it. Let’s forget about it.”

“Should I heat up the pizza?” Sam asks. “You getting hungry?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at her. “But not for pizza.”

“Oh, you sweet-talking sonofabitch,” she says. “Can we fornicate on top of the Sunday
Times?
Isn’t that sacrilegious?”

“What’s the worst that could happen—you get a headline printed backwards on your ass? Leave your glasses on. I’ve never balled a woman while she’s wearing specs.”

“You’re depraved,” Sam says.

“Just a mood. It’ll pass.”

“Oh, God!” she says. “I hope not.”

A few hours later, after a lukewarm shower during which they take turns picking up the soap, they have their pizza, salad, and wine.

Cone gets back to the Dempster case; he just can’t get rid of it.

“Of course,” he says, “it’s garbage to claim anyone kills from one motive alone. Usually it’s a tangle of reasons, justifications, and past history.”

“Who are you talking about?” she demands.

“Oh … just people,” he says darkly.

“You’re closing up again,” she says. “I know that shriveled brain of yours is going ’round and ’round like a Roller Derby, and you’re not going to tell me about it.”

“Nothing to tell,” he mutters, head lowered. “You got any more salad?”

“That’s it,” she says. “Sorry I ran short.”

He raises his head slowly, glares at her.

“Jesus,” she says, “what are you looking at me like that for? I just said there’s no more salad; so sue me.”

“You remember the Laboris case?” he asks. “The guy who was pulling a Ponzi scam so he could launder money from dope and art smuggling?”

“Yeah,” she says, “I remember. So what?”

“Without knowing it, you gave me the lead that broke it. Now you’ve done it again.”

“Done what?” she cries desperately. “Just exactly what are you talking about?”

“Forget it,” he says, grinning at her. “Have some more wine.”

“Up yours,” she says grumpily. “Were you labeled ‘Most Likely to Fail’ in your high school yearbook?”

“I’m a dropout,” he tells her.

“I’m willing to testify to that,” she says, and they both crack up.

After the pizza is gone, they stay on the floor, sipping the chilled wine, schmoozing about this and that. These are their most intimate moments, the closest. Sex is brutal warfare, but this is gentle peace, and there’s a lot to be said for it—though neither would admit it.

Samantha has a choice collection of old 78s, and she puts a stack on her player, selecting the records she knows he likes best. She starts with Walter Houston’s “September Song,” Bing Crosby’s “Just a Gigolo,” and Billie Holiday’s “Fine and Mellow.”

“I’ve also got her ‘Gloomy Sunday,’” Sam says. “I’d play it, but it ain’t.”

“That’s right,” Timothy Cone says happily. “It ain’t.”

He has many illusions about himself. One of the most mundane is that if, before falling asleep, he tells himself exactly when he wishes to arise, then lo! he will awake at that exact hour.

So on Sunday night, curled on his mattress, he instructs himself, “You will wake up at eight o’clock. You will definitely wake at eight.” He sleeps soundly and rouses at precisely ten minutes after nine. Cursing, he lights a cigarette, puts water on to boil, and tosses Cleo a small dog biscuit. It’s a cat, but not racist.

Still in his underwear, smoking a cigarette and sipping black coffee, he phones Neal Davenport.

“You’re up so early?” the city detective says. “Don’t tell me you’re at the office.”

“On my way,” Cone says, unshaven and standing there in his Jockey shorts. “How’s the Department doing on the Dempster homicide?”

“That’s why you called at this hour? To make me feel more miserable? It’s a cold trail, sonny boy, and getting icier every day. This one’s a pisser. We’re getting flak from everyone, and just between you, me, and the lamppost, we haven’t got a thing.”

“What about the hotshot lieutenant who was running the show? Is he still around?”

“Nah,” Davenport says, “he’s long gone. Now we got a deputy inspector, and he’s feeling the heat, too. Turning into a lush. This goddamned file is going to ruin a lot of careers—mine included.”

“Anything on that terrorist group that called the newspapers? The Liberty Tomorrow gang.”

“No trace. The thinking now is that it was all bullshit. A stunt pulled by some wild-assed leftists to grab headlines, or maybe by the finks who actually offed Dempster and just wanted to throw us a curve. This is why you called—just to listen to my kvetching?”

“Not exactly,” Cone says. “I want to ask a favor.”

“No kidding? I never would have guessed.”

“Look,” Cone says, “you owe me one—right? The Laboris drug deal—remember?”

“Well … yeah, I guess maybe. Waddya got?”

“Three license plates. I need to know who owns the cars.”

“What for?”

“Neal,” the Wall Street dick says softly, “this could involve the Dempster kill.”

Long silence. Then: “You shittin’ me, sherlock?”

“I swear to God I’m not. It’s not definitely connected, but it might be. Come on, take a chance.”

Davenport sighs. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Give me the numbers.”

Cone reads off his scrawls from the inside of the matchbook cover. “Push this,” he urges. “It really could be something.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then you’ve wasted a phone call. Big deal.”

“I’ll get back to you,” the NYPD man says and hangs up.

Cone, anxious to get things moving, fills his coffee cup again, lights another Camel, and calls Simon Trale at Dempster-Torrey. He has to hold for a few minutes before he’s put through. And while he’s waiting, he has to listen to music. “Climb Every Mountain,” no less.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Cone.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Trale. Listen, I warned you I might contact you again if I needed more poop.”

“Poop?”

“Information. Someone accused me recently of using other people to do my job for me. But sometimes it’s the only way to get the job done, so that’s why I’m calling. All right with you?”

“Of course,” Trale says.

“When I talked to you about all those industrial accidents, you said most of the losses were covered by insurance. Have I got that right?”

“Correct.”

“Does Dempster-Torrey buy insurance from individual companies or do you use a broker?”

“We use a single broker, Mr. Cone. We’ve found it more efficient and economical that way.”

“One broker for all of Dempster-Torrey’s property and casualty insurance?”

“Yes.”

“Lucky broker. That must add up to a nice wad.”

Simon Trale laughs quietly. “It does indeed.”

“So I’d guess that Dempster-Torrey, and you in particular, have got heavy clout with the broker.”

“A fair assumption. What are you getting at, Mr. Cone?”

“Here’s what I need. … There’s got to be an association of all the property and casualty insurance companies in the country. Some outfit that lobbies in Washington and also collects statistics on property and casualty losses and the insurance business in general.”

“Of course there is. The Central Insurance Association, a trade group.”

“The CIA?” Cone says. “That must raise a few eyebrows. But I’ll bet they’ve got all the facts and figures on their industry on computer tapes—right?”

“I would imagine so, yes.”

“Well, here’s what I’d like you to do: Call your broker, ask him to contact the trade association and get a list of the ten companies in the country that suffered the heaviest property and casualty losses in the last year.”

There’s a long pause. Then: “You think there may be a connection with our losses, Mr. Cone? That there may be some kind of a conspiracy directed against large corporations?”

“Something like that,” Cone says. “Look, Mr. Trale, I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I’m a bubblehead after I fell on my face on that corporate raider suggestion.”

“Don’t apologize for that,” the old man says. “It was a very ingenious idea that just didn’t work out. Happens to me all the time. But now you feel there may be a link between our accidents and those of other companies?”

“Could be.”

“All right,” Trale says without hesitation. “I’ll call our broker and ask him to get the information.”

“Lean on him if you have to,” Cone says.

Trale laughs. “I don’t think that will be necessary; I’m sure he’ll be happy to cooperate. Shall I have him contact you directly?”