Timothy's Game (12 page)

“Is this Timothy Cone?”

“That’s right. Who’s this?”

“Sergeant Joseph D’Amato. Neal Davenport said you wanted me to contact you.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“I should tell you this call is being taped. In the business I’m in, that’s SOP. Okay with you?”

“Sure. All I got is a list of names and where they live. I was hoping you might be able to give me some skinny on them.”

“Who are they?”

Cone sees no reason to hold back, especially if he wants a favor from this guy. “All of them bought big blocks of the same stock in the last two or three weeks. I think it may be an inside trading scam.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” D’Amato says. “That’s a federal rap. No interest to us.”

“It might,” Cone says. “I think these guys are getting their tips from a woman who operates a private garbage removal service on the West Side of Manhattan. I got a feeling these guys are all wrongos, and they’re in your files.”

Silence a moment, then: “All right, let’s have the names. Try to speak slowly and distinctly. My tape recorder is an antique. And spell out all the last names.”

Cone does as he’s told.

“That’s it,” he says when he’s finished.

“A couple of the names ring a bell,” the sergeant says. “And you’re right: They are not nice people. I’ll run them through the computer and see what turns up. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks.”

“Neal tells me you’re a secretive sonofabitch. If you’re holding back, now’s the time to tell me. I don’t like doing a private eye’s work unless there’s something in it for me.”

“I understand that, and I’m not holding back. I’ve given you all I’ve got.”

“All right,” D’Amato says. “But you cross me just once, and you’ve had it, pal. You capeesh?”

“I capeesh,” Cone says.

That night, around eleven o’clock, he drives uptown again. He parks two blocks away from Steiner Waste Control and walks back. The dump is surrounded by a heavy chain-link fence, and the truck-filled tarmac is lighted by two floods. There’s also a night watchman’s shed inside the locked gate, and the guy himself is outside, looking up at the star-spangled sky. He’s a chunky bruiser and he’s not carrying a kielbasa in that belt holster.

Cone knows at once that there’s no way he’s going to break into the Steiner office and waltz out with their customer list. That leaves only one alternative, and he groans aloud when he thinks of the stultifying labor that will entail.

But he won’t let go; he’s done his share of donkeywork before and lived through it. So on Thursday morning, early, he’s parked across Eleventh Avenue from Steiner Waste Control. He’s come prepared with two deli sandwiches (bologna on rye with mustard, roast beef on white with mayo) and four cans of Miller beer in a plastic bag filled with ice cubes.

The garbage dump comes to life. Cone watches as the gate is unlocked and thrown open. Employees arrive, trucks are revved up, the gas pump is busy, and a short, stocky woman comes out of the office to yell something Cone can’t hear at an old guy who comes limping from one of the corrugated steel sheds.

There are six huge Loadmaster compactor trucks, all painted yellow. Timothy thanks God and his good-luck angels when he sees that not only do the garbage trucks bear the legend Steiner Waste Control, but each has a big number painted on the side, 1 to 6. At least Cone won’t be following the same truck for a week.

Because that’s his plan; he can’t think of a better way to find out who Sally Steiner is dealing with. He doesn’t think she’s got a Wall Street informant, so she must be getting her inside info from one of her customers. It’s a long shot, but the only one Cone has.

Truck No. 4 pulls out first, and Cone starts up the Dodge Shadow and goes right after it. For the next seven hours he eats the truck’s exhaust, going where it goes, stopping when it stops, returning to the dump when Truck No. 4 returns to drop a load.

Meanwhile he’s making scrawled notes on the back of a brown envelope that originally contained a nasty letter from the IRS warning him that he owed Uncle Sam an additional $17.96. He logs the schedule of Truck No. 4: names and addresses of places it services: restaurants, apartment houses, diners, industrial buildings, taverns.

By the end of the day, sandwiches and beers consumed, Cone is bored and cranky, wondering if he’s got the fire to keep this up for a week. What bugs him is the fear that each numbered truck may have a different schedule of rubbish pickups every day. If that’s true, it’ll take a month of Sundays to list all of Sally Steiner’s customers.

But on Friday morning, he’s there again, parked and waiting. Now there are big flatbeds pulling through the Steiner gate to load up with strapped bales of paper, and open-bed trucks being filled with cubes of compacted garbage to be taken, Cone presumes, to landfills on Long Island or New Jersey. And smaller trucks loading up with tons of swill for what eventual purpose Cone doesn’t even want to imagine.

On Friday he follows Truck No. 2. On Monday he shadows Truck No. 5. And on Tuesday he takes off after Truck No. 3, beginning to think he’s just spinning his wheels. But then, early Tuesday afternoon, something happens that makes it seem likely he hasn’t been diddling himself.

Cone has already noted that the big Steiner trucks are operated by a crew of two, driver and loader. On Tuesday, Truck No. 3 is being driven by a redheaded guy with the map of Ireland spread all over his face. The loader is a broad-shouldered black who looks like he could nudge a locked door off its hinges with no trouble at all.

Everything in their Tuesday routine is normal and dull until about 1:00, when Truck No. 3 slows and turns into an alleyway alongside a one-story cinderblock building on lower Tenth Avenue. Cone parks across the street and opens his second pack of Camels of the day. From where he sits, he has a good view of the action.

The loader climbs down from the cab. But instead of hefting the cylindrical barrels of trash that have been put out for pickup, he exits the alley and starts walking up Tenth Avenue. Cone straightens up, interested enough to forget to light his cigarette.

In a couple of minutes, a battered Chevy van pulls into the alley and stops right behind the Steiner truck. The loader gets out of the Chevy, opens the back doors, and begins to lift the barrels into the van.

“What the hell?” Cone says aloud, and then realizes he’s now got two cigarettes going at once. He licks thumb and forefinger and pinches one out, saving it carefully in the ashtray. The van, loaded with four barrels, backs out of the alley and starts north on Tenth Avenue. Cone takes a quick look at the cinderblock building. It’s got a brass plate next to the front door, but it’s so small he can’t read it from across the street. The yellow truck hasn’t moved, so Cone gets rolling and follows the van.

What a journey that turns out to be! Up Tenth Avenue to 54th Street. East on 54th to Eighth Avenue. North on Eighth and onto Broadway. Up Broadway to 72nd Street. East on 72nd to Central Park West. North on CPW to 86th Street. A right turn and they’re going through the Park at Traverse 3. Cone is happy he’s got a full tank of gas.

He’s keeping a tight tail on the van, but city traffic is heavy and it’s doubtful if the loader will spot him, even if he’s looking for a shadow. Cone doesn’t think that likely; the guy is driving steadily at legal speeds and making no effort to jink.

On the East Side, they turn up First Avenue and continue north, almost to 125th Street. Now Cone guesses where they’re heading: the Triborough Bridge. He wonders if this guy is making a hegira to Long Island to dump his four barrels in some deserted landfill. But that doesn’t make sense; by rights, the contents of those barrels should have been taken back to the Steiner dump for disposal.

On they go, picking up speed now as traffic thins. They stop briefly to pay their tolls, then head across the span. Cone accelerates to pull the Dodge Shadow alongside the van. He glances sideways. The loader looks like he’s enjoying life. He’s smoking a plump cigar and slapping the steering wheel in time to radio music Cone can’t hear.

They get onto the Long Island Expressway, moving at a lively clip. They turn off onto the Northern State Parkway, turn again onto the Sunken Meadow State Parkway. The van is slowing now, and Cone has time to look around. Pretty country. Plenty of trees. Some impressive homes with white picket fences.

Down Main Street in Smithtown and into an area where the homes are even bigger, set on wide lawns with white graveled driveways leading to the house and two-or three-car garages.

The Chevy van turns into one of those driveways. Cone continues down the road a piece, pulls onto the verge and parks. He hops out, lights a cigarette, and saunters back. He stands in the semi-concealment of a small copse of pines and watches the loader lug the four barrels, one at a time, into a neat white garage with a shingled roof.

The four cardboard barrels inside, the man starts bringing them out again and sliding them into the van—or so it seems; the barrels are identical in appearance. Timothy is flummoxed until he realizes what’s going on. The guy has delivered four new barrels; he’s picking up four old barrels that were already stored in the garage.

Cone sees the Steiner loader climb behind the wheel of the van. Away he goes. Cone will make book on exactly where he’s heading: back to the city to make contact with Truck No. 3, dump the trash in the big yellow Loadmaster, and then return the empty barrels to the alleyway alongside that building on Tenth Avenue.

Cone, stays where he is, eyeballing the garage and home. Nice place. The house is two stories high with a lot of windows. Weathered brick halfway up and white clapboard the rest of the way. A tiled terrace at one side with French doors from the house. All set on what looks to be a one-acre plot, at least, with a manicured lawn and a few pieces of Victorian cast-iron furniture scattered about.

He figures he’ll meander up and see if there’s a name on the mailbox. If someone braces him, he’ll tell them he’s the Avon Lady. But he doesn’t have to use any subterfuge. He’s no sooner started up the bricked walk to the front door when he spots a sign on a short post driven into the lawn. It reads:
THE STEINERS.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Cone says aloud. He goes back to his car, turns around, and heads for the city. He drives as fast as the cabs on the parkways and expressway, hoping to get back to Tenth Avenue before that business closes for the day. Traffic is heavy, but nothing like what’s coming
from
the city; that’s bumper-to-bumper.

He’s back in Manhattan by four o’clock, but it takes him almost forty-five minutes to work his way over to the West Side. He finally parks on Ninth Avenue, with his watch nudging 5:00
P.M.
He practically runs back to the one-story cinderblock building. The brass plate next to the front door reads:
BECHTOLD PRINTING.
Just that and nothing more.

The front door is still open, but when he pushes his way in, a blowsy blonde in the front office is putting on her hat. It looks like a velvet chamberpot.

“We’re closed for the day,” she tells Cone.

“Nah,” he says, giving her what he fancies is a charming smile. “The front door is open. I just want to get some letterheads, bills, and business cards printed up.”

“We don’t do that kind of work,” she says tartly.

“You don’t?” he says. “Well, what kind of work do you do?”

“Financial printing,” she says.

“Thank you very much,” the Wall Street dick says, tipping his leather cap. “Sorry to bother you.”

Back in the Dodge Shadow, he realizes he hasn’t eaten all day. So he wolfs down his two deli sandwiches (salami and egg salad) and gulps two beers. All the ice cubes in his plastic sack have melted, and the beer is barely cool. But at least it’s wet.

Then he drives back to his loft, whistling a merry tune.

He wakes Wednesday morning, mouth tasting like a wet wool sock and stomach ready to do a Krakatoa. He resolves never again to drink Italian brandy with kosher hot dogs, baked beans, and sauerkraut. Even Cleo, who shared the same meal, looks a mite peaked.

He trudges down to the office. It’s an unexpectedly sharp day, with a keen, whistling wind. Breathing that etheric air is like having a decongestant inhaler plugged up each nostril. But by the time he hits John Street, he’s feeling a lot better and figures he’ll live to play the violin again.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Samantha Whatley says bitterly. “So glad you could make it. And it isn’t even payday.”

“Hey,” he says, “you know I’ve been busy with Pistol and Burns. Practically living with G. Fergus Twiggs.”

“Practically living with him, huh? That’s why you’ve got three messages on your desk to phone him as soon as possible.”

“Oh,” Cone says. “Well, something must have come up. I’ll give him a call.”

“That’s more than you do for me,” she says in a low voice. “You bastard!”

“I’ve really been busy,” he says lamely, and flees to his own cubbyhole office before she starts bitching about his missing progress reports.

There are the three messages from Twiggs, and one from Joseph D’Amato. Cone calls the sergeant first.

“Christ, you’re a hard man to get hold of,” the NYPD detective says. “I called you at home a couple of times, then figured I’d try your office. Listen, you and I have got to have a talk.”

“Sure. How about noon here in the office? We can have a sandwich and schmooze as long as you like.”

“Suits me,” D’Amato says. “I’ll be there.”

“You got something for me?” Cone asks hopefully.

“See you at noon,” the sergeant says and hangs up.

Cone then calls G. Fergus Twiggs. Getting through to the senior partner of Pistol & Burns is akin to requesting an audience with the Q. of E., but the Wall Street dick waits patiently, and eventually Twiggs comes on the line. His normally cheery voice sounds dejected.

“I’m afraid we have another one,” he reports.

“An insider leak?”

“Yes. On a deal that’s barely gotten under way. I just don’t understand it. Very depressing.”

“I can be in your office in half an hour. I won’t take much of your time, but I think it’ll make you happier.”