Timothy's Game (27 page)

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“What mind? How about threeish or fourish?”

“How about twoish?”

“Okay,” she says agreeably. “We can read the Real Estate Section in bed together.”

“Whoopee!” he cries.

He really does have things to do—not a lot, but some. He changes Cleo’s litter and damp-mops the linoleum. He takes in his laundry and decides the corduroy suit will do for another week without drycleaning. He goes shopping for beer, vodka, wine, brandy. And he buys a loaf of Jewish rye (without seeds) and a whole garlic salami. It’s about two feet long and looks like an elephant’s schlong.

Back in the loft, he and Cleo have salami sandwiches, two for him, one for the cat. Cone’s sandwiches have hot English mustard smeared on them. Cleo prefers mayonnaise.

He reads
Barron’s
as he eats, marveling at all the reports of chicanery on Wall Street. Most of them involve inside trading, stock manipulation, or fraudulent misrepresentation on a company’s balance sheet. The Street has its share of gonnifs, and the fact that they wear three-piece pinstripes and carry alligator attaché cases doesn’t mitigate their corruption.

What never ceases to amaze Cone is how few of these moneyed crooks are stand-up guys. Once they’ve been nabbed by the Securities and Exchange Commission or the Federal DA, they sing like canaries, happy to squeal on their larcenous associates, willing to be wired or have their phones tapped so old school chums can share the blame. Cone knows that when you drive a BMW and summer on the Cape, you’d be eager to cooperate with the fuzz if it means probation rather than a year in the slammer. But Timothy has known cheap boosters, purse-snatchers, and yeggs with more honor than that.

“It’s money,” he tells a snoozing Cleo. “Everyone quotes ‘Money is the root of all evil,’ but that’s not what the Good Book says. It says, ‘The
love
of money is the root of all evil.’ Big difference.”

Cleo is not impressed.

Cone finishes his reading and then falls asleep at the table, bent forward with his head on folded arms. He wakes early in the evening, feeling stiff from his awkward position, with pins and needles in both hands. He stalks up and down the loft, jangling arms and legs to get jazzed up again.

There’s a greasy spoon around the corner, run by a Greek who can do nothing right but double-cheeseburgers and home fries with a lot of onions. So that’s what Timothy has, sitting at the counter and wondering if this is the way he’s going to die someday, toppling off the stool, OD’d on cholesterol.

He returns to the loft and mooches around for almost an hour, smoking two Camels and buying himself another robust drink. He knows what he’s going to do that night, but the prospect is so depressing he puts it off as long as possible. Finally he can postpone it no longer and calls David Dempster.

“Hello?” Dempster says. Cone recognizes that spoony voice.

“Sam?” the Wall Street dick asks.

“No, you’ve got the wrong number,” Dempster says, and hangs up.

So now Cone knows the guy is home, and he has no excuse for stalling. He makes his preparations swiftly: a jelly jar filled with vodka, the lid screwed on tightly; a plastic bag of ice cubes, closed with a metal tie; a fresh pack of cigarettes; a book of matches; a pencil stub; an empty milk carton in case he has to relieve himself.

He gets up to East 38th Street about 8:30 and double-parks across from the limestone townhouse. There’s a streetlight right in front of the building, so Cone backs up the Escort to get out of the glare. He still has a good view, and is happy to see the third floor is lighted. In fact, a couple of times David Dempster comes to the front window, pulls the curtains aside, and peers down into the street.

“Waiting for someone, honey?” Cone says softly. He settles down, knowing it’s going to be a long night. He figures he’ll stay double-parked as long as he can, and if a prowl car rousts him, he’ll drive around the block and take up his station again.

One cigarette later, a beige Jaguar Vanden Plus pulls up in front of Dempster’s townhouse. It double-parks, a guy gets out, locks up, goes into the building. In a few minutes, Cone sees the shadows of two men moving behind the thin curtains on the third floor.

He hops out of his car, trots across the street, walks purposefully past the Jaguar, and eyeballs the license plate. Back in his Ford, he jots the number on the inside cover of his matchbook. He’s no sooner done that when a dark blue, four-door Bentley pulls up behind the parked Jaguar. Guy gets out, locks up, hurries into the townhouse. Then Cone can spot three shadows moving back and forth on the third floor.

He goes through the same drill: crosses the street, takes a long look at the license plate, returns to the Escort to jot down the number. One more and it’ll be a poker game, Cone thinks.

But he has to wait almost fifteen minutes before the fourth visitor appears. He arrives in a chauffeured black Daimler that pulls in ahead of the Jaguar. Man gets out, enters the townhouse. Cone doesn’t even glance at the third-floor-windows; it’s a good bet the Daimler owner is going to join the crowd.

Rut the Wall Street dick has another problem: The chauffeur steps out of the car, slouches against a fender, lights a cigar, and inspects the night sky. Cone decides to give it a try. He crosses the street, glances at the car, then stops as if entranced.

“Wow,” he says to the lounging chauffeur. “What kind of a car is that?”

The guy inspects him coldly. He’s a big bruiser with shoulders so wide he’d have to go through a door sideways.

“Daimler,” he says.

“Expensive?” Cone asks.

“Nah,” the guy says. “Just save your bottle caps.”

Cone laughs appreciatively. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks.

“Look but don’t touch,” the guy says.

So the Wall Street dick walks slowly around the Daimler, eyeballing the license plate.

“Beautiful job,” he says. “Who’s so rich he can afford something like this?”

The chauffeur stares at him. “I thought everyone had one.

Cone knows he’s not going to get anything from this tight-mouth, so he returns to his car and adds the Daimler’s license number to his list. There’s no movement behind the third-floor curtains, and he wonders if it really is a poker game, or bridge or tiddlywinks, and the whole night is going down the drain.

He opens his jar of vodka, takes a sip to lower the level, and tips in two cubes and some ice water from the plastic bag. As he drinks, he adds more cubes and more water, stirring with a forefinger until he’s got the mix just right. Then he slouches down, keeping an eye on the townhouse entrance and hoping for action.

It doesn’t take too long. In about twenty minutes, three men come out. They stand a few moments on the sidewalk, talking, laughing, gesturing. Under the streetlight they all look well-fed, well-dressed, well-fixed. Pinkie-ring guys, Cone figures, or maybe the blow-dried type. They all shake hands, real pals, and go to their cars. The Daimler pulls away first, then the Jaguar, then the Bentley. Cone watches them go.

Now what the hell was that? he wonders. Obviously not a poker game. And too short a time for them all to get fixed by a call girl in a back bedroom or watch a porn flick on Dempster’s VCR. Is the guy dealing crack? Just what in God’s name is going down to bring three apparent richniks to Dempster’s apartment on a Saturday night? Clients on business? If that’s what it was, why three of them at one time? And why couldn’t they have met in Dempster’s Cedar Street office or consulted by phone?

It’s getting close to 10:30, and Cone sits patiently, still watching those third-floor windows. Suddenly the lights go out and Timothy straightens up. Too early for beddy-bye; the guy
has
to be on his way out. And he is. He leaves his building, walks swiftly toward Park Avenue. He passes under the streetlight and Cone definitely makes him as David Dempster. He starts the Escort and moves slowly after his target.

David Dempster turns south on Park Avenue. Cone pulls up to the corner and stops as if he’s waiting to make a turn. He watches, hoping the guy isn’t just out for an evening stroll. He isn’t. About halfway down the block he pauses under the marquee of a residential hotel. The doorman comes out. The two men talk a moment. Dempster takes out his wallet, plucks a bill, slips it to the doorman. Then he unlocks and gets into a white Cadillac Seville sitting in the No Parking zone in front of the hotel.

The action is obvious to Cone: Dempster is greasing the doorman to “rent” a convenient parking space. When the Seville pulls out, Cone completes his turn and follows. There’s enough traffic so that chances are good Dempster won’t spot a tail even if he’s looking for one.

They go west, they go north, farther west, farther north. For a few moments Cone fears the Seville might be heading for the Lincoln Tunnel. The prospect of a late-night hegira through the wilds of New Jersey doesn’t fill the Wall Street dick with glee. But no, Dempster drives north on Eighth Avenue to 45th Street, turns west, slows down in the block between Tenth and Eleventh avenues. Awesome neighborhood for anyone in a white Cadillac at night.

But Dempster knows exactly what he’s doing. A tenement has been demolished, the vacant area paved, and it now serves as a narrow parking lot. It’s completely dark, with a heavy chain across the entrance. Cone stops well back in the shadows and watches. The Cadillac pulls up. A guy comes out of a little hut. Dempster hands him a bill. The chain is unlocked and dropped, the Seville enters.

By the time Dempster comes walking out, Cone has parked alongside a fire hydrant and doused his lights. He isn’t worried about a ticket—the client can take care of that—but the possibility of being towed away is a real downer. But he figures he’s got no choice. So he gives David Dempster a good lead, then sets off after him on foot.

The tailee walks quickly down the deserted street to Eleventh Avenue. Just as Cone makes the corner, Dempster disappears into a grungy saloon with a spluttery blue neon sign outside: Paddy’s Pig.

Cone saunters up, peers through the flyspecked window. He spots David Dempster seated at the bar talking earnestly to a fat guy who’s wearing a seaman’s watch cap and a T-shirt that was white a long time ago. Cone can’t figure Dempster’s choice of a drinking companion. Could the guy be a closet faigeleh? Not likely.

There’s no way he can enter the bar; Dempster would make him for sure. So Cone spends the next half-hour meandering up and down the block, stopping at Paddy’s Pig occasionally to look through the window and make certain his quarry is still inside. There’s a faded menu taped to the inside of the window that Timothy finds interesting. It advertises “Turkey dinner with all the tremens.” Of the delirium variety, Cone has no doubt.

He’s a half-block away, on the corner of 46th Street, when he sees David Dempster come out of the bar and walk quickly toward 45th, probably to reclaim his car. The Wall Street dick lets him go, waits a few minutes, then returns to Paddy’s Pig. Unexpectedly, it has a fine front door of oak, inset with panels of beveled and etched glass.

But the tavern itself is a swamp. The bar is gouged and burned mahogany. The sawdust on the floor dates from Year One, being liberally mixed with peanut shells and cigar butts.

Cone looks around as if he’s trying to locate a pal. The scarred bar is on his left. There’s a line of booths on the right, and down the middle is a double row of flimsy wood tables and fragile chairs. The tables are crowded with Saturday night boozers who look like seamen, longshoremen, thieves, and over-the-hill ladies of the evening. Noise slams down from the tin ceiling, and there’s a stink of scorched grease and phenol.

The booths on the right are occupied by a different breed. Mostly youngish guys dressed for flash. Some are with women, but all look like hardcases. Cone reckons a few have got to be Attica alumni; they’ve got that lag look about them: talking without moving their lips, eyes constantly on the qv.

He moves up to the bar, one empty stool away from the fat guy in watch cap and T-shirt. He has faded blue tattoos on his flabby arms and a long, pale scar across his chin as if someone went for his throat with a straight razor and he ducked just in time.

On Cone’s right, practically rubbing elbows, is a tall dude with the jits. He’s either scratching his acne or probing an ear with a matchstick. Both his little fingers have been lopped off at the second joint, and he’s got a greasy black ponytail bound with a rubber band.

A mustachioed bartender wanders up and stands in front of Cone.

“Yeah?” he says.

Cone looks around. Everyone seems to be drinking boiler-makers, but he includes himself out.

“Vodka,” he orders. “On the rocks.”

The mustache looks at him. “Bar vodka?” he asks.

“No, no,” Cone says hastily. “What have you got?”

“Bar vodka and Smirnoff.”

“Give me the Smirnoff,” Cone says. “And there’s an extra buck in it for you if you open a fresh bottle.”

The bartender stares at him. “We don’t water our booze in here, mister.”

“Didn’t say you did. Do you want the buck or don’t you?”

The mustache looks over at the watch cap.

“Give the man what he wants, Tommy,” fatso says. “The customer is always right.”

Grumbling, Tommy fishes out a fresh bottle of Smirnoff from under the bar and uncaps it in front of Cone.

“Okay?” he says truculently.

“Fine.”

He’s taking his first gulp when the tall dude on his right leans toward him.

“Hey,” he says, “I like the way you handled that. You got class.”

Cone shrugs, turns away. He sees tubby is giving him the double-O. He seems to approve of what he sees because he pushes his boilermaker closer to Cone and shifts his bulk onto the barstool next to him.

“You from around here?” he asks in a raspy voice.

“Used to be,” Cone says. “I been away for a while.”

“Yeah,” the guy says. “Ain’t we all. Need anything? Boom-boom? Wanna be a winner? Check it out?”

“Not tonight.”

“Merchandise?”

Cone stares at him. “That fell off the truck?”

“That’s right. Cassettes, TV sets, VCRs, microwaves. You name it. All in the original cartons. Sealed.”