“I think it sucks,” Sally says. “There are two things wrong. First of all, you could do exactly like you tell me, and Vic would still say screw it, we’re taking over the business.”
“Yeah,” Corsini says, nodding, “that could happen. He’s a stubborn guy who likes things his own way.”
“Second of all,” Sally says, “how do I know you’re not scamming me? Maybe you just want to make a quick dollar on my tip and you couldn’t care less if or when I lose the dump.”
He looks at her admiringly. “You got more between your ears than pasta fagioli,” he says. “And sure, you’re exactly right; I could be conning you. But you’re forgetting one thing: You got no choice. Without me, you’re going to lose the business for sure. Play along with me and at least you got a chance.”
“I got other choices,” she says hotly.
“Yeah?” he says with a death’s-head grin. “Like what? Like running to the DA and ratting on us? You’d be cold in a week, and so would your mother and brother. Is that what you want?”
They sit a few moments in silence, eyes locked. They hear the sounds of the dump: trucks rumbling in and out, gears grinding, shouts and laughter. And beyond, the noises of the harsh, raucous city: sirens, whistles, the roar of traffic, and under all a thrumming as if the metropolis had a diapason of its own, coming up from underground vaults and vibrating the tallest towers.
Sally Steiner pulls a pad of scratch paper toward her and scribbles on the top sheet.
“The stock is Trimbley and Diggs,” she says. “Nasdaq Market. Right now it’s selling for about four bucks a share. And don’t, for God’s sake, buy more than nine thousand shares at a clip or the SEC might get interested.”
Mario Corsini takes the slip of paper. “Nice doing business with you,” he says politely.
He starts out the door. “Hey,” she calls, and he turns back. “Thanks for not calling me girlie.”
He inclines his head gravely as if her gratitude is merited.
She sits for about five minutes after he’s gone, thinking about their conversation and wondering if she’s doing the smart thing. But then she realizes the bastard was right: She really has no choice. As for his threat of what might happen to her, Becky, and Eddie if she goes to the cops, she has no doubt whatsoever that he and his thugs are capable of doing exactly what he said.
She pulls the phone toward her and calls Eddie.
“Hey, bro,” she says. “How’ya doing?”
“Hanging in there,” he says. “How are you, Sal?”
“Couldn’t be better,” she says brightly. “Paul around?”
“Won’t be back till noon. He’s auditioning for a commercial for a strawberry-flavored laxative.”
“Beautiful,” Sally says. “Could I pop over for a while? I’ve got some cash to leave for him. Our first step on the way to fame and fortune.”
“Sure,” he says. “Come ahead. Got time to pose?”
“Maybe an hour or so. Okay?”
She walks down to Eddie’s apartment, stopping on the way to buy him a decent burgundy. It’s a sprightly day, summer around the corner, and the blue sky, sharp sun, and kissing breeze make her feel like she owns the world. Life is a tease; that she knows. All souls dissolve; but meanwhile it can be a hoot if you keep running and never look back.
She poses nude for Eddie for almost an hour, sitting on that stupid stool and trying to make her body as tense, muscular, and aggressive as he commands. Finally he slaps his sketch pad shut.
“That’s it,” he says. “I’ve got all the studies I need. Now I’ll start blocking out the canvas. This is going to be a good one, Sal; I just know it.”
“Make me pretty,” she says. “And about six inches taller and twenty pounds thinner.”
“You’re perfect the way you are.”
“Marry me,” she says. “And also pour me a wine while I get dressed.”
They’re sitting on the couch, drinking her burgundy, talking about their mother and whether or not they should try another doctor, when Paul Ramsey comes ambling in. He gives them a beamy smile.
“I didn’t get the job,” he reports. “They decided I wasn’t the strawberry laxative type.”
“Thank God,” Eddie says. “I don’t think I could stand seeing you in a commercial, coming out of a bathroom and grinning like a maniac.”
“Paul,” Sally says, taking the manila envelope out of her shoulder bag, “here’s thirty-six thousand in hundred-dollar bills.”
“Hey,” he says, “that’s cool.”
“You opened a brokerage account?”
“Oh, sure. No sweat.”
“Well, dump this lettuce in your personal checking account. Draw on it to buy nine thousand shares of Trimbley and Diggs. Your broker will find it on the Nasdaq exchange. I wrote it all out for you. Buy the stock today, as soon as possible. You’ve got five days to get a check to the broker.”
“Does this make me a tycoon?” Paul Ramsey asks.
“A junior tycoon,” Sally tells him. “But we’re just getting started.”
She sits in the one comfortable armchair in the apartment. Eddie and Paul sit close on the rickety couch. The three kid along for a while, chattering about this and that. But then Sally falls silent and listens while the two men, holding hands now, chivy one another as they plan what they’re going to have for dinner and whose turn it is to do the cooking.
She can see the intimacy between them, a warm bond that may be fondness, may be affection, may be love. Whatever, each completes the other. They are easy together, and no strains show. There is a privacy there, and Sally finds it disturbing. For that kind of sharing is a foreign language to her and yet leaves her feeling cheated and bereft.
The stock of Trimbley amp; Diggs, Inc., is going up, up, up, and Sally is ecstatic. When it hits seven dollars, she has Paul Ramsey buy another 9,000 shares.
She also notes the trading volume of T amp;D is increasing as the value of the stock rises. She figures there’s either an inside leak at Snellig Firsten Holbrook or the arbitrageurs have ferreted out the takeover and are looking to make a bundle. So is Sally. And so, apparently, is Mario Corsini. He calls her at home, late at night, a week after their talk in her office.
“Good tip,” he says, his raspy voice revealing neither joy nor enthusiasm. “You buying more?”
“Thinking about it.”
“How high do you think it’ll go?”
“Who knows?” she says. “Ten. Twelve maybe.”
“Twelve?” he says cautiously. “If it hits twelve, you think I should bail out?”
“Hey,” she says, “I’m not your financial adviser. I gave you a good tip. What you do with it is your business. And what about
“I’m working on it,” he says. “Listen, one of the reasons I called: Tony Ricci will be late for work tomorrow. There’s a family funeral, and I want him to be there. He’ll show up around noon. Okay?”
“I guess it’ll have to be,” Sally says. “It’ll screw up my truck schedules, but I’ll work it out.”
“You do that,” Corsini says. “And if you get any more tips, let me know.”
He hangs up abruptly, leaving Sally staring angrily at her dead phone. It infuriates her that she’s enabling that gonnif to make even one lousy buck. It’s she who’s breaking her nails digging through garbage from Bechtold Printing. All Corsini has to do is call his broker.
She drives to work early the next morning, checks in at the office, then crosses Eleventh Avenue to the Stardust Diner. Terry Mulloy and Leroy Hamilton are seated at the back table. Both men are working on plates of three eggs over with a ham steak, a mountain of home fries, a stack of toast with butter and jelly, and coffee with cream and sugar. Sally joins them.
“You’re both going to have coronaries,” she says, and tells Mabel to bring her a plain bagel and a cup of black coffee.
It’s payoff day, and she slips each man an envelope under the table.
