being engineered by Pistol amp; Burns.
“A good one?” Corsini asks.
“I’m in it,” Sally says. “You suit yourself.”
“It better be good,” he says. “You know what’s riding on it.”
“You scare the pants off me,” she says scornfully.
“I’d like to,” he says, and she hangs up.
Timothy Cone and Jeremy Bigelow are “eating street” again. They’re sauntering down through the financial district toward the Battery, stopping at carts and vans to pick up calzone, chicken wings in soy sauce, raw carrots, chocolate-chip cookies, gelato, and much, much more.
“I never want to work a case with you again,” the SEC investigator says. “Every time we eat like this, I gain five pounds and my wife tells me she can’t sleep because my stomach keeps rumbling all night.”
“I got a cast-iron gut,” Cone brags. “But nothing compared to my cat. That monster can chew nails and spit tacks.”
“Lucky for him. How did you make out with those Trimbley and Diggs trading records I gave you?”
“I made out like a thief,” Timothy says. “I found the leak.”
Jeremy stops on the sidewalk, turns, stares at him. “You’re kidding,” he says.
“Scout’s honor,” Cone says, and for the third time he describes how Sally Steiner is digging through trash from Bechtold Printing and finding smeared proofs of confidential financial documents.
He tells Bigelow nothing about the Mario Corsini connection.
Twiggs had succumbed to hysterical guffaws after hearing the story, and Joe D’Amato had been amused, but the SEC man is infuriated.
“Son of a bitch,” he says angrily. “I should have caught those nine-thousand-share trades. How did you break it?”
“A lot of luck.”
“You told Pistol and Burns?”
“Oh, sure. Twiggs called me this morning. They’ve canned Bechtold and are switching to another commercial printer until they can put in a desktop printing system. Listen, Jerry, you better tell Snellig Firsten Holbrook.”
“Yeah,” the other man says worriedly. “I’ll do that. You think the printer was in on it?”
“Nah,” Cone says, “I think he’s clean. He’s just careless with his garbage, that’s all.”
“My God,” Bigelow says, trying to wipe drips of gelato from his lapel, “do you realize what this means? We’ll have to get hold of Bechtold’s customer list-get a subpoena if we have to-and alert all his Wall Street customers about what’s going on.”
That’s exactly what Cone wanted him to say. This guy is brainy, but not the hardest man in the world to manipulate.
“Yeah,” he says sympathetically, “a lot of work. Maybe an easier way to handle it would be for you to pay a visit to Frederick Bechtold. Come on strong. Tell him what’s been going down, and if he doesn’t get rid of Steiner Waste Control and put in an incinerator or pulverizer, you’re going to report him to every Wall Street customer he’s got. He’ll believe you because he’ll already have the bad news from Pistol and Burns.”
“It could be handled that way,” Jeremy says thoughtfully. “A lot less work. No subpoenas, charges, and court trials.”
“Sure,” Cone agrees. “And why should an innocent printer suffer just because Sally Steiner has larceny in her heart.”
They stop at an umbrella stand for a final giant chocolate chip cookie. They munch on those, holding paper napkins under their chins as they walk.
“Sally Steiner,” Bigelow repeats. “What are we going to do about her?”
“What can you do?” Cone asks. “Let’s face it: Your chances of making a legit charge against her for inside trading are zilch. She’s a shrewd lady, and I’m betting she’ll fight you every inch of the way. Maybe you can force her to cough up her profits-but I doubt it. Meanwhile the SEC will be getting a lot of lousy publicity. Everyone will be on Steiner’s side and getting a big laugh out of how clever she was to beat the stock market.”
“Yeah, you’re right. If this was a megamillion deal, I’d push for a formal inquiry by the Commission. But how much could she have made? Half a million?”
“Probably less than that,” Cone says, not mentioning how much Corsini and his pals might have cleared. “But the important thing is that you’re closing her down. The moment you brace Bechtold, you know he’s going to get rid of Steiner. She’ll be losing a good customer and getting cut off from her source of inside scoop.”
“It makes sense,” Jeremy says, nodding. “I’ll just keep the whole thing on the investigative level and file a report saying the leak’s been plugged.”
“And take all the credit,” Cone advises. “I don’t want any glory. My job was with Pistol and Burns, and they’re happy. The rest belongs to you.”
“Thanks, Tim,” Bigelow says gratefully. “Listen, you don’t mind if I split, do you? I want to get uptown and start the ball rolling.”
“Go ahead,” the Wall Street dick says. “Tell the printer it was all Sally Steiner’s fault.”
He watches the SEC man hurry away, tossing the remnants of his cookie into a litter basket. Cone finishes his, then turns and meanders uptown to Haldering amp; Co.
He’s satisfied that he’s put the first part of his plot into place. If he can stage-manage the second part, his scheme will have a chance. Except, he admits, everything depends on the reaction of Sally Steiner. All Cone can do is put the pressure on and hope she’ll cave. She might not, but he’s got to try it. It’s his civic duty, he tells himself virtuously. And besides, the whole thing is a hoot.
Back in his office, he calls Joe D’Amato. Sorry, he’s told, the sergeant is out and can’t be reached. Cone leaves a message and begins to get skittery. A lot depends on timing, and if he can’t get hold of D’Amato and persuade him to play along, the whole scam will collapse.
He chain-smokes two cigarettes and makes a half-assed attempt to compose his long-delayed progress reports. They should be submitted weekly to Samantha Whatley, but at the rate he’s going, they’ve become monthly progress reports.
His phone doesn’t ring until after four o’clock. By that time his throat is raw from smoking, and his “Yeah?” comes out like a croak.
“Joe D’Amato,” the sergeant says. “Something wrong with your voice?”
“Too many coffin nails. Thanks for calling back. I need a favor.”
“Yeah? And what might that be?”
“You got a phone number for Mario Corsini? I’d like to call him.”
“What for? Wanna have lunch with him?”
“Nah, nothing like that.” Then Cone explains what he has in mind. “It’s risky,” he acknowledges, “but I think it’s got a chance, don’t you?”
“Damned little,” D’Amato says. “You’re playing with fire, you know that?”
“Sure, but what have I got to lose? I figure if I go ahead with it, she’ll think seriously about turning.”
“Umm. Maybe.”
“You want to make the call to Corsini yourself?”
“Hell, no. Self-preservation are the first, second, and third laws in this business, and I’ve got to cover my ass. I’m even going to erase the tape of this call.”
“Does that mean you’re going to give me Corsini’s phone number?”
“I haven’t got it. But I’ve got the number of a social club in Ozone Park where he hangs. Maybe they’ll get a message to him to call you back. That’s the best I can do.”
“Good enough,” Cone says. “Let’s have it.”
That evening, on the way home, he stops to buy some baked ham hocks, which he and Cleo dearly love, and a container of potato salad. But back in the loft, he postpones laying out the evening’s feast until he calls that Ozone Park social club.
A man answers. “Yeah?” he says in a voice that sounds like someone has kicked his Adam’s apple.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Mario Corsini,” Cone says politely.
“Who?”
“Mario Corsini.”
