Timothy's game

“Never heard of him.”

“Sure you have,” Cone says.

“I’m telling you, mister, there’s no one here by that name, and I never heard the name before.”

“Well, look, if a man named Mario Corsini happens to stop by, will you ask him to call this number. It’s really very important. Tell him it’s about Sally Steiner. Got that? Sally Steiner.”

He gives his phone number, repeating it twice, and hangs up. Then he and Cleo go to work on the ham hocks and potato salad. Cleo takes a hunk of gristle under the bathtub for a late-night snack, and Cone mixes himself a vodka and water to cut the grease.

He doesn’t read, listen to the radio, or watch TV. He just slouches at his desk, feet up, planning what he’s going to say if Corsini calls.

The phone rings a little after eight o’clock, and he moves quickly to the kitchenette.

“Hello, asshole,” Samantha Whatley says. “What’re you doing?”

“Will you get off the line,” he says. “I’m expecting an important call.”

Silence. Then: “And what’s this-chopped liver? Fuck you, buster!”

“Listen,” he says desperately, “I’ll call you when-”

But she hangs up, and he goes grumbling back to the vodka bottle. “Who needs her?” he shouts at a startled Cleo, then answers his own question. “I do,” he says.

It’s almost 9:30 when the phone rings again, and by that time Cone is feeling no pain and is ready to take on the entire Cosa Nostra and its Ladies’ Auxiliary.

“Who’s this?” a voice shouts.

“Am I speaking to Mr. Mario Corsini?”

“You tell me who you are or I hang up.”

“Mr. Corsini, my name is Smedley Tonker, and I am an investigator with the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

“So?”

“Forgive me for calling at this late hour,” Cone goes on, wondering how many years he can get for impersonating a federal officer, “but we’re working overtime investigating recent stock trading in Trimbley and Diggs, Incorporated. In the course of our investigation, careful examination of computer records shows that you and your associates took a very considerable long position in that stock.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you do, Mr. Corsini. Our records show a purchase of nine thousand shares by you personally through a broker in Atlantic City.”

“I tell you it’s all horseshit to me; I don’t know nothing about it. And you said this call was about Sally Steiner. I never heard of the broad.”

“You haven’t? That’s odd since your cousin, Anthony Ricci, works for Steiner Waste Control. Come on, Mr. Corsini, let’s stop playing games. Our investigation shows you and your friends made your stock purchases on the basis of inside tips from Sally Steiner. Do you know how she got her information, Mr. Corsini?”

So, for the fourth time, Cone relates the tale of how trash from Bechtold Printing was delivered to Sally’s Smithtown home, and how she rummaged through the garbage to find confidential financial documents.

“Are you claiming you knew nothing about Ms. Steiner’s illegal activities, Mr. Corsini?”

“Talk to my lawyers, you putz!” the other man screams and hangs up.

Smiling happily, Cone goes back to his unfinished drink, polishes it off, and then returns to the phone to call Samantha Whatley.

It takes almost twenty minutes of sweet talk to soothe Sam into a growlingly genial mood. But finally they’re calling each other “asshole” and “shithead” and planning a Saturday night dinner in the loft. Cone promises to supply pounds of barbecued ribs, a basket of extra-thick potato chips (garlic flavored), and some dill pickles as a green vegetable.

“I’ll bring the dessert,” Sam volunteers.

“Okay.”

“What would you like?”

“You,” he says.

Sally Steiner thinks of it later as Black Friday. It starts bad and gets progressively worse. On the drive into the city, some fucking cowboy cuts her off on the Long Island Expressway, and she almost rolls the Mazda onto the verge.

Then, when she gets to the office, she discovers the air conditioner has conked out, and it’s a bloody hot day. There’s a letter from the bank informing her that a check she deposited, from the guy who buys their baled paper, has been returned because of insufficient funds. There’s also a crusty letter from the IRS telling her that Steiner Waste Control owes an additional $29,871.46 on the previous year’s return, and they better come up with the funds-or else.

She’s on the phone to the IRS for a long time, and when she finally hangs up, sweating, Judy Bering conies in to tell her that Frederick Bechtold has called three times.

“He sounds like he’s got steam coming out his ears,” Judy reports. “He kept shouting in German. All I could catch was verdammt, verdammt, verdammt. It sounded like he wants to feed you into one of his high-speed presses.”

“All right,” Sally says, sighing, “I’ll give him a call.”

Bechtold immediately starts spluttering, roaring, and cursing her in German. She knows enough of the language to recognize some of the words he’s using, and they’re not nice.

“Now wait a minute,” she says, getting pissed off.

“Zo!” he shouts. “I should wait a minute, should I? You, you Dirne, you will wait five years in jail. In prison you will wait.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she demands.

“Oh, yes, oh, yes,” he says furiously. “My best customer you have cost me. And who knows how many more? Maybe all. Because you go through my trash, and you read my first proofs, and then you buy stocks, you Schlampe! You are fired, you understand that? And you will hear from my lawyers. For my loss of business, you will pay plenty, you bet.”

Sally has been listening to this tirade while standing behind her desk. Now, knees suddenly trembling, she collapses into her swivel chair.

“Who told you all that?” she asks weakly.

“Who? I tell you who. A man from the United States Government, that’s who. They know what you have been doing. Oh, yes, they know everything. And you will pay for what you have done. Thirty-six years I have been in this business, and my work is the best. The best! And you, you slut, you have destroyed-”

She hangs up softly and sits slumped forward, forehead resting on the heels of her hands. She tries to make sense of what’s happened, but her brain’s awhirl. Thoughts come, go, jostle, scream for attention, dissolve, return.

The government man he mentioned must have been that creep from the SEC. How did he find out? And if he knows about Sally’s stock trading, then maybe Paul Ramsey is in danger. What can they do to him? What can they do to her? Goddamn it, she’ll fight them! She had no inside knowledge of those deals-exactly. But will they charge her anyway? Make her return the profits and fine her? A prison term? Ridiculous! It was no big deal. How the hell did they find out?

Suddenly frightened-not at possible punishment, but at possible loss of her investments-she phones Paul Ramsey. Thank God he’s in, and she tells him to call his broker immediately and sell everything at the market price. Just unload totally.

“That’s cool,” he says.

“You’ll do it, Paul? Right away?”

“Sure,” he said, and his placidity helps calm her.

She closes the door to her office, and then calls Ivan Belzig, her attorney, and tells him everything. After he stops laughing, he gets indignant.

“And you couldn’t pass the tips along to me?” he says. “What am I-an enemy?”

“Cut the shit, Ivan,” Sally says. “Tell me, what can the SEC do to me?”