Timothy's game

“How did you do it?” she asks, pouring him a stiff wallop of schnapps.

“Find out you were going through Bechtold’s trash? I followed your trucks.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“No, that’s how I did it. You were on the computer printouts of trading in Wee Tot Fashions. Then, on the records of Trimbley and Diggs, there was Paul Ramsey. I went up to see him, but came away when I found out he was living with your brother. So that led me back to you.”

“How did you find out Eddie was my brother?”

“I called and told him he was a beneficiary on an insurance policy you had bought, and asked him what the relationship was. He told me you were his sister. Pardon me for saying it, but he’s not too swift in the street-smarts department.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. For instance, tell me how many days you followed my trucks.”

“Four.”

“You were lucky.”

“I know. I tailed the van with Bechtold’s scrap out to your garage in Smithtown. After that it was a breeze.”

Sally takes a deep swallow of her drink. Now it’s going down as smooth as silk. “You’re a real buttinsky, aren’t you?” she says.

“That’s right,” he agrees, and his smile is unexpectedly charming. “That’s what they pay me for. So I got Pistol and Burns to dump Bechtold, and I turned you in to the SEC. Sore?”

“Sore? Why should I be sore? You just ruined my life, that’s all.”

“Nah,” Timothy says, leaning forward to pour himself another shot, “it’s not that bad. Nothing is going to happen to Paul Ramsey. I just mentioned his name so you’d talk to me. And I doubt if the SEC will move in on you. They may want you to return your profits, but if you’ve got a good lawyer, you can fight that. Look, they’ve closed you down, haven’t they? That’s the important thing as far as they’re concerned.”

“So that’s why you’re here? To cheer me up?”

“Not exactly,” Cone says, looking at her directly. “I wanted to talk to you about Corsini.”

“Who?”

“Mario Corsini.”

“Never heard of him,” she says.

“Sure you have,” Timothy says. “His cousin works for you. Anthony Ricci.”

“My, you’ve been a busy little boy,” she says, but her smile is glassy.

“It’s all guesswork,” he admits. “But I figure that Steiner Waste Control, like a lot of private carters in the city, pays off the mob to stay in business. I think Corsini is your collector. You gave him stock tips. What I don’t know is whether you did that voluntarily or if he was leaning on you.”

She stands suddenly, begins to pace back and forth behind her desk, arms crossed, holding her elbows. “You really are a meddler, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. So which was it? You gave him the tips out of the kindness of your heart or because he came on heavy?”

“None of your business,” she says.

“It is my business,” he insists. “I think Corsini is giving you a hard time, and you gave him the tips to keep him off your back.”

She turns on him suddenly. “All right!” she cries. “I gave him the tips. What difference does it make why I did it? It’s all over now, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not all over,” Cone continues doggedly. “By this time he and his pals have heard from the SEC, and Corsini knows where your tips were coming from. And he knows the SEC has closed you down. No more inside stock tips. So if he was squeezing you before, he’ll squeeze you all the harder now. If he hasn’t already.”

She flops into her swivel chair, drains her drink, peers into the empty cup. “All right,” she says, “but you didn’t come here just to tell me the story of my life and brag how smart you are. You want something. What is it?”

He looks at her admiringly. “You’ve got the brains of the family,” he says. “I want you to turn and blow the whistle on Corsini. Go to the cops and tell them about the shakedowns.”

“And get my ass shot off,” she says with a sour grin.

“No,” Cone says, shaking his head. “The cops will give you and your family protection. Corsini and his bullyboys won’t dare try anything. No way! They’re shrewd enough to know that any rough stuff would raise a stink strong enough to convict them without a trial.”

“You don’t know them,” Sally says. “They may be smart, but when someone crosses them or plays them for saps, they stop thinking. Then it’s just their stupid pride, machismo, and hot blood. Then all they know is revenge.”

“Bullshit!” Cone says. “Maybe ten years ago, but the new breed are weasels. They’ll rat on their mothers to keep out of the clink. Listen, these guys aren’t like they were in the Untouchables. It just takes one person like you to stand up to them. Then maybe a lot of other people in your business will say enough’s enough, and help the cops put the shtarkers away.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You want to go on the way you’ve been going? Paying a lot to bentnoses just to make a living? What makes you think you’d still have a business?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I told you that the SEC probably won’t bring criminal charges. But what if the SEC and the Federal DA decide you’re not being cooperative? You know what they can do if they want to? Just give the story to the newspapers and TV. It’ll be the talk of Wall Street for at least eight hours. Long enough for a lot of people to decide to bring civil cases against you. Maybe even class-action suits. They’ll say you manipulated the stocks-and there’s something to that. Suppose a guy sold short in Trimbley and Diggs. He lost his stake because you drove the stock up on the basis of what he’ll claim was inside information. The people trying to take over Trimbley and Diggs will probably have to pay a higher price because of what you did. Ditto the ones who bought Wee Tot Fashions. They can all sue if they want to. I’m not saying they’ll collect, but your legal fees to fight those suits could bleed you dry.”

“Oh-ho,” Sally says. “First the carrot and now the stick.”

“I’m just telling you what your situation is,” Cone says. “You may be home free as far as the SEC is concerned, but you’re not out of the woods yet. Those civil suits could demolish you. But if you become the Joan of Arc of the garbage business, I think the cops and the Manhattan DA will pass the word, and those civil cases will be quietly dropped. No one wants to sue the city’s star witness who’s performing a noble civic duty. Think it over. If you decide to play along, give me a call. Haldering and Company on John Street. I know a couple of New York’s Finest. Like all cops they’re hard-ons, but these guys you can trust. Say the word, and I’ll set up a meet.”

Sally makes no reply.

The Wall Street dick rises, pulls on his cap. “Thanks for the belts,” he says. “Take my advice and go to the cops. Do yourself a favor.”

After he’s gone, she sits behind her desk a long time, swinging slowly back and forth in her swivel chair. What Cone said makes a lot of sense-to him. But, smart as he is, he doesn’t know everything. He’s got half the equation. Sally has the whole thing, all the pluses and minuses. And, at the moment, not a glimmer of how to solve it.

She rises, wanders over to the window. Truck No. 2 has just pulled up at the shed to unload. Anthony Ricci swings down from the cab. Sally stares at him a moment, then hurries out of the office.

“Tony!” she yells, and when he looks up, she beckons. He walks toward her smiling and wiping his face and neck with a red bandanna.

“It’s a hot mother,” he says as he comes up to her.

“Yeah,” Sally says, “a killer. Listen, what about that dinner you were going to buy me.”

He looks at her, startled. “You wanna go? Hey, that’s great! How about tomorrow night?”

“Suits me.”

“The joint is Brolio’s on Mulberry just below Grand Street.”

“I know a girl who got screwed on Delancey Street and thought it was Grand. All right, I’ll meet you at Brolio’s tomorrow night. What time?”