Timothy's game

know how.”

No response from Tony.

“Sometimes,” Sally says, deciding this is the moment, “sometimes I wish the same thing would happen to him that happened to Vic Angelo.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“You heard me. I just want him gone, and I’m at the point now where I don’t care how it’s done. I hate the guy, and I hate what he’s doing to my life.”

They sit in silence then, and Sally gives him time to absorb what she’s said. If he belts her, she’s sunk. If he gets out of the car and stalks away, she’s sunk. If he tells Mario of their conversation, she’s sunk. That’s a lot of sinking, and her only life preserver is Tony’s ambition and greed.

“I’d pay,” she says in an aching voice, and she doesn’t have to fake the desperation. “I’d pay a nice buck to have it done. Cash. I’d even help plan it. Make it look like an accident.”

He doesn’t answer, and her hand tightens on his thigh. She moves closer.

“And maybe a good job for the guy who does it,” she goes on. “An inside job. No more straining your kischkas lifting pails of garbage in all kinds of weather. You saw that extra desk in my office? That was my father’s. I’ve been handling everything since he died. But the business is getting too big. I need another executive. Someone I can trust. Someone who’s done me a big favor by putting Corsini down.”

She looks closely into his face and sees something new: stoniness. His eyes are hard and shiny as wet coal.

“No,” he says flatly, “I cannot do it. Anyone else, but not Mario. He is my cousin. You understand? He is family.”

Sally slumps. “Then I’m dead,” she says dully.

“No, you are not dead,” Anthony Ricci says. “There is a way out for you.”

“Yeah?” she says in a low voice. “Like what?”

“Marry me.”

She looks at him. “Are you nuts?”

“Listen to me,” he says, taking her hand, holding it tightly. “You marry me and Mario will never bother you again. I swear by my mother. And you get to keep the business. Sure, you will still pay dues, but no one will hassle you-because you will be my wife.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

“First, I marry a smart, beautiful, older woman. It will help me stay in this country. Also I get a good inside job, a desk, maybe a secretary.”

“And a piece of the business?”

He gives her his megawatt smile. “Maybe a little piece.”

“And what about the sex department?”

“What about it? Am I so ugly?”

“No,” she says. “Ugly you ain’t.”

“So? What do you say?”

“Let me think about it,” Sally Steiner says, and doesn’t object when he kisses her.

Timothy Cone has covered his table with several thicknesses of old newspaper, and they need it; the barbecued ribs, potato chips, and pickles make for a messy meal. Cleo prowls around, waiting for scraps.

“My live-in garbage disposal,” Cone says.

“Cut the small talk,” Samantha Whatley says, “and get on with your story. I want to know how it comes out.”

As they eat, he describes for the fifth and, he hopes, final time how Sally Steiner was trading stocks on inside information gleaned from the printer’s trash. He tells Sam about the mob’s control of the private carting business and how Sally was giving tips to Mario Corsini.

“For what reason I don’t know, exactly,” Timothy admits. “But I think he was leaning on her; that’s my guess.”

Then he recounts how he went up to see Steiner and did a little leaning of his own, trying to turn her so she’ll go to the cops and end extortion by the skels.

By the time he’s finished his narrative, they’ve demolished ribs, chips, and pickles. Sam has provided chocolate eclairs for dessert, but they put those in the fridge and settle down with their beers, feet parked up on the littered table.

“My, oh my,” Sam says, “you really have been a busybody, haven’t you? But you know what burns my ass?”

“A flame this high?” he asks, holding his hand a yard off the floor.

“Shithead,” she says. “When you found the insider leak for Pistol and Burns, your job was finished. Keerect? That’s what they hired Haldering for, and you delivered. It should have ended right there. But no, you had to push it and get involved with the Mafia shaking down garbage collectors, and trying to get this Sally Steiner to blow the whistle. Why did you do that, Tim?”

He looks at her. “I don’t know,” he says. “It just seemed the thing to do.”

“Bullshit!” Sam says. “You know what I think your problem is? I think you see yourself as nemesis. Death to all evildoers!”

“Nah, not me. I just saw a chance for the good guys to make a score, so I played out my hand. Listen, the cops helped me plenty. If I can fiddle a good bust for them, then they’re happy and willing to keep cooperating. I wasn’t acting out of anything but pure selfishness.”

“Uh-huh,” Samantha says. “Get me an eclair, you Masked Avenger.”

“Up yours,” he says.

They sip their beers, nibble their chocolate eclairs, and agree it’s a loathsome combination-but tasty. Their conversation becomes desultory, with Cone doing most of the talking, and Sam replying with monosyllables or grunts.

“Hey,” he says finally, “what’s with you? Got the fantods or something?”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“That Sally Steiner. I feel sorry for her.”

He snorts.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Sam asks. “A laugh?”

“If it is, it’s on me. I went up to see that put-together lady to find out if she was ready to talk to the cops.”

“And?”

“She told me to get lost. She’s marrying Tony Ricci, Corsini’s cousin.”

“You’re kidding.”

He holds up a palm. “Scout’s honor. She snookered me. I thought I had her in a bind, but she wiggled out of it. By marrying Ricci she gets to keep the business. And she gets Corsini off her back. Maybe she’ll have to give her husband a piece of the action, but I’ll bet that garbage dump is going to stay in the Steiner family for another generation. She’s a real survivor.”

“Is she pretty?” Sam asks.

“She’s okay.”

An hour later, they’re lolling naked on the floor mattress. Popped cans of beer have been placed within easy reach, and Cleo, protesting mightily, has been locked in the loo.

Samantha, sitting up, begins unpinning her magnificent hair. Timothy watches with pleasure the play of light and shadow on her raised arms, stalwart shoulders, the small, hard breasts. Suddenly she stops and stares at him.

“Listen,” she says, “you made it sound like Sally Steiner is marrying that Tony Ricci just so she can keep the business in the family. Did it ever occur to you that she might love the guy?”

Cone shrugs. “Could be. There are all kinds of love.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, reaching for him. “Here’s mine.”