Whatley.
“Sam?” he says. “Come into my office, please. At once. And if Cone isn’t sleeping or beering it up, drag his scruffy ass in here.”
Cone lumps up Broadway, that humongous accordion file clamped under his right arm. It’s heavy enough so that he lists to starboard, and occasionally has to pause and get a fresh grip.
“Don’t you dare take that file out of the office,” Sam had warned.
“Sure, boss,” he replied. “I’m not about to carry that blivet home with me.”
“What’s a blivet?”
“Eight pounds of shit in a four-pound bag.”
“You’re disgusting!” she yelled at him.
“Yeah,” he said, “I know.”
So now he’s plodding home to his loft, lugging the blivet and wondering what he and Cleo might have for dinner. He decides hot Italian sausage might be nice, fried up with canned potatoes. Maybe a charlotte russe for dessert. That sounds like a well-balanced meal.
He stops at local shops for the makings, not forgetting a cold six-pack and a jug of pepper-flavored vodka- something he’s been wanting to try for a long time. Thus laden, he trudges up the six flights of iron steps to his loft.
The meal turns out to be okay, but that pepper vodka is sparkly enough to make Cone’s scalp sweat. He’s afraid to light a cigarette, figuring a single belch might ignite and, like a flame thrower, incinerate the joint.
He switches to cold beer to soothe his scorched palate and settles at his desk, feet up, to dig through the contents of that Dempster-Torrey file.
The first thing he finds is three pages stapled together that list names, addresses, and phone numbers of people connected with John J. Dempster and his corporation. Included, Cone sees, are the names of his widow, three young sons, his brother, his parents, his deceased bodyguard and chauffeur, and the top rank of Dempster- Torrey execs, the Board of Directors, attorneys, and bankers.
Also on the list, Cone notes with some bemusement, are the names of Dempster’s tailor, masseur, physician, dentist, physical fitness instructor, servants, golf pro, pilot, and proctologist.
“Some people know how to live,” Cone calls to Cleo. But the tom, sleeping off the Italian sausages under the bathtub, pays no heed.
He starts flipping swiftly through the documents on the attacks that have bedeviled Dempster-Torrey, Inc., for the past six months. There are eighteen reports, all signed by Theodore Brodsky, Chief of Security. They include arson, sabotage, vandalism, product tampering, and similar crimes, all apparently designed to erode the profits and tarnish the public image of Dempster-Torrey. Cone can understand why John J. thought there was a plot against him and his conglomerate; the guy wasn’t just being paranoid.
He pops another beer and starts reading the reports again, slower this time, wondering if there’s a pattern or link everyone else had missed. He’s halfway through and hasn’t found a damned thing when his wall phone shrills. He carries his beer into the cramped kitchenette.
“Yeah?” he says.
“You putz!” screams Neal K. Davenport. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Cone says. “What’s this-”
“The Dempster kill!” the NYPD detective shouts at him. “Why are you sticking your nose into that?”
“Come on,” Cone says, “don’t get your balls in an uproar. Who told you Haldering is involved in it?”
“Eve Bookerman, that’s who. She’s been running the outfit since Dempster got chilled. She told us that she hired Haldering.”
“Then she must have told you that all we’re doing is investigating industrial sabotage in their plants. Look, Neal, we don’t do windows and we don’t do homicides. That job is all yours; Hiram Haldering made it plain to Bookerman. You know about the accidents they’ve been having?”
“Yeah,” the city bull says grudgingly, “they told us.”
“You think there’s a connection with Dempster’s murder?”
“We can’t see it.”
“So where’s the conflict? The Department is after the guys on the motorcycle. We’re after the people who are trashing Dempster-Torrey’s property. Listen, what’s your interest in this? Are you handling the file?”
“Shit, no! I caught the original squeal. I got there right after the blues. But it’s too big to leave to little old me. They think I’m only good for busting pickpockets and flashers.”
“Tough titty,” Cone says. “So who’s in charge?”
“Some wet-brained lieutenant who’s got a rabbi in the Department with a lot of clout. The guy’s a real cowboy. He’s riding off madly in all directions. Well, I can’t really blame him. This is an important one, and he wants to cover his ass. The first case of terrorism in the Wall Street district.”
“The hell it was,” Cone says. “A few years ago Fraunces Tavern was bombed by revolutionaries, and long before that a guy drove a horse-drawn cart down Wall Street and set off a bunch of bombs in the wagon. They called them anarchists in those days. Anyway, the explosion blew the hell out of the horses. You can still see the scars on some of the buildings if you look for them.”
“Jesus,” Davenport says, “you’re a veritable gold mine of useless information. Well, regardless of past history, this is still a big case, and everyone wants a piece of it. Not only the Department, but the Manhattan DA, the Federal DA, the FBI, New York State, and the CIA. It’s as fucked up as a Chinese fire drill.”
“The CIA? What’s their interest?”
“They’re investigating those wackos, the Liberty Tomorrow gang, to see if it’s a terrorist organization with pals overseas, like in Germany, France, or the Middle East.”
“Lots of luck,” Timothy says. “So everyone is walking up everyone else’s heels and fighting for interviews on the TV talk shows. Where do you fit into this mishmash?”
“Christ!” the city cop says. “You know what they’ve got me doing? A couple of witnesses swear the driver of the motorcycle was wearing a steel-toed boot. So I’m supposed to check out every joint in the city that puts steel tips on shoes and boots. That’s like looking for a needle in a keg of nails.”
“Yeah,” Cone says, “I know what you mean.”
“If we could handle it as a simple dusting,” Davenport goes on, “an ordinary, run-of-the-mill homicide, things would be a lot easier. But all the people involved are real nobs-or think they are. I mean Dempster-Torrey is a powerhouse in local politics. Charitable contributions, campaign donations, and all that shit. So the heat is on. I get pushed every hour on the hour, and when I heard you were joining the pack, I blew my cork. Sorry I yelled at you.”
“That’s okay,” Cone says. “I can understand how you feel. But believe me, Haldering and Company has no interest in getting involved in Dempster’s death. All I’m supposed to do is find out who’s torching their factories.”
“And you don’t think it has anything to do with the murder?”
“Hey, I’ve just started on this thing. I was reading the file when you called. But you said yourself that you can’t see a connection.”
“That’s right. But that’s today. Maybe tomorrow you’ll trip over something. You’ll let me know?”
“Hell, yes. I’m no glory hound; you know that. If I find anything that sets off bells, you’ll be the first to know. You can have the headlines.”
“I don’t know why I trust you,” Davenport says. “You’re such a flake.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t ever bollixed you up, have I?”
“Not lately you haven’t,” the NYPD man says, considerably mollified. “Okay, go back to your boozing; you sound half in the bag already. Every time I think of a wild card like you rampaging around in something like this, my ulcer starts acting up. Keep in touch, will you?”
“Depend on it,” Timothy says.
He goes back to his desk, back to reading the Dempster-Torrey reports, back to pepper vodka-which now seems mild, light, dry, sparkling, and guaranteed to dull the senses and make life seem interesting and even meaningful.
Finished with the documents, he tosses them aside, parks his feet on the desk, dunks a charlotte russe in the vodka, and ruminates.
