Timothy's game

“You think I didn’t think of that? I been after him for months to spring for a custom BMW. It goes for about three hundred Gs, and it’s got bulletproof glass, armored body steel and gas tank, remote control ignition, bomb detectors-the whole schmear. He finally agreed, and that car’s on order. But it’ll take a couple of months to get it. Too late. But the new CEO can use it.”

“Who’s that going to be-Eve Bookerman?”

“Bite your tongue,” Brodsky cries. “If she gets the job, I’m long gone. That lady and me just don’t see eye- to-eye.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Chemistry,” the other man says, and Cone lets it go at that.

“Look, Brodsky,” he says, “when we first started talking, you said you didn’t need any fresh angles on the sabotage. Does that mean you’ve got an idea of who’s behind it?”

“That’s exactly what it means.”

“There was nothing in your reports even hinting at who’s been pulling this stuff and what their motive is.”

“Because I didn’t have any proof,” the Chief of Security says grimly. “But I’m getting it, I’m getting it.” He pauses to consider a moment. Then: “I guess there’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. It’s the labor unions.”

Timothy stares at him.

“Yep,” Brodsky says, nodding, “that’s who it is. The unions that Dempster-Torrey deals with have got together and are causing all the trouble as bargaining chips to get better terms when their contracts come up for renewal.”

“I gotta level with you,” Cone says. “I think that idea sucks.”

Brodsky flares up. “What are you,” he demands, “a wisenheimer? What the fuck do you know about it?”

Cone stands, walks over to the framed map on the wall. He jerks a thumb at it. “All those pins show the location of Dempster-Torrey facilities in this country-correct? There’s gotta be over a hundred of them.”

“Hundred and fifty-nine.”

“So how many local and national unions does Dempster-Torrey deal with? Ten? Twenty? Probably more like fifty, at least. And you’re trying to tell me all those unions have joined in some grand conspiracy to damage the company they work for so they’ll get better terms on their next contract? Bullshit! It just doesn’t listen. First of all, you’d never get that many unions to agree on anything. Second of all, I’d guess that their contracts come up for renewal at different times. Maybe some next month, some in three years. And finally, what the hell’s the point in burning down the place where you work? Manufacturing jobs are too hard to come by these days. No union in its right mind is going to trash a factory where its members earn a living. It’s not labor that’s causing all the trouble.”

“Then who the hell is it?” Brodsky yells.

Cone spreads his hands. “Hey, give me a break. This is my first day on the job. I can’t pull a rabbit out of a hat.”

“I still think it’s the unions,” Brodsky says stubbornly. “Who else could it be? Some of those labor guys are out-and-out Commies. Maybe they’re doing it for political reasons.”

“To destroy American capitalism? I don’t know what kind of cigars you smoke, but you better change your brand. You’re way off in the wild blue yonder.”

“Yeah? Well, you go your way, and I’ll go mine. I’m still going to work the union angle.”

Cone shrugs. Then, figuring he’s gone as far as he can, he collects his cap and starts for the door. But he pauses.

“It might help,” he says, “if you could tell me what kind of a man this John J. Dempster was.”

Brodsky finds a fresh cigar in the mess on his desk. He bites off the tip, spits it into the overflowing ashtray. He moves the cigar around in his mouth to juice it up.

“They say you should only speak good of the dead,” he says, “but in his case I’ll make an exception. The guy was a dyed-in-the-wool bastard. A real ball-breaker. When Wall Street heard someone had offed him, the list of suspects was narrowed to ten thousand. He didn’t let anyone get in his way, and if you tried, he squashed you. He was just a mean bugger. And he didn’t have to be; he had all the money in the world-am I right?”

“You ever have any run-ins with him?”

“Plenty. And so did practically everyone else who works here. His Bible was the riot act. Used to read it all the time.”

“Yeah,” Cone says, “I know what you mean.”

He starts out again, but Brodsky calls, “Hey, Cone,” and he turns back.

“I bet what I told you about Dempster doesn’t jibe with what Eve Bookerman told you.”

“You’re right; it doesn’t.”

Brodsky holds up a hand, middle finger tightly crossed over forefinger. “Dempster and Bookerman,” he says with a lickerish grin. “That’s Dempster on top.”

“Thanks,” Timothy Cone says.

He figures plodding back to John Street in that heat will totally wipe him out. So he cabs uptown, but before he goes to the office he stops at the local deli and buys a cream cheese and lox on bagel, with a thick slice of Bermuda onion atop the smoked salmon. He also gets a kosher dill and two cans of cold Bud.

Sitting at his desk, scoffing his lunch while still wearing his leather cap, he reflects that there is no way he can separate an investigation of the industrial sabotage at Dempster-Torrey plants from an inquiry into the assassination of John J.

Despite what Hiram Haldering said, and regardless of what he himself told Neal Davenport, Bookerman, and Brodsky, Cone suspects the sabotage and homicide are connected. Also, there’s a practical matter involved. To limit his detecting to the sabotage, he’d have to travel to eighteen different localities and try to pick up cold trails on cases that had been thoroughly investigated when fresh by local cops and Brodsky’s security people, with no results.

All Cone’s got to work with is the murdered man’s family and friends, his acquaintances, employees, and business associates. Cone pulls out that list of personae that Eve Bookerman provided, from his inside jacket pocket. He looks up the address and phone number of the widow, Teresa Dempster, and dials.

It rings seven times at the other end before it’s picked up.

“The Dempster residence.” A woman’s voice. Chirpy.

“Could I speak to Mrs. Teresa Dempster, please.”

“Just a moment.”

Long wait. Then:

“This is David Dempster. To whom am I speaking?”

“John J. Dempster was your brother?”

“He was.”

“Well, this is Timothy Cone. I’m with Haldering and Company. We’re investigating a series of industrial accidents at Dempster-Torrey plants, and I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Dempster for a few minutes. And you’re on my list, too.”

“Eve Bookerman informed us you’d probably be calling. I must tell you in all honesty, Mr. Cone, that neither Teresa nor I know the slightest thing about Dempster-Torrey operations. But naturally we’ll be happy to cooperate in any way we can.”

He shouldn’t have said “in all honesty.” Every time Cone hears that, he gets itchy. Also, Dempster has the plummy voice of a priest who’s been unfrocked for waving his dork out a vestry window. Cone wonders what the guy does for a living. His business address on the list is David Dempster Associates, Inc., on Cedar Street.

“Can I see Mrs. Dempster?” he asks.

“As long as you’re not a reporter or policeman,” the other man says. “I rather think she’s had her fill of those.”

“I could be up there in a half-hour.”

“Come ahead then; I’ll tell her to expect you. I’m afraid I’ll be gone by the time you arrive, but you’ll be able to reach me at my office whenever you wish to see me. You have the address and phone number?”

“Yeah, I’ve got them. I’ll probably get to you tomorrow if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course. And, Mr. Cone, please make your meeting with Teresa as brief as possible. She’s been through a