Then he tells her about his great inspiration: a corporate raider trying to put Dempster-Torrey into play, and conniving to reduce the price of the stock by sabotage and, eventually, assassination.
“Good thinking, Tim,” she says.
“Not good,” he says mournfully, shaking his head. “Simon Trale, the CFO, checked it out for me, and there’s no evidence at all, not even a rumor, that some pirate is making a move. So that’s that. Ahh, the hell with it. Let’s forget about it.”
“Should I heat up the pizza?” Sam asks. “You getting hungry?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking at her. “But not for pizza.”
“Oh, you sweet-talking sonofabitch,” she says. “Can we fornicate on top of the Sunday
“What’s the worst that could happen-you get a headline printed backwards on your ass? Leave your glasses on. I’ve never balled a woman while she’s wearing specs.”
“You’re depraved,” Sam says.
“Just a mood. It’ll pass.”
“Oh, God!” she says. “I hope not.”
A few hours later, after a lukewarm shower during which they take turns picking up the soap, they have their pizza, salad, and wine.
Cone gets back to the Dempster case; he just can’t get rid of it.
“Of course,” he says, “it’s garbage to claim anyone kills from one motive alone. Usually it’s a tangle of reasons, justifications, and past history.”
“Who are you talking about?” she demands.
“Oh … just people,” he says darkly.
“You’re closing up again,” she says. “I know that shriveled brain of yours is going ’round and ’round like a Roller Derby, and you’re not going to tell me about it.”
“Nothing to tell,” he mutters, head lowered. “You got any more salad?”
“That’s it,” she says. “Sorry I ran short.”
He raises his head slowly, glares at her.
“Jesus,” she says, “what are you looking at me like that for? I just said there’s no more salad; so sue me.”
“You remember the Laboris case?” he asks. “The guy who was pulling a Ponzi scam so he could launder money from dope and art smuggling?”
“Yeah,” she says, “I remember. So what?”
“Without knowing it, you gave me the lead that broke it. Now you’ve done it again.”
“Done what?” she cries desperately. “Just exactly what are you talking about?”
“Forget it,” he says, grinning at her. “Have some more wine.”
“Up yours,” she says grumpily. “Were you labeled ‘Most Likely to Fail’ in your high school yearbook?”
“I’m a dropout,” he tells her.
“I’m willing to testify to that,” she says, and they both crack up.
After the pizza is gone, they stay on the floor, sipping the chilled wine, schmoozing about this and that. These are their most intimate moments, the closest. Sex is brutal warfare, but this is gentle peace, and there’s a lot to be said for it-though neither would admit it.
Samantha has a choice collection of old 78s, and she puts a stack on her player, selecting the records she knows he likes best. She starts with Walter Houston’s “September Song,” Bing Crosby’s “Just a Gigolo,” and Billie Holiday’s “Fine and Mellow.”
“I’ve also got her ‘Gloomy Sunday,’” Sam says. “I’d play it, but it ain’t.”
“That’s right,” Timothy Cone says happily. “It ain’t.”
He has many illusions about himself. One of the most mundane is that if, before falling asleep, he tells himself exactly when he wishes to arise, then lo! he will awake at that exact hour.
So on Sunday night, curled on his mattress, he instructs himself, “You will wake up at eight o’clock. You will definitely wake at eight.” He sleeps soundly and rouses at precisely ten minutes after nine. Cursing, he lights a cigarette, puts water on to boil, and tosses Cleo a small dog biscuit. It’s a cat, but not racist.
Still in his underwear, smoking a cigarette and sipping black coffee, he phones Neal Davenport.
“You’re up so early?” the city detective says. “Don’t tell me you’re at the office.”
“On my way,” Cone says, unshaven and standing there in his Jockey shorts. “How’s the Department doing on the Dempster homicide?”
“That’s why you called at this hour? To make me feel more miserable? It’s a cold trail, sonny boy, and getting icier every day. This one’s a pisser. We’re getting flak from everyone, and just between you, me, and the lamppost, we haven’t got a thing.”
“What about the hotshot lieutenant who was running the show? Is he still around?”
“Nah,” Davenport says, “he’s long gone. Now we got a deputy inspector, and he’s feeling the heat, too. Turning into a lush. This goddamned file is going to ruin a lot of careers-mine included.”
“Anything on that terrorist group that called the newspapers? The Liberty Tomorrow gang.”
“No trace. The thinking now is that it was all bullshit. A stunt pulled by some wild-assed leftists to grab headlines, or maybe by the finks who actually offed Dempster and just wanted to throw us a curve. This is why you called-just to listen to my kvetching?”
“Not exactly,” Cone says. “I want to ask a favor.”
“No kidding? I never would have guessed.”
“Look,” Cone says, “you owe me one-right? The Laboris drug deal-remember?”
“Well … yeah, I guess maybe. Waddya got?”
“Three license plates. I need to know who owns the cars.”
“What for?”
“Neal,” the Wall Street dick says softly, “this could involve the Dempster kill.”
Long silence. Then: “You shittin’ me, sherlock?”
“I swear to God I’m not. It’s not definitely connected, but it might be. Come on, take a chance.”
Davenport sighs. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Give me the numbers.”
Cone reads off his scrawls from the inside of the matchbook cover. “Push this,” he urges. “It really could be something.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then you’ve wasted a phone call. Big deal.”
“I’ll get back to you,” the NYPD man says and hangs up.
Cone, anxious to get things moving, fills his coffee cup again, lights another Camel, and calls Simon Trale at Dempster-Torrey. He has to hold for a few minutes before he’s put through. And while he’s waiting, he has to listen to music. “Climb Every Mountain,” no less.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Cone.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Trale. Listen, I warned you I might contact you again if I needed more poop.”
“Poop?”
“Information. Someone accused me recently of using other people to do my job for me. But sometimes it’s the only way to get the job done, so that’s why I’m calling. All right with you?”
“Of course,” Trale says.
“When I talked to you about all those industrial accidents, you said most of the losses were covered by insurance. Have I got that right?”
“Correct.”
“Does Dempster-Torrey buy insurance from individual companies or do you use a broker?”
“We use a single broker, Mr. Cone. We’ve found it more efficient and economical that way.”
“One broker for all of Dempster-Torrey’s property and casualty insurance?”
“Yes.”
“Lucky broker. That must add up to a nice wad.”
Simon Trale laughs quietly. “It does indeed.”
“So I’d guess that Dempster-Torrey, and you in particular, have got heavy clout with the broker.”
