Timothy's game

Louie, the owner, is a fat crud with old tattoos. The night I was there he was wearing a watch cap and T- shirt.”

“He’s dealing drugs?”

“He’s dealing everything. He offered me Boom-boom. What the hell is that?”

“Gage,” Shipkin says. “From Florida. Heavy stuff.”

“Screw the drugs,” Davenport says. “It’s the motorcycle we want.”

“I told this Louie I got a buddy looking to buy a bike,” Cone says. “He said just tell me the make and model and he’ll come up with it.”

Shipkin nods, sips brandy from his jelly jar. “I get the picture,” he says. He turns to the other detective. “How about this scenario: If I get a lead on the Kawasaki, I’ll make a dope buy from Louie with marked bills. Then we’ll have him on a drug rap and can lean on him about the cycle. How does that listen?”

“Sounds good to me. How about you, sherlock?”

“Makes sense,” Cone says. “We’re not going to get anywhere with this unless someone caves. The more clout we have, the better. The way I figure it, this Louie is the broker between David Dempster and the Westies. He arranges the deals and turns over the cash after taking his cut. And once we’ve got enough to cuff Dempster, even on some shitty charge, I can finger three or four other guys who’ll be happy to make deals to save their ass.”

Davenport looks at him curiously. “Still holding out on me, huh? Okay, play it your way. Right now, all I want is that motorcycle. Anything else Sam should know?”

“Yeah,” Cone says, turning to Shipkin. “If you spot a tall guy at the bar with a black ponytail and a bad case of acne, watch your back. You can’t miss him; someone chopped off both his little fingers.”

“What’s queer about him?” Sam asks.

“He’s stretched,” Cone says. “Carries a long switchblade and thinks he’s a hero.”

“Okay,” the undercover cop says, “I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks for the tip.” He finishes his brandy and rises. “Well, I better get to work. The more time I spend up there, the easier it’ll be.”

“The bartender’s name is Tommy,” Cone adds. “He’s got a big mustache. If that’s any help.”

“You never know,” Shipkin says. He looks around the loft. “It’s really getting to me,” he tells Cone. “If you ever decide to move, let me know first.”

“You kidding?” Davenport says. “This scroccone is going to die here. They’ll find him under the bathtub someday, OD’d on garlic salami.”

“There are worse ways to go,” Timothy says.

Seven

It turns out to be a real nothing morning. The summer sky is somber, and there are rumblings of thunder over New Jersey. The stuffed air smells of turps; there’s an ugly ocherous glow over everything.

Grousing, Cone shambles down to John Street, convinced that a day starting so dismally can only end in disaster. He stops at the local deli for black coffee and a bagel with a schmear. He takes his breakfast up to the office, exchanging silent glares with the ancient receptionist. It’s that kind of day.

He hasn’t slept well, but he doesn’t blame the junk food he pigged on the previous night. He’s eaten salami, anchovies, and chocolate pudding before, and the mixture never depressed him. But this morning engenders thoughts of making out a will and investing in a cemetery plot.

When his phone rings, he stares at it balefully, convinced it’s going to bring him news that he’s overdrawn at the bank or the IRS has found another flaw in their annual audit of his return. He finally picks it up.

“Yeah?”

“Tim? This is Jeremy Bigelow. Tell me something: Do you always fall in an outhouse and come up with a box lunch?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The SEC investigator is bubbling with excitement. “Those ten companies you gave me-Research says that eight of them had very, very high short positions on the dates you mentioned. We got a computer sharpie who loves puzzles like that, and he did some back-checking. He claims that in the month before your dates, the total of shares sold short more than tripled in all eight companies. What in God’s name is going on?”

Cone sighs. This time he knows he is right, but he feels no elation. “It’s a ripoff,” he tells Bigelow. “A beautiful swindle that might be funny, but people have been dusted-and there’s nothing ha-ha about that. Jerry, I think you better bring the Federal DA in on this one.”

“The SEC can handle it.”

“No, you can’t,” Cone says. “This isn’t just a civil matter. If it pans out, there are going to be criminal indictments. You got a pet in the DA’s office?”

“A pet?”

“A contact. Someone you’ve worked with before. Preferably someone who owes you.”

“There’s an ADA named Hamish McDonnell. I’ve had some dealings with him.”

“Hamish McDonnell? Italian, of course.”

“No,” Bigelow says seriously, “I think he’s a Scotsman. He’s a hardnose, but he gets things done. You think I should call him?”

“It would be the smart thing to do. Cover your ass. Tell him what I gave you and what your computers came up with. Give him my number. If he wants more skinny, he can give me a call.”

“Well, all right,” the SEC man says hesitantly. “I’ll do it, but don’t cut me out of this, Tim.”

“Don’t worry,” Cone says. “You’ll see your name in print again.”

He hangs up and waits, smoking a cigarette, feet up on his desk. Samantha Whatley, coming along the corridor, stops and looks in.

“Working?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m working,” he says irritably. “What the hell do you think I’m doing-fluffing my duff?”

“What a lovely mood you’re in,” she says. “No wonder the whole office calls you Mr. Congeniality.”

“The whole office can go hump,” he says angrily. “You think I-”

But she walks away, leaving him with his sour thoughts. He hears the grumble of thunder outside-“The angels are bowling,” his mother used to say-and he supposes it’ll start pouring any minute now. Or maybe it’ll hold off until he goes out for lunch. That’ll be nice. When his corduroy suit gets wet, it smells like a Percheron’s jockstrap.

His phone shrills, and he lets it ring seven times before he picks it up. Sheer perversity.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Timothy Cone?” A man’s voice: sharp, brisk, demanding.

“That’s right.”

“This is Hamish McDonnell, Assistant DA, Federal. Jeremy Bigelow called, said you had something to talk about.”

“He told you about the short sales?”

“He told me,” McDonnell says, “but I have to know more about it before I set the wheels in motion. I’ve got a very busy schedule today, but if you can be at my office at three-thirty this afternoon, I’ll give you a half-hour.”

That’s all Cone needs. “Forget it,” he says.

“What?”

“Forget it. Unless you want to drag your ass over to my office within an hour, I’ll take it to the FBI. I’ve got a pal there who loves headlines.”

“Now wait just a-”

But Cone hangs up. He gives the guy three minutes to get back to him, but the phone rings again in less than a minute.

“Yeah?”

“Hamish McDonnell here. Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Not me,” Cone says, “I know the drill: hay foot, straw foot, hay foot, straw foot.”