Timothy's game

observer there watching you pee in a plastic cup.”

“Please,” the SEC man says, “not while I’m eating.”

“So how do you figure the Wee Tot Fashions leak? The arbitrageurs?”

“I think so, and that’s what I’m going to put in my report. I don’t believe anyone at Pistol and Burns was on the take. It was just rumor and good detective work by the arbs. Those guys can put two and two together and come up with twenty-two. We checked all the trading in Wee Tot in the last few weeks. Not the odd lots, of course. Just the big trades, like ten thousand shares and up. Most were handled by brokerage houses the arbs use. I looked for personal connections with Pistol and Burns staff, and came up with zip. There was one big trade, ten thousand shares, by an amateur. A woman named Sally Steiner. But she works for a garbage collection outfit on Eleventh Avenue. She couldn’t have any access to inside information. She plays the market for fun and games, and just made a lucky pick. Other than that, there’s nothing to justify our pushing this thing any farther. What’s your interest in this, Tim? What does Twiggs expect Haldering and Company to do?”

“He just wants me to double-check his security precautions.”

“That sounds easy enough,” Jeremy Bigelow says. “Most of these investment banking houses are as holey as Swiss cheese. You could stroll in and walk out with their checkbooks, and no one would notice, especially if you were dressed like a Harvard MBA.”

The SEC investigator is a self-assured guy with such strength of character that he can eat one salted peanut. When Cone first met him, Bigelow came on strong, like working for the Securities and Exchange Commission was akin to holding high office in the Papacy. The Wall Street dick had to swat him down a few times, but then Jerry relaxed, and they were able to work together without too much hassle.

He’s a beanpole of a gink who equates height with superiority-but that’s okay; superior shrimps cause more trouble. Cone admires him because he can drink gin martinis. Cone loves gin martinis but can’t handle them, and leaves them strictly alone-especially since an incident several years ago when he ended up in Hoboken, N.J., in bed with a lady midget.

“I got to get back to the treadmill,” Bigelow says. “Thanks for the lunch. I’ll probably be popping Tums all afternoon, but it tasted good. Let’s eat street again-my treat next time.”

“Sure,” Cone says. “Listen, that woman you mentioned who made the big trade in Wee Tot Fashions. … What was her name?”

“Sally Steiner. Why the interest?”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Of course,” Bigelow says, offended. “That’s what they’re paying me coolie wages for. She’s a tough bimbo who practically runs that waste disposal business I told you about. Her father owns it. She claims she bought Wee Tot stock because she wants to get out of garbage and open a store that sells kids’ clothes. She figured the annual reports of Wee Tot would help her learn the business. It makes sense.”

“Sure it does,” Timothy Cone says. “Nice seeing you again, Jerry. Give my best to the wife.”

Bigelow looks at him. “How do you know I’m married?” he asks. “I never told you that.”

“Beats me,” Cone says, shrugging. “I just assumed. You’ve got that married look. Also, you’ve got a pinched band of skin around your third finger, left hand, where I figure you wear a ring but maybe take it off during the day in case you meet something interesting.”

Bigelow laughs. “You goddamn sherlock,” he says. “You’ve got me dead to rights. I better watch myself with you; you’re dangerous.”

“Nah,” Cone says, “not me. I’m just a snoop. Thanks, Jerry.”

“For what?”

“All the info you gave me-like Sally Steiner and so forth. I owe you one.”

“Look,” the SEC man says, “if you find out anything more about the Wee Tot Fashions leak, you’ll let me know?”

“Absolutely,” the Wall Street dick vows. “I’m no glory hound.”

They shake hands, and Cone watches the other man move away, towering over everyone else on the street. Then he trudges back to Haldering amp; Co. He stops on the way to buy a knish. He’s still hungry.

Three

May is a rackety month for Sally Steiner. She is living in a jungle and giving as good or better than the blows and bites she endures.

“Listen, Jake,” she says to her father, “I’m going to take a few hours off this afternoon to go see some customers.”

“Yeah?” he says, looking up from his tipsheet. “Who?”

“The new people we got from Pitzak.”

“I already seen them.”

She sighs. “You saw them, pa. But so what? I’m the one they call with their kvetches. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

“So do what you want to do,” he says. He puts aside his chewed cigar and picks up his whiskey and water. “You’re going to do it anyway, no matter what I say. So why ask?”

“I didn’t ask,” she says, as prickly as he. “I’m telling you.”

But there is only one customer she wants to visit: Bechtold Printing, downtown on Tenth Avenue. She’s planned this interview and dressed for it. Black gabardine suit. High-necked blouse. No jewelry. Opaque pantyhose. Clunky shoes. With a leather portfolio under her arm. The earnest executive.

“Mr. Frederick Bechtold, please,” she says to the lumpy blond receptionist, handing over her business card. “From Steiner Waste Control.”

The klutz takes a look at the card. “He’s in the pressroom,” she says. “I’ll see.”

It’s almost five minutes before the owner comes out, a chunky slob of a man. He’s wearing a cap of folded newsprint and an ink-smeared apron that doesn’t hide a belly so round that it looks like he’s swallowed a spittoon.

“Zo,” he says, peering at her card. “Sally Steiner. You are related to Steiner Waste Control?”

“Daughter,” she says brightly. “I just stopped by to see if you’re satisfied with our service, Mr. Bechtold. Any complaints? Any way we can improve?”

He looks at her in amazement. “Eight years with Pitzak,” he says, “and he never came around. No, lady, no complaints. You pick up twice a week, right on schedule. My contract with Pitzak is still good?”

“Absolutely,” Sally says. “We’ll honor the prices. Nice place you got here, Mr. Bechtold. I’ve heard about your reputation for top-quality financial printing.”

“Zo?” he says, with a smile that isn’t much. “I do the best. The best! You’d like to see my pressroom?”

“Very much.”

It’s a cavern, with noise and clatter bouncing off cinderblock walls. There’s one enormous rotary, quiet now, and four smaller presses clanking along and piling up printed sheets. Sally is surprised at the small work-force-no more than a half-dozen men, all wearing ink-smeared aprons and newsprint caps. Two guys are typing away at word processors. One man is operating a cutter, another a binder. A young black is stacking and packing completed work in cardboard cartons.

“This is my pride,” Frederick Bechtold says, placing his hand gently on the big rotary. “West German. High- speed. The very best. Six colors in one run. And I use high-gloss inks from Sweden. Expensive, but the people I deal with want only the best.”

“You have some big Wall Street accounts, Mr. Bechtold?”

“Absolutely,” he affirms. “For them, everything must be just zo.”

“Annual reports?” Sally suggests.

“For the color, yes. And in black-and-white, we do brochures, documents, instruction booklets, proxy statements-everything. They know they can depend on Bechtold Printing. They give me a deadline, and I meet it. I have never been late. Never!”