talents of an actor, and nothing in Clark's education or experience had prepared him for the job. But his ego was not small, and he grudgingly accepted the fact that to nail Sparco, he had to prove himself the more accomplished liar.
There was no difficulty in obtaining sting money from Lester Crockett's office. The $10,000 was deposited in a local bank suggested by Crockett. It took less than a week to obtain a book of blank checks imprinted with Clark's name.
Meanwhile, he had another meeting with Sparco, and on his recommendation bought two different dollar stocks, neither of which was listed on any exchange.
One company, according to the broker, had developed an electronic booster for solar cells, and the other, Sparco claimed, was about to market a revolutionary remedy for baldness. The purchase of the two stocks almost depleted Clark's bank account.
Then Sparco called his hotel and asked him to drop by to hear 'some really sensational news.' When Clark arrived, the broker took him into his private office and announced he had sold out both stock positions, and Clark had a profit of slightly more than $3,000.
'Why, that's wonderful!' the investigator said. 'You're certainly doing a bang-up job. I had no idea I could make so much money so quickly. I hope you have more suggestions as good.'
Sparco looked about cautiously, then lowered his voice. 'I have a special deal I'm restricting to a select list of clients. Even my account executives don't know about it. Look, there's a restaurant across the street called the Grand Palace. It has a bar in the back that should be deserted this time of day. Why don't we go over there for a drink and a private talk. This investment opportunity is so hot I don't even want to mention it in the office. The walls have ears, you know.'
Sparco told the receptionist he'd be right back, and then they dodged through traffic on Commercial Boulevard and entered the Palace Lounge through the side door. They were the only customers, and Ernie brought their drinks to a rear table tucked into a shadowed corner.
'Do you know anything about commodities?' Sparco asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
'Commodities?' Clark said. 'You mean like corn, wheat, soybeans?'
'Exactly. Well, about a week ago, a new, SEC-approved investment vehicle was organized on Wall Street. It's callea the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. I heard about it through a close friend. The man running the Fund is a genius in commodity trading. A geniusl He's made a lot of people multimillionaires, and now he's decided to do the same thing for himself. He's keeping a controlling interest, of course, but through my friend I was able to tie up a limited number of shares. Not as many as I wanted because when this fund is announced publicly, the share value will double overnight. At least! It's your chance to get in on the ground floor.'
It was an impressive spiel and, Simon Clark reflected, shattered at least three regulations governing the sale of securities.
'The only problem,' Sparco went on, 'is that because of the limited number of shares I was able to get at the initial offering price, I had to set $50,000 as a minimum investment. I have one package left. Do you think you can swing it?'
'Gee, I don't know,' Clark said. 'I really don't have that much ready cash.'
'Uh-huh,' Sparco said, glancing at his watch. 'Didn't you tell me your parents live down here?'
'That's right. They have a home in Plantation.'
'Think your father would be willing to loan you the money? Just for a short time until you take your profits.'
'To tell you the truth, I don't think he has that much cash available. Everything he owns is tied up in his home and long-term government bonds.'
'He could get a home-equity loan,' Sparco said, looking at his watch again. 'The bank doesn't have to know what it's really for. He can tell them home improvements, and they'll accept that.'
'I can ask him,' Clark said. 'You're positive this is a sure thing?'
'Can't miss,' Sparco said. 'I've been in business fifteen years, and this is the hottest-'
The side door of the Lounge banged open, and a short, stout man came bustling in. He paused until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Then he looked around, spotted the two men at the rear table, and rushed over.
'Mort,' he said, 'you've got to get me another 50K of that commodity fund. I just heard that the price of shares in the secondary market is already up thirty percent and-'
Sparco rose and put a finger to his lips. 'Shhh, Jimmy,' he said. 'Not so loud. Mr. Clark, this is James Bartlett, a valued client. Jimmy, this gentleman is Simon Clark. We were just discussing the Fund.'
'Grab it,' Bartlett said to Clark, shaking his hand. 'And if you don't want it, I do. Mort, you've got to get me more.'
'I'll do my best,' Sparco said. 'Call me in the morning and I'll let you know.'
'I'm depending on you!' Bartlett cried. 'Nice to have met you, Mr. Clark.' And he scurried out.
Sparco smiled. 'Jimmy's a banking consultant and knows a good deal when he sees one. How about it, Mr. Clark? Think you can get your father to take out a home-equity loan? It's the last package of Fund shares I have available, and I'd hate to see you miss out on a dynamite opportunity like this.'
Clark considered a moment. 'I'll convince my father,' he said finally. 'Can I call you later today?'
'Anytime before five o'clock. If you haven't called by then, I'll have to give it to someone else. Bartlett isn't the only client begging for more.'
They left the Palace Lounge, shook hands, and separated. Sparco returned to his brokerage. When he walked into his office, James Bartlett was seated on the leather couch smoking a fat cigar.
While the two men had a drink from Sparco's office bottle of Chivas, Simon Clark sat in his rented Cutlass, pausing a moment before he drove to headquarters to request additional sting money.
He found it hard to believe the crudeness of south Florida swindlers. Sparco's claiming a profit on Clark's first two investments was an ancient technique used by con men of all stripes, from pool hustlers to bait-and-switch retailers: Let the mark win, or think he's winning. Then, when he plunges heavily, overcome by greed, cut his balls off.
Even more primitive was Sparco's use of a shill. That Jimmy Bartlett was no more a legitimate investor than Clark himself. The two slickers had staged the scene in the bar, confident it would convince the pigeon that he had to invest in a get-rich-quick deal and do it now.
Compared to the sharks on Wall Street and in Chicago's commodity pits, these south Florida chiselers were pilot fish. And yet, for all their dated tricks, they seemed to be thriving. Probably, Clark decided, because they were preying on an ever-growing population of financially unsophisticated retirees trying desperately to augment their Social Security and pension incomes during a time of horrendous inflation.
But if mutts like Sparco and Bartlett could flourish, Clark thought, what might an operator do who knew all the latest methods of duping money-hungry suckers?
There was a fortune to be made, and if you knew the law, as Clark did, the risk was negligible.
It was, he decided, a prospect he'd have to consider seriously. The climate of south Florida was super, and there were more than oranges to be plucked.
25
'What exactly is the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund?' Lester T. Crockett asked. 'Do you know?'
'Negative, sir,' Harker said.
They were standing in Tony's office, looking down at the chart spread across his desk. It was an organization diagram with a box at the top labeled David Rathbone. Straight lines led to four smaller boxes: Mortimer Sparco, Sidney Coe, James Bartlett, Frank Little. The boxes also contained the names of the assigned investigators: Rita Sullivan, Simon Clark, Manuel Suarez, Henry Ullman, Roger Fortescue.
Within each box was written the subject's ostensible occupation and his relationship with any of the other suspects.
'Here's what we've got so far,' Harker reported. 'Rathbone tells Sullivan that lie and the guys from the Palace
