The rip-off of Sidney Coe's boiler room went pretty much the way Warren Fowler described it. Manny Suarez closed a deal with a mooch in Little Rock, Arkansas, for $2,000 in the Fort Knox Fund stock. He told the sucker to mail his check to the West Palm Beach office. Then he informed Fowler of the sale.
'When do I get my moaney?' he asked. 'And who pays me?'
'You'll get paid as soon as the check clears,' Fowler assured him. 'Then I'll give you your seventy-five percent.'
'The check will be made out to Instant Investments, Inc. So how does your friend cash it?'
Fowler shrugged. 'That's his problem. Maybe he peddles the checks to another goniff at a ten-percent discount. That would still leave him fifteen percent clear. But I suspect he may have opened an account in an out- of-state bank in the name of Instant Investments. In any event, you'll get your money from me.'
'Just don't go out-of-state,' Manny said, and both men laughed.
Suarez took Saturday off and drove up to West Palm Beach. He had never been there before and it took him a half-hour to locate the office. It was in a grungy neighborhood, on the second floor over a gun shop.
There was a card thumbtacked to the locked door. All it said was 'Instant Investments. Please slide mail under door.'
Manny went downstairs to the gun shop and waited patiently while a clerk sold a semiautomatic rifle to a pimply-faced youth with a banner, Death before dishonor, tattooed on his right bicep.
When the kid left, carrying his rifle in a canvas case, Manny approached the clerk. He was an oldish guy, heavy through the chest and shoulders. He was wearing a stained T-shirt that had printing on the front: 6uns don't kill people, people kill people.
'The owner around?' Suarez asked.
The beefy guy looked at him. 'Who wants to know?' he demanded.
Sighing, Suarez took out his shield and ID from the Miami Police Department. The clerk inspected them carefully.
'You're outside your jurisdiction, ain'tcha?' he said.
'Cut the crap,' Manny said. 'Where can I find the owner?'
'I'm the owner,' the guy said, 'and I got all my permits and licenses, and you can look at my books anytime you want.'
'I'm not interested in your guns,' Manny said. 'Who owns the building?'
'I do.'
'You rent the upstairs office?'
'That's right.'
'Who rents it?'
'Some outfit that does mail order.'
'What kind of mail order?'
'I don't know and I don't care.'
'What's the name of the guy running it?' 'Who the hell knows? I don't.'
'You must have some name. The name on the lease for the office.'
'There ain't no lease. It's rented month to month.'
'Who signs the rent checks?'
'There ain't no rent checks. I get paid in cash.'
Manny stared at him. 'You keep jerking me around,' he said, 'and you're in deep shit. I'll visit the locals and see what we can do about closing you down. Like is the fire exit clearly marked, is the toilet clean, do the sprinklers work, how do you handle your garbage, and so forth. Is that what you want?'
'The guy's name is Smith.'
'Don't tell me it's good old John Smith.'
'Robert Smith. I got his home address writ down on a piece of paper somewhere.'
'Find it,' Suarez commanded.
It took him another half-hour to locate the address, or rather where it should have been. It was a weedy vacant lot next to a small factory that made novelties such as whoopee cushions, dribble glasses, and plastic dog turds. Manny drove back to the gun shop.
'You again?' the owner said.
'Me again,' Manny said. 'This Robert Smith, does he come to his office every day?'
'Nah. Two, three times a week.'
'To pick up his mail?'
'I guess.'
'What does he drive?'
'A black BMW.'
Manny whistled. 'The mail order business must be good,' he said. 'Tell you what: I'm going to phone you every day next week. I want you to get the license number of that BMW. I'll keep calling until you get it.
Hokay? I know you want to cooperate with your law enforcement officers.'
'Oh yeah,' the guy said. 'Sure I do.'
'Uh-huh,' Suarez said. 'Well, here's your chance.'
'This Robert Smith, what's he wanted for?'
'He's been cheating on his girlfriend. She claims he's been sleeping with his wife.'
He called the gun shop on Monday. Robert Smith hadn't shown up. But he was there on Ttiesday morning, and the owner gave Manny the number on the BMW's license plate. Suarez phoned Tony Harker.
'The guy who has that office in West Palm Beach,' he said. 'The one who's ripping off Sid Coe. He calls himself Robert Smith and he drives a black BMW. Here's the license number.'
'Got it,' Harker said. 'I'll check it out with Tallahassee. Call me back tonight.'
Manny phoned him at his motel, a little before midnight.
'Well?' he said. 'Is it David Rathbone?'
'No,' Harker said, sounding disappointed. 'It's Mortimer Sparco.'
36
They were slouched in armchairs in Harker's living room, bare feet up on the shabby cocktail table. They were nursing beers. It was cool enough to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows. They heard the scream of a siren speeding by on A1 A.
'That's the 911 truck,' Rita said. 'You know what they call this stretch of road? Cardiac Canyon.'
'I'm liable to have one,' Tony said, 'if I don't get a few days off to unwind.'
'So?' she said. 'Take them.'
'Can't,' he said. 'Too much happening. Things are really heating up. Right after you called I put a man on Rathbone at the Miami Airport, and we got a look at his ticket. He thought he was being cute, going to Costa Rica by way of Puerto Rico and Panama. So I had to arrange for a different agent to pick him up in San Juan, and another at Panama City. So he wouldn't spot the tail. A lot of phone calls, a lot of work to coordinate all that in a short time.'
'And he's in Costa Rica now?'
'The last I heard. He got off the plane in San Jose, where a fourth agent took up the trail. This is costing Uncle Samuel a mint.'
'He can afford it. What do you suppose David is up to?'
'You want me to guess? I'd guess he's preparing to make a run for it sometime soon. He probably has fake ID from that Gevalt guy, and he's been building up his offshore bank accounts. Maybe he's bought a house or hacienda, whatever they call it, in Costa Rica, and he's planning his retirement. Taking all his loot with him, of course. Has he said anything to you about leaving the country?'
Rita took a swallow of her beer. 4 'Not a word,'' she said.
'Well, I'll bet he's working on it. If he follows the pattern, he'll stick around long enough to make one final
