'Was he drunk?'
'Nah. Just pissed off when I told him he couldn't screw his way out of a wet paper bag. I guess I shouldn't have said it, but I can't stand the guy anymore. I pray for the day when I can give him the one-finger salute and walk out. Pour me a drink, will you, hon. I've got to take off my shoes; they're soaked through.'
He mixed bourbon highballs, and they slumped in armchairs and watched rain stream down the picture windows.
'I never belted a woman in my life,' Clark said.
'I know you haven't, sweetie, because you've got class. But I don't have it so bad. A friend of mine, Cynthia Coe-her husband, Sid, runs a boiler room-is a real battered wife. Sid has a rotten temper and he's a mean drunk. When he's crossed, he takes it out on Cynthia. Really slams her around. Once he actually broke her arm.'
'Why does she put up with it?'
'Why? M-o-n-e-y. After he beats the shit out of her, he starts crying, apologizes, swears he'll never do it again, and gives her cash, a rock, a gold watch, a string of pearls. Then a month later he's at it again. She says that when she's got enough money and jewelry put aside, she's going to give him the broom. But I doubt it.'
'Maybe she enjoys it, too.'
'Maybe she does,' Nancy said. 'A lot of nuts in this world, kiddo. I'm glad you and I are normal.' She pulled off her dress and the two of them fell on the bed.
Afterward, Nancy asked, 'Listen, you haven't forgotten about my new business, have you?'
'Of course not. I'm working on a couple of angles. You'll get your funding.'
'When?'
'A month or so.'
'Promise?'
'Yep. Nancy, I'm thinking about moving down here.'
She sat up on the bed. 'Hey, that's great! I love it! But what about your wife?'
He shrugged. 'She'll be happy to see the last of me.'
'Divorce?'
'Or separation. Whichever is cheaper. I'll leave it to my lawyer to cut a deal, but it's going to cost me no matter what.'
'You plan to get a job down here?'
He didn't answer her question. 'Tell me something, Nancy: Does your husband keep a list of his clients at home?'
She stared at him. 'Oh-ho,' she said, 'you do have a plan, don't you? Thinking of joining the game?'
'I might,' he said. 'I'm tired of being a spectator.'
'Well, I never saw Mort's client list. He probably keeps it in the office.' 'Probably.'
'But he does have a personal list of people he calls Super Suckers. Lots of loot and not much sense. That guy I told you about, Sid Coe, has his own list, and so does David Rathbone, another shark we know. They all have a Super Sucker list. Sometimes they get together and trade names like kids trade baseball cards.'
'That's interesting,' Clark said. 'You think you might be able to get me a copy of your husband's list? It's worth a grand to me.'
'In addition to the money for my escort service?'
'Of course. Two different deals.'
She thought a moment. Then: 'Five thousand,' she said. 'Those names are valuable. Money in the bank.'
'How many names?'
'At least twenty. Maybe more. Widows, divorcees, senile old farts, and some younger swingers whose brains are scrambled. But all rich.'
'Twenty-five hundred?' he asked.
'You got a deal,' she said, and reached for him.
40
'Look,' Frank Little said to the man from New York, 'I'll introduce this guy to you by his first name only. That's the way he wants it. Okay?'
'Sure,' Lou Siena said. 'I like a man who's careful. But who is he?'
'His full name is David Rathbone, and he runs an asset management company down here. But that's just a front. He spends most of his time in Colombia and Bolivia, advising the cartel bosses on how to launder their money, what legit investments to make, and how to move their cash around to take advantage of currency fluctuations. He's one smart apple, buddy-buddy with the cartel big shots. The only reason he agreed to this meet was that about a year ago I tipped him to a rat in Panama who could have caused a lot of trouble. David passed the guy's name along to the Colombians, and they handled it. So David owes me one.'
'Uh-huh,' Siena said, glancing at his watch. 'I just hope he's on time. I got to get down to Miami by five o'clock.'
'He'll be here,' Little assured him. 'Have another belt and relax.'
They were in the back room of the blockhouse office of FL Sports Equipment, Inc., on Copans Road. And next door, in the deserted fast-food restaurant, the DEA agents in their command post had filmed the arrival of Lou Siena in his silver Lincoln Town Car. And they made a written record of the license number on his New York plates.
Little's office was strictly utilitarian, with a steel desk, steel chairs, and filing cabinet. There was a small safe disguised as a cocktail table, and on it were arranged a bottle of Chivas Regal, a tub of ice cubes, a stack of paper cups, and a six-pack of small club sodas.
'I still don't see the need for a signed contract,' Siena said, pouring more Scotch into his cup.
'Lou,' Frank said, 'how long have we been dealing? Five, six years?'
'Something like that.'
'And never a hassle. Which means we trust each other-right? I'm asking you to trust me on this. I want to expand my business. All I've been doing is transshipping. You make your own buys. It's delivered here, and you pick up. I've just been a go-between, a middleman, and you know I'll never make it big on my cut. So now I want to simplify the whole operation and become a distributor to wholesalers like you. I'll make the initial buy, get it put into the baseballs in Haiti just like before, bring it in, and you'll buy directly from me. That'll save you time and trouble, won't it?'
'I guess.'
'Sure it will. And you can't blame me for wanting a bigger cut, can you? Now about the signed contracts. . You know the cartels are strictly COD. But where am I going to get the cash to make a fifteen-kilo buy? I've lined up a broker who'll make me a loan with very low vigorish, but first he wants to see some proof that I'm good for the money. And what better evidence could he want than a signed contract stating you're willing to pay X number of dollars for those fifteen kilos in three months. Lou, you're a big man. Your name means more to the broker than mine. That's the reason for the signed contract. We'll use a code word for the coke, of course.'
'You said X number of dollars for the fifteen kilos. What's X? How much you asking per kilo for delivery in three months?'
'That's why I asked David to come over and give us the lowdown on where the market is heading. I don't want to cheat you, and I don't want to cheat myself. I just heard a car pull up outside. That must be him. Excuse me a minute.'
And next door, the DEA agent operating the TV camera reported to his partner: 'A black Bentley just pulled up. One guy getting out. Caucasian male, five-ten or — eleven, one-eighty, blond, good-looking, wearing a vested black suit, white shirt, maroon tie. Take a look at the Bentley through your binocs and let's phone in the license number, along with the plates on the silver Lincoln. Headquarters can get started on the IDs.'
'Lou, this is David,' Frank Little was saying. 'David, meet Lou. Mix yourself a drink and sit down.'
'I'll have one,'. Rathbone said, 'but only one. I've got to make this short. A heavy exporter is flying in from Mexico City, and I promised to meet his plane. What do you want to know?'
