'How was the deposit made? I mean how was the cash delivered? In a shopping bag?'
'A suitcase. A cheap vinyl suitcase.'
'What did you do with it-put it in the vault?'
'No. I brought it home.'
'You did what?'
'I couldn't leave it in the bank. The examiners are coming in first thing Tuesday morning, the day after Christmas.'
'Good enough reason. Where is the suitcase now?'
'In the bedroom, under the bed.'
'No wonder you've got the jits. Mike, why don't you just tell your friend he was thirty thousand short and he'll have to come up with it.'
'He won't believe me. He'll say all his previous deposits were accurate. He'll say I signed for the total amount. He'll say I have to make up the loss.'
'So? You have thirty thousand in liquid assets, don't you? And if you don't, the bank does. If Crescent's top brass is in on this, they won't squeal too loud.'
'Don't you think I've thought of that? But what if we keep getting shortchanged on the deposits?' 'There's an easy answer to that: Tell your friend to get lost.'
Mulligan lowered his head. 'I can't do that.'
'Why not?' Ullman said. 'Because he's got you by the short hair? Because for two years he's been paying you off with that white stuff you keep in your toilet tank?'
The banker's head snapped up. His mouth opened; he stared at Ullman, horrified. 'You're from the police, aren't you?' he said.
'Sure I am,' the agent said cheerfully. 'But that doesn't mean I don't like you. I really want to help you.'
'You just want to put me in jail.'
'Nah. You're more valuable out. Look, if you cooperate maybe we can cut a deal. You'll get a fine and probation. Your career as a banker will be over, but you won't be behind bars with all those swell people. That's worth something, isn't it?'
'When you say cooperate, I suppose you want me to name my friend, the man who made the deposits.'
'James Bartlett?' Ullman said casually. 'No, you won't have to name him.'
Mulligan gasped. 'How did you know?'
'You just told me. What do you say, Mike? Will you play along?'
'I don't have much choice, do I?'
'Not much. Now you go take a quick shower, shave, and put on fresh clothes. Then I'm going to drive you down to Fort Lauderdale to meet a couple of men you can deal with.''
'It'll be late,' Mulligan objected. 'They'll probably be asleep.'
'I'll wake them up,' Ullman promised.
'Am I under arrest?'
'Let's just call it protective custody. Now go get cleaned up.'
'May I have another drink?'
'No. You'll want a clear head when you start talking to save your skin.'
Mulligan went stumbling into the bathroom. Ullman went into the bedroom and dragged the vinyl suitcase from under the bed. He snapped it open and took out all those lovely bundles of twenties, fifties, and hundreds bound with manila wrappers. He stacked them neatly on the bed, then peered into the emptied suitcase. What he saw made him happy: a layer of confetti that felt oily to the touch.
He left the fluff there, repacked the currency, and closed the suitcase. Mike Mulligan, showered and shaved, came into the bedroom to dress. Ullman took the suitcase into the living room. Then he went into the bathroom and lifted the jar of glassine envelopes from the toilet tank. He took that into the kitchen and found a shopping bag under the sink. He put the cocaine in the bag and added his two bottles of champagne. He went back into the living room, poured himself a shot of bourbon, and sipped slowly.
They were ready to leave a half-hour later. Mulligan carried the shopping bag, and Ullman lugged the suitcase of cash. The banker carefully locked his front door, and then they waited for the elevator. The door slid open. Pearl and Opal Longnecker got out and stared with astonishment at the two men.
Ullman smiled at the sisters. 'The party's over, ladies,' he said.
45
They spent a quiet New Year's, recovering from the noisy party at the Palace Lounge the previous night. It was a gray, sodden day; there was no sunning on the terrace. They read newspapers and magazines, watched a little television, lunched on cold cuts and potato salad. Both were subdued, conversing mostly in monosyllables, until finally David said, 'The hell with resolutions; let's have a Bloody Mary.'
'Let's,' Rita said, and they did.
After that they perked up and began discussing all the outrageous things that had happened at the New Year's Eve party. Frank Little had dragged Trudy Bartlett under the table, and Nancy Sparco had to be restrained by her husband from completing a striptease atop the table.
'Great party,' David said. 'I'm going to miss those people.'
'Miss them? Are you going somewhere?'
'Eventually,' he said, smiling. 'And so are you.' He glanced at his watch. 'But right now I have a business meeting. Shouldn't be gone for more than an hour or so.'
'You'll be home for dinner? Blanche made a veal casserole for us.'
'I'll be back in plenty of time,' he assured her.
'If you're going to be late,' she said, 'give me a call. The phones are working fine now.'
'What was wrong-did the repairman say?'
'A short at the junction box, or so he claimed. Whatever it was, he fixed it and checked all the phones.''
'Good. Lend me your car keys, will you? The Bentley's low on gas and nothing will be open today.'
He drove Rita's white Corsica. It was only five o'clock, but the waning day was gloomy, and he had to switch on the wipers to keep the windshield clear of mist. He had deliberately picked this particular day and this particular time, figuring the gang would be home recovering from the party. And when he walked into the Palace Lounge through the side entrance, he was happy to see only Ernie, behind the bar and washing glasses used the night before. David swung onto a bar-stool.
'Happy New Year, Mr. Rathbone,' Ernie said. 'I'm surprised you're still alive. I didn't think you'd wake up for a week.'
'Happy New Year, Ernie, and I feel fine. Mix me the usual, please. That was a dynamite party.'
'I should do that much business every night,' the bartender said.
He went back to his chores. Rathbone reached into his inside jacket pocket to make sure the envelope was there. Then he lighted a cigarette and sipped his vodka gimlet. Now that the time had come, he found he was calm, acting normally, hands steady.
He had just started his second gimlet when two men came in through the side entrance. Rathbone inspected them in the bar mirror. They matched Bartlett's description of the Corcoran brothers: short and burly with reddish hair cut in Florida flattops. Both were wearing cotton plaid sports jackets over black T-shirts. They took a corner table, and one of them came over to the bar.
'Beer,' he said curtly.
'They almost cleaned me out last night,' Ernie apologized. 'All I got left is Miller's.'
The man nodded. 'Two bottles,' he said.
He paid, then carried the bottles and glasses back to the table. The brothers sat stolidly, drinking their beers, not conversing. Rathbone finished his drink.
'More of the same,' he called.
When Ernie started mixing his drink, David slid off the barstool and went into the men's room. He checked
