rate.'
Korne stared at Rathbone a long time while the other two men remained silent. Finally Korne said, 'I like your idea of direct distribution to the colleges. Of course, a great deal will depend on the personality of your local salespersons, but I'm sure you are aware of the need for cheerful service and customer satisfaction. Very well, I'm willing to take a flier. If you'll accept delivery in Miami in three months, you may have fifteen kilos at 10K per kilo.'
'Thank you, Mr. Korne,' Rathbone said.
'Call me Mitch,' the other man said.
On the drive back to Lauderdale, still astounded by their good fortune, they calculated the take on the fifteen kilos. Sold for $19,500 per kilo to Lou Siena. Purchased at $10,000 per kilo from Mitchell Korne. Profit: $142,500.
'Amazing!' Bartlett said. 'He didn't haggle a bit. I thought sure we'd have to up the ante to 12K per kilo.'
'And he signed the contract for chairs and accepted the Fort Knox Fund check,' Rathbone marveled. 'Jimmy, we've got to get another, bigger deal in the works immediately. Different buyer, different seller, but let's stick to the same plot. It worked once, it'll work again.'
'Fine with me,' Bartlett said. 'Let's have a meet with Sparco, Little, and Coe. We'll tell them the good news and figure ways to build up the Fund's working capital. It's a marvelous con, David.'
'Only it isn't a con,' Rathbone said. 'Not really. The scenarios might have been a swindle, and maybe we're clipping the marks who bought shares in the Fund, but essentially the deal is legitimate. We're buying low and selling high. That's the religion of Wall Street, isn't it?'
49
The tape clicked off, and Tony Harker switched it to fast rewind. Then he went into the cramped kitchenette and made himself a sandwich. The tape had rewound by the time he returned to the living room, and he settled down to listen again, reflecting that in the distant future his son might ask, 'What did you do, Daddy, when your world was falling apart?' And he might reply, 'I ate a bologna on rye with mustard.'
He heard Rita Sullivan and David Rathbone, apparently on New Year's Day, discuss a party they had attended the previous night. He heard Ernie call Rita to come to the Palace and take care of Rathbone, who was 'under the weather.' He heard the subsequent conversation inside the town house during which Rathbone made it obvious that he was planning to leave the country in six months, and Rita practically promised to go along.
It was possible, of course, that she had been playing her assigned role, trying to lure Rathbone into revealing his destination. But that was hard to believe; a few days later Rita, seated in the chair now occupied by Harker, had assured him that Rathbone had spoken of leaving only in general terms. She had been vague about that, but definite in promising Tony to answer his marriage proposal in six months. That would be after Rathbone had skedaddled. And Rita with him?
There were other things she should have told him but hadn't: the description of Rathbone's intended hideaway, a place in the sun, not too far from the beach, with a big private pool. That matched Rathbone's ranch in Costa Rica. And she mentioned nothing of his business meeting on New Year's Day, probably at the Palace, that 'went fine' but resulted in Rathbone drinking himself into insensibility.
All those lapses were worrisome enough, but it was the content and tone of her conversations with Rathbone, obviously in a bedroom, that shattered Tony Harker. He could not believe that she was such an accomplished actress that she could fake the passion in the things she said and, presumably, did.
The intimacy and fervor of the pillow talk between David and her was at once arousing and depressing. He listened to it, feeling like a sick voyeur but unable to turn off the machine, knowing that even if he did, the hurt would not end.
When, finally, the tape ran out, he still heard the moans of delight. And he sat alone in a shoddy motel room, trying to puzzle out reasons for her possible duplicity. It was easy to say Rathbone was handsome, wealthy, loving, and she had succumbed to his charms. But Tony had to believe there was more to it than that. Rita was a hardheaded cop who could spot a phony a mile away. Yet here she was apparently embracing pho-niness and willing to risk her future with an insubstantial man whose entire life was based on sham.
What were Harker's options in response to what he had heard? He could confront Sullivan with the tapes. Her defense, he reckoned, was that she was doing her assigned job. She had delivered information on the Fort Knox Fund, hadn't she? And on Rathbone passing the forged Treasury check. And on the activities of Irving Donald Gevalt.
She could claim that she had done what she was ordered to do. But how she accomplished her assignment was her business, not Harker's. And how could he answer that? He could not, but the worm still gnawed.
He might take the actual tapes to Lester Crockett rather than submitting an expurgated precis, and let the boss decide where the truth lay. But that, Harker decided, would be surrender of his responsibility. Sullivan was his agent, and if he was willing to profit from her work, he should be willing to accept the blame if she turned sour.
He was convinced that the entire case was progressing well and nearing its denouement. Pulling Rita out might well rob the investigation of vital intelligence. He needed her as much as he needed Clark, Fortescue, Suarez, and Ullman.
And there was always the possibility-slim though it might be-that she was acting a role with Rathbone. And that she would deliver David's head to Tony Harker as soon as she had the evidence.
He hoped with all his heart that might be true. But he was tied in knots, felt the familiar pressure, and began searching frantically for his inhaler.
50
He put it off as long as he could, answering her importunate phone calls with 'Birdie, I can't talk right now; I have people in my office.' Or, 'Birdie, I have to go up to Palm Beach on business; call you when I get back.' Or even, 'Birdie, I have a miserable case of the flu, and I don't want to risk giving it to you.'
But finally her calls took a nasty tone, and he decided to get it over with. The last thing he wanted at this stage of the game was a scorned woman blowing the whistle on him.
He bought a gold-plated compact for her and had it engraved with a cursive monogram, B.W. He paid for the gift with a stolen credit card, one of many that Ernie sold to trusted customers for fifty bucks a pop. The name on David's card was Finley K. Burden, and they hadn't yet redlined his account.
Mrs. Winslow met him at the door of her apartment with a glacial smile and a greeting that was barely civil. She waved him to an armchair. No snuggling on the couch and no offer of a vodka gimlet just the way he liked it-for which he was grateful.
'Birdie,' he said, 'that's an absolutely smashing suit you're wearing. Donna Karan, isn't it?'
'No.'
'Well, I think it's divine. Birdie, I want to apologize sincerely for not having gotten back to you sooner. I just can't begin to tell you how sorry I am. But I've never been so busy in my life. The goods news is that your investments are doing wonderfully; so far your net worth has increased almost forty percent, and I think it'll do even better this year. I realize that's no excuse for my neglecting you, but I want you to know that I have been working very hard to increase the value of your account.'
'Thank you,' she said faintly.
He stood, went over to the couch, sat down close to her. He took the gift-wrapped package from his jacket pocket and presented it to her with his dazzling smile.
'For you,' he said. 'A peace offering.'
She held the gift but made no effort to open it. 'You know, David, I'm very angry with you. You never came to see me over the holidays, and I didn't even get a Christmas card from you, and you've been almost rude to me on
