'Wait a minute!' she yelled.
She ran into the living room, came back with the two envelopes of money. She dumped them around to make a green, crinkly layer, then threw herself naked on top.
'I've always wanted to do this,' she said throatily, and rolled around, burrowing into the money, eyes closed, mouth open, almost panting with pleasure.
Then she opened arms and legs to him, and that's how they screwed, on a bed of cash.
59
At noon on Tuesday, David Rathbone drove over to Bartlett's home on Bayview Drive in response to Jimmy's phone call. The two men sat in the Bentley in the driveway, and Rathbone lighted a cigarette.
'You're smoking too much,' Bartlett observed.
'And drinking too much,' Rathbone added. 'So what else is new? Why the hurry-up call?'
'I'm making a deposit at the Crescent in Boca at noon on Friday. Mitchell Korne says it will be more than a million.'
'Wow,' Rathbone said. 'And you can quote me on that.'
'I think we can safely take out two hundred grand,' Bartlett said, 'and replace it with our funny money. Providing the German can print that much by Thursday night.'
'Printing isn't the problem,' Rathbone said. 'It's getting the stuff at the last minute, while the bills are still in one piece. Print it up too soon and we'll have a sackful of shit. How about this: I'll drive Up to Lakeland first thing tomorrow morning and tell Weisrotte we want the queer by late Thursday afternoon. Then on Thursday, I'll drive back to Lakeland again to pick it up.'
'That's a lot of driving.'
'For two hundred thousand I'd drive to LA and back.'
'All right then,' Bartlett said, 'let's do it your way. You get the stuff to me by late Thursday, and we're in business. I haven't read anything more about Termite Tommy, have you?'
'Not since that first story. It just fell out of the news. I guess the cops figure he got drunk and drove into the canal. They have more important things to worry about than the accidental death of a lush.'
'Of course,' Bartlett said.
Rathbone drove back to the town house and went directly to his office. He jotted some numbers on a pad. Two hundred thousand dollars. Deduct the German's fifteen percent and Bartlett's forty. That left Rathbone with ninety thousand clear. He grinned at that. Not bad for two trips to Lakeland.
He was working on his personal ledger when the office phone rang, and for a moment he was tempted to just ignore it until the caller gave up. But then he figured it might be Bartlett wanting to add more details on the deal. He picked it up.
'David Rathbone Investment Management.'
'David!' Birdie Winslow said, and her laugh was a trill. 'How nice to catch you in. I've been calling and calling.'
'I've been awfully busy, Birdie,' he said. 'How have you been?'
'In seventh heaven,' she said, 'dreaming about our trip. I can't begin to tell you all the wonderful things I've bought. Luggage and dresses and hats and shoes and just everything.'
'Why not,' he said. 'You deserve it.'
'But that's not why I called. I just wanted you to know that I think I've won you a new client.'
'Oh?' he said, suddenly cautious. 'How did you do that?'
'Well, you know that man you gave my name to, that Anthony Harker, he stopped by last Saturday and asked a lot of questions about you and if I was satisfied with your services, and of course I said I was, and I think by the time he left he was convinced that you were the right investment adviser for him. He said he was going to have a talk with you. Have you heard from him yet?'
'Anthony Harker? No, not yet.'
'Well, I'm sure you will. I showed him my last statement, and he was just amazed at how much money you were making for me. I told him you were the best in the business, and everyone said so. Aren't you proud of me?'
'I certainly am,' he said. 'Thank you for the recommendation.'
He finally got her off the phone and sat awhile, staring at his big green safe. Then he dragged out his telephone directories and looked up the name. No Anthony Harker in Lauderdale, Boca Raton, or Pompano Beach. He sat back and lighted another cigarette with hands that were not quite steady. He recalled what Irving Donald Gevalt had told him, and wondered if Anthony Harker was interested in McGuffey first editions.
He left for Lakeland early Wednesday morning, January 31. Rita was still asleep, so he scribbled a note saying he'd return in time to take her to dinner and maybe stop by the Palace for a few drinks with the gang.
It was a cool, crisp morning, but he knew it would warm up later. He didn't wear a suit, just linen slacks and an aqua polo shirt with a bolo tie, the clasp set with a thirty-carat emerald-cut blue topaz.
He drove with the windows down; the new world smelled sweet and clean. But he was in no mood to enjoy it; all he could think about was what Gevalt and Birdie had told him. Live like a jackal, he told himself, and you develop an animal instinct for danger. And right now he had the feeling he was being stalked, but by whom and for what reason he could not fathom.
So intent was he on trying to puzzle it out that he was not aware of how fast he was driving until he was pulled over by a state trooper on Highway 27.
'Know what you were doing?' the officer asked, writing in his pad.
'To tell you the truth I don't,' Rathbone said with a nervous laugh. 'My wife's having our first baby in a hospital in Lakeland, and I'm in a hurry to get there.'
'Nice try but no cigar,' the trooper said, handing him the ticket. 'I clocked you at eighty, at least. Take it easy and maybe you'll live to see your first kid.'
'I'll do that,' Rathbone said, and then, after the officer went back to his car, 'Up yours!'
He was in Lakeland by noon and was happy to find Weisrotte reasonably sober. He told the printer he wanted two hundred thousand in fake 100s by late Thursday.
'Zo,' the German said. 'And when my share do I receive?'
'Early next week,' Rathbone promised. 'You can count on it. You're the most important man in this operation, Herman, and we want to keep you happy.'
'Goot,' Weisrotte said, and insisted Rathbone have a glass of schnapps with him before leaving. It was caustic stuff, and David wondered if the printer used it to clean his presses.
On the drive home he tried to convince himself that he was foolish to worry; the guy at Gevalt's could have been a rube hoping to buy forged ID at an old-book store, and Birdie's Anthony Harker could have been a legit investor looking for an adviser. But none of that really made sense, and Rathbone felt someone closing in on him, a faceless hunter who came sniffing at the spoor, hungry for the kill.
He was pulled over again for speeding; same stretch of highway, same trooper.
'How's the wife?' the officer asked, writing out the ticket. 'Have the kid yet?'
'Not yet,' Rathbone said with a sick smile. 'False alarm.''
'Uh-huh,' the trooper said, handing him the ticket. 'Have a nice day.'
He was in a vile mood by the time he got home, but after a vodka gimlet and a hot shower, he felt better, reasoning that he had been in squeezes before and had always wriggled out. The important thing was to keep his nerve.
The sight of Rita helped lift him out of his funk. She wore a tight miniskirt of honey-colored linen and an oversized nubby sweater with a deep V-neck that displayed her coppery tan and advertised the fact that she was bra-less. Her gypsy hair swung free, and when they sauntered into an elegant French restaurant on the Waterway, she made every other woman in the place look like Barbie.
They did the whole bit: escargots; a Caesar salad for two; rare tournedos with tiny mushroom caps and miniature carrots; Grand Marnier souffle; and chilled Moet.
