Timothy's Game Read online

  Sally has come prepared. She hands over a manila envelope with $2,500 in cash and the name and phone number of her stockbroker.

  “Stick with me, kid,” she tells Paul, kissing his cheek, “and you’ll be wearing diamonds.”

  “I prefer emeralds,” he says.

  She goes back to the office, pondering her next move. She’s walking from her parking slot when she meets Anthony Ricci. The kid is wearing tight jeans and a Stanley Kowalski T-shirt, and he looks beautiful.

  “Hey, Tony,” Sally says. “How’s it going? You like the job?”

  “No,” he says with his 100-watt smile, “but the money is good.”

  “All money is good,” she tells him. “The loading—you can handle it?”

  “Sure,” he says. “I’ve done worse. Maybe someday I’ll be a driver—no?”

  “Why not? We have a lot of turnover. Hang in there, kiddo.”

  She goes into her office, parks her feet on her desk, and tries to figure how to paw through the Bechtold garbage without endangering Steiner Waste Control. She decides she can’t do it by herself. She’s got to use fronts, some bubbleheads who won’t have a glimmer of what she’s doing. She looks out the window and sees Terry Mulloy and Leroy Hamilton wheeling onto the tarmac to dump their load. “Oh, yeah,” Sally breathes.

  The next morning, at breakfast, Jake Steiner says to his daughter, “You better take your car. I’ll be gone all afternoon. I got things to do.”

  “Sure, pa,” she says. “I’ll drive in.”

  They don’t look at each other. She knows about his “things to do.” He’s going to shtup his twist in Brooklyn.

  He drives to the dump in his Cadillac and she follows in her Mazda. By the time she arrives at the office, Jake is on his second cigar and third black coffee. He’s also nibbling on a tot of schnapps from a bottle he keeps in his desk.

  “You’re killing yourself, pa,” Sally says.

  “Tell me about it,” he says, not looking up from his Times.

  She keeps glancing out her window, watching for the big Loadmaster crewed by Mulloy and Hamilton. Finally, a little after noon, she sees it coming in. She knows the guys are going to take their lunch break. She grabs her shoulder bag and goes running out. She has to wait until they wash up in the locker room.

  “Hey, you bums,” she says. “Want a free lunch?”

  “Whee!” Leroy says. “Christmas in May. What’s the occasion, Sally baby?”

  “She wants to make nice-nice,” Terry says. “I told you she’d come around eventually.”

  “This is strictly business, you schmuck,” Sally says. “Come on, let’s go over to the Stardust.”

  She picks out a table in a back corner of the diner. They give Mabel their order: three cheeseburgers, home fries, cole slaw, and beer.

  “Can either of you guys get hold of a pickup or a van?” she asks them.

  They look at each other.

  “What for?” Mulloy says.

  “It’s a special job. I need a pickup every Tuesday and Thursday. I want you to load it with the barrels of Bechtold Printing scrap, drive out to my house in Smithtown, and leave the barrels in the garage. The next Tuesday or Thursday when you bring the new barrels out, you pick up the old ones and bring them back here to the dump for baling. Got that?”

  “What’s this all about?” Terry asks.

  “It’s about an extra hundred a week for each of you. In cash. Off the books.”

  They think about that awhile, chomping their cheeseburgers.

  “I got a cousin with an old, beat-up Chevy van,” Hamilton says slowly. “I could maybe borrow it on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Probably get it for five bucks a shot and gas.

  “I’ll pay,” Sally says promptly. “However you want to work it. Just get those Bechtold barrels out to Smithtown twice a week. I’ll rig your Tuesday and Thursday schedules so you’ll have plenty of time to make the round trip. Maybe one of you better stick in town on the big truck, and the other guy makes the drive out to the Island in the van.”

  “But we get a hundred each?” Mulloy says.

  “That’s right. Per week. Cash. Off the books.”

  “No trouble with the buttons?” Hamilton says.

  “What trouble?” Sally says. “Anyone asks questions, you know from nothing; you’re just following the orders of the boss.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Mulloy says, glancing at Hamilton.

  “I’ll play along,” Hamilton says.

  She goes back to the office, sets to work rearranging pickup schedules. She lightens up on Mulloy and Hamilton’s Tuesday and Thursday assignments so one or both of them will be able to work in the round trip to Smithtown. It’s about three o’clock, and Jake is long gone in his Cadillac, when Judy Bering comes into her office.

  “There’s a woman on the phone,” she says. “She’s crying. Sounds hysterical. Something about your father.”

  “Jesus,” Sally says, knowing this can’t be good. “All right, put her on my line.”

  She listens awhile to the wails, the sobs, the incoherent babbling. Finally she figures out what has happened.

  “What’s your name?” she says sharply, interrupting the woman’s desperate howls.

  “What? What?”

  “Your name. What’s your name?”

  “Dotty. My name is Dotty.”

  “Dotty what?”

  “Uh, Dotty Rosher.”

  “All right now, Dotty, listen to me. Lock your door and get dressed. Go into the living room and just sit there. Don’t do a goddamn thing. Don’t call anyone or talk to anyone. I’m coming to help you. To help you, Dotty. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Now give me your address and phone number.”

  She makes quick notes, hangs up, then has the presence of mind to go to the office safe. They keep the petty cash in there, but it’s hardly “petty”—almost five thousand in small bills in case the local cops come around, or the fire inspectors, plumbing inspectors, electrical inspectors, sanitation inspectors. The petty cash is not for bribes, exactly. Just goodwill.

  Sally grabs up a handful of twenties and fifties, stuffs them in her shoulder bag. She stalks out, grim-faced.

  “I listened in, Sal,” Judy Bering says, beginning to weep. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Sally Steiner says.

  She drives her Mazda like a maniac, but crosstown traffic is murder, and it’s almost an hour and a half before she gets over to Park Slope.

  Dotty Rosher turns out to be a little thing, a piece of fluff. A strong west wind would blow her away. She’s got wide blue eyes, a mop of frizzy blond curls, Cupid’s-bow lips, and a pair of lungs that make Sally look like a boy. She’s fully dressed—for all the good that does.

  “Where is he?” Sally demands.

  “I got your phone number from his business card. It was in his wallet, but I swear I didn’t—”

  “Where is he?” Sally screams at her.

  “In the bedroom. He just, you know, just went out. I thought he had fainted or something, but then I couldn’t—”

  “Shut your yap,” Sally says savagely.

  She goes into the bedroom. The body of her father, naked, is lying on rumpled pink sheets. His mouth is open, eyes staring. He is dead, dead, dead. She looks down at the pale, flaccid flesh and varicose veins with distaste. His shrunken penis is lost in a nest of wiry gray hair.

  “You son of a bitch,” Sally says bitterly, then bends to kiss his clammy cheek.

  She goes back into the living room and tells Dotty Rosher what must be done.

  “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “You do it,” Sally says stonily, “or I walk out of here right now and leave you with a naked corpse. You can explain it to the cops. Is that what you want?”

  So, together, they dress the remains of Jake Steiner, wrestling with his heavy body while they struggle to get him into undershirt and shorts, knitted sport shirt, trousers, jacket, socks and shoes. They remember to lace up the shoes, close his fly. Th
en they drag him off the bed into the living room, tugging him by the armpits, his heels scuffing the shag rug. They get the body seated in an armchair, head flopped forward, arms dangling.

  Dotty Rosher looks ready to pass out. Her mouth is working, and she’s beginning to claw at her throat.

  “You better get a drink of something,” Sally advises.

  “I think I’ll have a Grasshopper,” Dotty says faintly. “They’re really delicious. Would you like one?”

  “No, thanks. Go have your Grasshopper.”

  Sally fetches her father’s half-full tumbler of cognac from the bedroom and sets it on the end table alongside his armchair. Then she tips it over so the brandy spills on the table and drips down onto the rug. She inspects the scene, then knocks the tipped glass to the floor. Now it looks authentic: man with history of heart trouble stricken with an attack while drinking.

  Dotty comes back with her Grasshopper, looking a little perkier. Sally outlines the scenario for her, speaking slowly and distinctly.

  “My father owned this apartment, but you rented it from him. Got that? He and I came up to collect next month’s rent. He and I came here together. That’s very important. Can you remember that? We were sitting in the living room talking, and you offered us drinks. I didn’t want anything, but Jake had a glass of brandy. He took a couple of swallows and suddenly collapsed. We tried to revive him but nothing helped. Got all that?”

  Dotty nods.

  “Just keep your mouth shut,” Sally says, “and let me do the talking. Okay? You behave and there’ll be a nice piece of change in it for you. Capeesh?”

  “What?”

  “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  So Sally calls 911 and explains that her father has died unexpectedly, and since he had a history of heart trouble, she thinks it was a sudden attack.

  While they’re waiting for the paramedics and cops, she makes three more calls. The first is to Judy Bering.

  “He’s gone,” Sally says. “I may not be in for a couple of days. I’m depending on you to keep the wheels turning.”

  “Sally, I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  “I know, kiddo, and thanks. Listen, if anyone comes around asking questions, just tell them you know from nothing and refer them to me. Okay?”

  “Of course, Sal. I can keep my mouth shut.”

  “That’s the way to do it. I’ll let you know when the service is scheduled in case you and any of the guys want to come.”

  “I’ll take up a collection. For flowers.”

  “Yeah, that would be nice.”

  Her second call is to Jake’s personal physician. She explains that her father dropped dead after drinking half a glass of brandy.

  “I’m not surprised,” the doctor says. “I warned him, but he wouldn’t listen. I’m sorry, Sally.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I guess they’ll take the body to the Medical Examiner, won’t they?”

  “That’s the customary procedure if no physician was present at the time of death.”

  “Do you know anyone there? I mean, I’d like to get the body released as soon as possible.”

  “I understand. I’ll do everything I can.”

  “Thanks, doc. I knew I could count on you.”

  Finally she calls Eddie, tells him the true story of their father’s death, and what she’s doing to cover it up. Her brother starts weeping, a soft, keening sound.

  “I loved him,” he says. “I really did.”

  “I know, baby.”

  “Jesus,” Eddie says, “this will be the end of ma.”

  “Nah,” Sally says. “Becky is stronger than you think. Eddie, can you come out to Smithtown? I want you there when I tell her. Take a cab if you have to. You’ve got enough money?”

  “I can manage. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  “Bring Paul if you like. You can stay there for a few days. Until the funeral. Plenty of room for both of you.”

  “Yeah, maybe we’ll do that. Sal, are you all right?”

  “I’m surviving.”

  “My God,” he says, “I couldn’t have done what you did. I wouldn’t have the balls for it.”

  “Sure you would,” she says.

  The paramedics and cops show up. Jake Steiner is pronounced definitely dead. Statements are taken from both Sally Steiner and Dotty Rosher. While a uniformed cop is scribbling in his notebook, the plainclothesman in charge, a big, beefy guy, wanders about the apartment, hands in his pockets. He seems to be whistling noiselessly.

  The body is finally removed on a gurney, covered with a rubber sheet. The plainclothesman crooks a finger at Sally, and the two go into the kitchen. The cop fishes in his pocket and comes up with a little plastic bag. Inside is a chewed cigar butt.

  “You forgot this,” he says, staring at Sally. “It was in the ashtray on the table next to the bed.”

  She dips into her shoulder bag, picks out two fifty-dollar bills.

  “For your favorite charity,” she says.

  “Thank you,” he says, taking the money and handing her the plastic bag. “My sincere condolences on your loss.”

  She’s in the funeral home, holding herself together while a parade of old guys come up and tell her what a mensch her father was. They were Jake’s gin rummy and pinochle pals, and all Sally can say is, “Thank you very much.”

  Then the uniformed doorman tells her there’s a man downstairs who’d like to talk to her. His name is Mario Corsini.

  “Jesus X,” Sally says. “All right, I’ll be down in a minute.”

  She looks around. Everything seems under control. Eddie is holding up well, and they hired a special van with a lift so Becky in her wheelchair could be transported to the funeral home and eventually to the cemetery. Paul is there. Martha is there. And a crowd of relatives, friends, and neighbors. More people than Sally expected. Dotty Rosher isn’t there. Got tsu danken!

  The hearse is parked at the curb, followed by a long line of black limousines. The chauffeurs have congregated, and are smoking up a storm and laughing. The single Cadillac limousine parked across the street is a stretch job, silver gray.

  “Mr. Angelo would like to talk to you,” Corsini says.

  “Now?” Sally says indignantly. “Can’t it wait?”

  “Just a couple of minutes,” he says. “We didn’t want to come inside.”

  “I’d have kicked your ass out,” she says, and means it.

  She crosses the street and climbs into the back, alongside Vic Angelo. Corsini sits up front behind the wheel, but turns sideways so he can keep an eye on Sally and listen to what’s going on.

  “My sincere condolences on your loss,” Angelo says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Your father was an old friend.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But now we got a business problem. The garbage dump. Who inherits?”

  “My mother, my brother, me.”

  “And who’s going to run it?”

  “Who do you think?” Sally says angrily. “Me. I’ve practically been running the joint for the past ten years.”

  “It’s no business for a woman,” Angelo says, shaking his head regretfully. “Too rough. We’ll make you a nice offer.”

  “Screw your offer,” Sally says wrathfully. “I’m hanging on to the dump. You’ll still get your tax. Jake is dead, but the business belongs to my family and that’s where it’s going to stay.”

  Mario Corsini grins. Or at least he shows a mouthful of big, yellowed teeth. “I don’t think so,” he says.

  Sally stares at the two bandidos. If she had her pistol she would have popped both of them, right there. She knows exactly what they can do to Steiner Waste Control: trouble with the union, trouble with city inspectors, maybe firebombs in the trucks if they want to play hard. There’s no way she can fight that. She could run to the DA and scream about the monthly payoffs—but where’s the proof?

  “All right,” she says, “you want to ta
ke over, you can do it. But you’ll be throwing away a fortune.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Angelo says.

  “You guys ever play the stock market?” Sally asks.

  Four

  “I’M GOING TO GIRD a loin,” Timothy Cone says.

  “You’re going to what?” Samantha Whatley demands.

  “Haven’t you ever girded your loins? It’s something like hoisting yourself with your own petard.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she says crossly, “and get to work.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he explains patiently. “I’ll be out of the office the rest of the week. I’m supposed to investigate internal security at Pistol and Burns, and make suggestions for improvements.”

  “Then do it!”

  He slouches out of her office and ambles down Broadway to Wall Street. It’s a sultry day, and he’s happy he left his raincoat at home. He’s wearing his black leather cap and his old corduroy suit.

  G. Fergus Twiggs must have spread the word because, after identifying himself, the Wall Street dick has no problems getting into Pistol & Burns. He’s allowed to roam the hushed corridors, examine offices, poke into closets, and check the fire escape doors to see if they can be opened from the outside.

  Cone doesn’t leave the offices during the lunch hour because he wants to see if any high-powered executives come reeling back, their eyes glazed with a three-martini lunch. He strikes out on that; all the P&B employees seem sober, industrious, and dull.

  “Look,” he says to Mr. Twiggs at the end of the first day, “I’ll put everything in a final report, but there are things you should do immediately, so I think I better pass them along to you personally every day.”

  “It’s that bad, is it?” the cherubic senior partner says.

  “It’s not a disaster,” Cone says, “but you’ve got to learn to operate defensively. I don’t mean you’ve got to make this place into a fortress, but you should take some more precautions. Or one of these days some outlaws are going to stroll in here and waltz out with the family jewels.”

  “What kind of precautions?”

  “Well, for starters, you’ve got one security guard on the front door. I’m sure he’s a fine old gentleman, but he is old and he is fat. It would take him a while to suck in his gut before he could get that big revolver out of his dogleg holster. Get a younger guy on the door. Get another two or three to wander around. They can be nicely dressed, but armed and maybe wearing badges.”