Run, Sally, Run

Sally Steiner, a proud, handsome woman, drives from Smithtown into Ozone Park. She parks in front of a narrow brick building, windows painted black. There is a small sign over the doorway: the Miami Fishing and Social Club.

Sally gets out of her Cadillac, knowing the hubcaps are safe. There is no thievery on this street. And no muggings, no littering, no graffiti. Maybe the cops drive through once a week, but the locals take care of everything.

There are a few geezers in the front room, playing cards and drinking red wine. They don't look up when the door opens.

She walks straight back, through a doorway curtained with strings of glass beads, most of them chipped or broken. There is one round wooden table back there surrounded by six chairs that look ready to collapse at the first shout. The tabletop has a big brownish stain in the center. It could be a wine spill or it could be a blood spill; Sally doesn't know and doesn't wonder.

Mario Corsini is sitting there with a bottle of Chivas Regal and four shot glasses. He gets to his feet when Sally enters. He spreads his arms wide, but she ignores the proffered embrace.

He pulls out a chair and pours them drinks.

Sally tugs a white envelope from her purse and slides it across the table.

"My tax return," she says coldly.

Corsini smiles. He sips his Scotch delicately. "We got a little (continued on page 138)Run Sally, Run(continued from page 126) business to discuss here. Like they say, good news and bad news. I'll give you the bad first. We're upping your dues two biggies a month."

Sally slams a fist down on the table. It rocks; Corsini's drink slops over.

"Two more a month?" she says. "What kind of shit is this?"

"Take it easy," Corsini says soothingly. "You didn't give me a chance to tell you the good news. You got a new territory. South of where your dump is now. Along Eleventh Avenue to Twenty-third Street."

"Yeah?" Sally says suspiciously. "What happened to Pitzak?"

"He retired," Mario says.

"Where to? Forest Lawn?"

"I don't like jokes like that," Corsini says. "They're not respectful."

Sally swallows whisky. "So the bottom line is that my tariff goes up two Gs, and I get Eleventh Avenue down to Twenty-third Street. Right?"

"And all the garbage you can eat," Corsini says, showing a mouthful of tarnished teeth.

"What about the customers?"

"Mostly industrial. Some restaurants, some diners, two apartment houses. One paint factory, one chemical outfit you'll have to dump in Jersey. And three or four printers."

"What kind of printers?"

"One does magazines, a couple do catalogs and brochures and one does printing for Wall Street outfits. Annual reports, documents, prospectuses, stuff like that."

"Yeah?" Sally says. "That's interesting."

"One more thing," Mario says. "We want you to take on a new man. He's been over from the old country six months now. Strictly legit. He's got his papers and all that shit. A good loader for you. A nice young boy. He'll work hard, and he's strong."

Sally says, "What do I need a new man for?"

"Because he's my cousin," Mario says.

They drain their drinks and Sally rises.

"It's been a super evening," she says. "I've enjoyed every minute of it."

She nods at Mario and marches out, leaving her empty glass on the table.

•

Samantha Whatley says, "Well, here's a new one for you."

She holds out a file folder, and Timothy Cone shuffles forward to take it. Cone's an investigator for Haldering & Co., an outfit on Wall Street that provides "financial intelligence" for corporate and individual clients.

"What is it?" he asks. "Some guy selling the Brooklyn Bridge?"

"No," Sam says, "this is heavy stuff. The client is Pistol & Burns. You know them?"

"The investment bankers? Sure, I know them. Very old. Very conservative. What's their problem?"

"They think they have a leak in their mergers-and-acquisitions department."

"Oh-ho. Another inside-trading scam?"

"Could be," Samantha says. "Tim, this is a new client with mucho dinero. Will you, for God's sake, try to dress neatly and talk like a gentleman?"

"Don't I always?"

She stares at him. "Out!" she says.

Back in his office, he opens a fresh pack of Camels (second of the day) and lights up. He parks his scuffed yellow work shoes atop the scarred desk and starts flipping through the Pistol & Burns file.

Seems they're in the last stages of finagling a leveraged buy-out of a corporation that makes clothes for kiddies, including diapers with the label of a hot-shot lingerie designer and little striped overalls just like gandy dancers once wore. The buyers are a group of the company's top executives, and the transaction includes an issue of junk bonds.

Everything is kept strictly hush-hush, and the number of people with a need to know is kept to a minimum. But during the past two weeks, the volume of trading in Wee Tot Fashions, Inc., usually minuscule, has quadrupled, with the stock up five bucks. Jeremy Bigelow, an investigator from the Securities and Exchange Commission, is already haunting the paneled corridors of Pistol & Burns, trying to discover who is leaking word of the upcoming deal.

This state of affairs cannot be allowed to continue, according to G. Fergus Twiggs, a Pistol & Burns senior partner.

Cone calls Pistol & Burns. Twiggs has a deep, rumbling voice. Cone thinks it sounds rum soaked, aged in oak casks, but maybe that's the way all old investment bankers talk. Their conversation is brief. Twiggs agrees to meet at ten o'clock the following morning to discuss "this disastrous and lamentable situation."

•

Judy Bering, the receptionist-secretary, opens the door of Sally's office and sticks her head in.

"There's a guy out here," she says. "Claims Mario Corsini told him to report for work this morning."

"Yeah," Sally says, "Mario told me he'd show up. What's his name?"

"Anthony Ricci."

"Sure," Sally says. "What else? What's he like?"

Judy rolls her eyes heavenward. "A lollipop," she says.

Ricci, an Adonis, comes in carrying his cap and wearing a smile that lights up the dingy office.

"Good morning, miss," he says. "I am Anthony Ricci, and I am to work here as a loader."

"Good for you," Sally says. "You know what a loader does? He lifts heavy cans of garbage and dumps them into the back of a truck. You can handle that?"

Again that high-intensity smile. Ricci lifts his arms, flexes his biceps. "I can handle," he says.

"Uh-huh," Sally says.

As they're going out the door, he flashes those brilliant choppers again and asks, "You married?"

"What's it to you?" Sally says sharply.

She shows him around the dump: sheds, unloading docks, compacters, maintenance garage, shower and locker room. She leaves him with old, gimpy Ed Fogleman, who got a leg caught in a mulcher but won't quit.

Sally goes back to her office, draws her third cup of black coffee of the day and gets back to her paperwork.

She is Steiner Waste Control. She directs, controls, hires, fires, praises, berates, curses and occasionally comforts a crew of tough men, drivers and loaders who make a living from their strength and their sweat. They work hard (Sally sees to that) and they live hard.

Big job. Stress. Tension. Dealing with a lot of hard-noses. But she thrives on it.

She's doing OK--but it's not enough. Most people would consider Sally Steiner rich, but she's not rich rich--which is all that counts. It's not for lack of trying; the want is there. But what Sally calls the Big Chance just hasn't come along. So she's playing the stock market: 1000 shares of this, 1000 shares of that. She makes a few bucks. So what? She knows the market is a crap shoot, but once tried, never denied.

•

The offices of Pistol & Burns, investment bankers, on Wall Street look like a genteel but slightly frowsty gentlemen's club. The paneled walls display antique hunting prints in brass frames. The carpeting seems ankle-deep. Employees tiptoe rather than walk and speak in whispers. Even the ring of telephones is muted to a polite buzz. The atmosphere bespeaks old wealth, and Timothy Cone (continued on page 166)Run, Sally, Run(continued from page 138) is impressed--not for the first time--by the comfortable serenity that avarice can create.

He is kept waiting only ten minutes, which he endures stoically, and then is ushered into the private office of G. Fergus Twiggs. This chamber, as large as Cone's loft, murmurs money, money, money. On the floor is an enormous Persian rug, and on the beige-linen walls are oak-framed water colors of sailing yachts, most with spinnakers set.

G. Fergus Twiggs is a veritable Toby jug of a man: short, squat, plump, with a smile and manner so beneficent that the Wall Street dick can see him with a pewter tankard of ale in one fist and a clay pipe in the other.

"Thank you for coming by," Twiggs says genially, shaking hands. He gets Cone seated in a leather chair alongside his mastodontic desk. "I needn't tell you how upsetting this entire matter has become; the whole house is disturbed."

"Look, Mr. Twiggs," Cone says, "there's not much I can do about the Wee Tot Fashions deal. The cat is out of the bag on that one. You'll just have to take your lumps."

"I realize that. The problem is how to prevent it from happening again."

"You can't," Timothy says. "Unless you figure a way to repeal human greed--and I doubt if you can do that. Listen, the leak on Wee Tot Fashions may not have been in your house at all. The arbitragers have a zillion ways of sniffing out a deal while it's still in the talking stage. They pick up one little hint, hear one little rumor that X.Y.Z. is going to make an offer for A.B.C., and they go to work."

Twiggs gives him a quirky smile. "Are you trying to talk yourself out of a job, Mr. Cone?"

"Nah. I just want you to understand the problems involved. And I'd like to know what you expect Haldering and Company to do about them."

"What I'd like you to do is spend as much time in our offices as you feel is necessary and review all the security precautions I have instituted. Be as critical as you like. Make any suggestions you wish that will make insider trading at Pistol & Burns if not impossible, then at least more difficult."

"Yeah," Cone says, "I can do that. As long as you understand I can't make the place airtight. No one can. I'll tackle your setup like I was an employee out to make a dishonest buck from trading on inside secrets. That should be easy; I've got a criminal mind."

Twiggs smiles again and rises. "I think you're exactly the man for the job," he says.

•

Manhattan comes across the bridge, the harsh and cluttered city where civility is a foreign language and the brittle natives speak in screams. Sally Steiner loves it; it is her turf. All the rough and raucous people she buffets--hostility is a way of life. Speak softly and you are dead.

Her brother Eddie lives in a five-story walk-up in Hell's Kitchen on a ramshackle street awaiting the wrecker's ball.

His apartment is spacious enough but ill proportioned and furnished with castoffs and gutter salvage. But the ceilings are high; there is a skylight. Room enough for easel, taboret, paints, palettes, brushes. And white walls for his unsold paintings: a crash of color.

He has his mother's beauty and his father's body: a swan's head atop a pit bull. When he embraces Sally, she smells turpentine.

"Where's Paul?" asks Sally.

"Bartending at a joint on Eighth Avenue. It's just a part-time thing, but it brings in some loot."

"Paul's a sweetheart," Sally says.

Her brother smiles. "He'll be back soon. You seem down. Problems?"

"Well, you know. I'm not doing what I want to be doing."

"Which is? Making money?"

"Sure," she says, challenging him. "That's what it's all about, isn't it?"

"I guess," he says, sighing. "The bottom line."

"You better believe it, buster. I see these guys raking in the bucks.... Like that ban-dido I pay off. I've got more brains than him, but he's living off my sweat. What kind of crap is that?"

"Life is unfair," he says, smiling.

"If you let it be unfair. Not me. I'm going to be out there grabbing like all the rest--if I ever get the chance."

He looks at his paintings hanging on the walls. "There's more than just greed, Sally."

"Says who? What? Tell me what."

"Satisfaction with your work. Love. Joy. Sex."

"Sex?" she says. "Sex is dead. Money is the sex of our time."

Paul Ramsey comes in. He is a tall blond with a sweet smile and more teeth than he really needs. He's got a laid-back manner, and Eddie says that when the world blows up, Paul is going to be the one who murmurs, "Oh, yeah? Cool."

"Paul," Sally says, "I got a proposition for you."

"Sorry," he says with a seraphic grin, "my evenings are occupied."

She tells him what she wants. She'll give him the name of a stockbroker. He's to open an account by purchasing shares of AT&T. She'll give him the money. After that, he'll buy and sell on her instructions.

"I'll pay all the losses," she says. "You get five percent of the profits. How about it?"

The two men look at each other.

"Go for it, Paul," Eddie Steiner advises. "My beautiful sister is a financial genius."

"OK," Paul Ramsey says, shrugging. "Why not?"

Sally has come prepared. She hands over a manila envelope with $2500 in cash and the name and phone number of her stockbroker inside.

"Stick with me, kid," she tells Paul, kissing his cheek, "and you'll be wearing diamonds."

"I prefer emeralds," he says.

•

Back in his cubbyhole office, Cone takes off cap and anorak and lets them drop to the floor, because some office thief has snaffled his coat tree. He lights his fourth of fifth cigarette of the day and sits down behind his scarred desk. He calls Jeremy Bigelow at the SEC.

"Jerry?"

"Speaking. Who's this?"

"Timothy Cone at Haldering and Company."

"Hey, old buddy! I was thinking of giving you a call. I hear you guys got the Pistol & Burns account."

"Bad news travels fast. Listen, Jerry, you looked into a possible leak on the Wee Tot Fashions deal, didn't you?"

"That's right." Bigelow's voice turns cautious. "I've been working it. You got something for me?"

"Nope. But what's your take on that Twiggs?" Cone asks.

"I think he's straight," Bigelow says. "A gentleman of the old school. But not too swift when it comes to street smarts."

"So how do you figure the Wee Tot Fashions leak? The arbitragers?"

"I think so. I don't believe anyone at Pistol & Burns was on the take. It was just rumor and good detectivework by the arbs. We checked all the trading in Wee lot in the past few weeks. There was one big trade, ten thousand shares, by an amateur. A woman named Sally Steiner, a real looker. But she owns a garbage-collection outfit on Eleventh Avenue. She plays the market for fun and just made a lucky pick."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Of course," Bigelow says, offended. "That's what they're paying me coolie wages for. She's a tough bimbo in the waste-disposal business. She claims she bought Wee Tot stock because she wants to get out of garbage and open a store that sells kids' clothes. She figured the annual reports of Wee Tot would help her learn the business. It makes sense."

"Sure, it does," Timothy Cone says. "Nice talking to you again, Jerry."

•

Back at the office, Sally ponders her next move. She's got to use fronts, some bubble-heads 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.

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?"

"Wheel" Leroy says. "Christmas in May. What's the occasion, Sally, baby?"

"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. And it means an extra hundred a week for each of you. In cash. Off the books."

"No trouble with the buttons?" Hamilton says.

"What trouble?" Sally says. "Anyone asks questions, you know 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.

•

G. Fergus Twiggs must have spread the word, because, after identifying himself, Timothy Cone 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.

"You've got to learn to operate defensively," he tells 'Twiggs. "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?"

"All your typewriters and business machines should be bolted to the desks. You can even get attachments with burglar alarms if you want to go that far. But you've got a zillion dollars' worth of portable machinery that could be carted off with no trouble at all. Bolt it down."

"Good idea,' the senior partner says. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, those paper shredders you're using to destroy confidential documents.... They're antiques. Shredded documents can be pasted together again. You need new models that turn paper into confetti."

"Excellent suggestion. More?"

"This one is going to cost you bucks. You've got your mergers-and-acquisitions people scattered all over the place. An office here, an office there. That's an invitation to leaks. You've got to consolidate that whole department. And that area has to be behind a locked door that can only be opened by authorized personnel with a computer-coded card."

"It's beginning to sound more and more like a fortress," Twiggs says with a wan smile.

Cone shrugs. "Your M.-and-A. people are writing too many office memos, too many suggestions, projections, analyses of upcoming deals--and all on paper."

"We've got to communicate," Twiggs protests.

"Not on paper, you don't. Computerize the whole operation. If anyone has something to say on a possible take-over, buyout or merger, he puts it on the computer. Anyone else who's involved can call it up on his monitor--but only if he knows the code word. You understand? Also, the computer can keep a list of who requests access to the record."

G. Fergus Twiggs shakes his head dolefully. "What's the world coming to?" he asks.

"Beats the hell out of me," Timothy Cone says.

•

"I been talking to your accountant," Mario Corsini says. "This fucking dump is a gold mine."

"You got no right to talk to my accountant," Sally says hotly.

"Why not?" Corsini says with his steely smile. "He's my uncle. The numbers he gave me were a real eye opener. I never knew there was that much money in shit. So we're going to take over, girlie. We'll pay you a nice price."

"Drop dead," she says wrathfully. "This dump has been in my family for forty years. My father started it with one lousy pickup truck and worked his ass off. Steiner Waste Control is not for sale."

"Everything's for sale," he says. "You, me, everything. My lawyer's drawing up the papers."

"And what if I refuse to sign?"

He stares at her a moment, then waggles his fingers. "Bye-bye," he says.

"listen," she says desperately, "you ever play the stock market?"

"Yeah, I'm in and out occasionally."

"Well, look, I got a boyfriend on Wall Street. He's a lawyer in the mergers-and-acquisitions department of a big investment-banking firm. He gets in on the ground floor on mergers, take-overs and buy-outs. There's a lot of money to be made if you get advance notice of these deals. I've been making a mint. You let me keep Steiner Waste Control and I'll feed you the same inside information I get from my boyfriend."

Corsini gives her a two-bit smile. "And you invest for the boyfriend and then kick back to him. Have I got it straight, girlie?"

"Of course," she says. "Whaddya think? And don't call me girlie."

"Close the door and sit down," he says.

She does as he says: closes the door and sits down behind her desk. She examines him in silence.

He is a repellent man, with a pitted ocherous complexion and eyes like wet coal. His shiny black hair is parted in the middle and plastered to his long skull like a gigolo's or a tango dancer's of the Twenties. He's wearing morticians' clothes: black suit, white shirt, black tie, black socks, black shoes. No color. No jewelry. He looks like a deep shadow.

"OK," he says finally. "You give me a winner and I'll stall on buying you out."

"How do I know you're not scamming me?" Sally says. "Maybe you just want to make a quick dollar on my tip and you couldn't care less if I lose the dump."

He looks at her admiringly. "You got more between your ears than pasta fagioli," he says. "And sure, you're exactly right; I could be conning you. But you're forgetting one thing: You got no choice. Play along and at least you got a chance."

"I got other choices," she says angrily.

"Yeah?" he says with a death's-head grin. "Like what? Like running to the D.A. and ratting? You'd be cold in a week. Is that what you want?"

They sit a few moments in silence, eyes locked. They hear the sounds of the dump: trucks rumbling in and out, gears grinding, shouts and laughter. And beyond, the noises of the harsh, raucous city: sirens, whistles, the roar of traffic and under it all, a thrumming, as if the metropolis had a diapason of its own, coming up from underground vaults and vibrating the tallest towers.

Sally Steiner pulls a pad of scratch paper toward her and scribbles on the top sheet.

"The stock is Trimbley and Diggs," she says. "NASDAQ market. Right now, it's selling for about four bucks a share. And don't, for God's sake, buy more than nine thousand shares at a clip or the SEC might get interested."

Mario Corsini takes the slip of paper. "Nice doing business with you," he says.

He starts out the door. "Hey," she calls, and he turns back. "Thanks for not calling me girlie."

•

When Timothy Cone gets back to his office, there's a message on his desk: Call Jeremy Bigelow. So, without taking off his cap, Cone phones the SEC investigator.

"Hi ya, old buddy," Jerry says breezily. "How did you make out at Pistol & Burns?"

"Like you said, it's as holey as Swiss cheese. I gave them some ways to close the holes."

"But no evidence of an insider leak?"

"I didn't find any."

"That's a relief. I wrote in my report it was the arbs who caused the run-up of the stock. I guess I was right."

"Uh-huh," Cone says.

"So much for the good news. Now comes the bad. We got another squeal on insider trading."

"Oh, Jesus," the Wall Street dick says. "Don't tell me it's a Pistol & Burns deal."

"No, this one is at Snellig, Firsten and Holbrook. You know the outfit?"

"The junk-bond specialists?"

"That's right. They're supposed to have the best security on the Street, but they're handling a leveraged buy-out and someone is on to it. The stock of the takee is going up, up, up. Listen, could you and I meet on Monday? Maybe we can figure out what's going on."

"Maybe," Cone says.

•

Sally Steiner drives down to Eddie's apartment, stopping on the way to buy him a decent Burgundy. It's a sprightly day, summer around the corner, blue sky, sharp sun and kissing breeze.

They're sitting on Eddie's couch, drinking her Burgundy, talking about their mother and whether or not they should try another doctor, when Paul Ramsey comes ambling in. He gives them a beamy smile.

"I didn't get the job," he reports. "They decided I wasn't the strawberry-laxative type."

"Thank God," Eddie says. "I don't think I could stand seeing you in a commercial, coming out of a bathroom and grinning like a maniac."

"Paul," Sally says, taking the manila envelope out of her shoulder bag, "here's thirty-six thousand in hundred-dollar bills."

"Hey," he says, "that's cool."

"You opened a brokerage account?"

"Oh, sure. No sweat."

"Well, dump this lettuce in your personal checking account. Draw on it to buy nine thousand shares of Trimbley & Diggs. Your broker will find it in NASDAQ. I wrote it all out for you. Buy the stock today, as soon as possible. You've got five days to get a check to the broker."

"Does this make me a tycoon?" Paul Ramsey asks.

"A junior tycoon," Sally tells him. "But we're just getting started."

•

The stock of Trimbley & Diggs, Inc., is going up, up, up, and Sally is ecstatic. When it hits seven dollars, she gives more money to Paul Ramsey and has him buy another 9000 shares.

She also notes that the trading volume of T.&D. is increasing as the value of the stock rises. She figures either there's an inside leak at Snellig, Firsten and Holbrook or the arbitragers have ferreted out the take-over and are looking to make a bundle. So is Sally. And so, apparently, is Mario Corsini. He calls her at home, late at night, a week after their talk in her office.

"Good tip," he says, his raspy voice revealing neither joy nor enthusiasm. "You buying more?"

"Thinking about it."

"How high do you think it'll go?"

"Who knows?" she says. "Ten. Twelve, maybe."

"Twelve?" he says cautiously. "If it hits twelve, you think I should bail out?"

"Hey," she says, "I'm not your financial advisor. I gave you a good tip. What you do with it is your business. And what about my business? What's going to happen to Steiner Waste Control?"

"I'm working on it," he says.

He hangs up abruptly, leaving Sally staring angrily at her dead phone. It infuriates her that she's enabling that gonif to make even one lousy buck.

•

Back in his loft, Timothy Cone pops a tall can of Bud. Then he opens his briefcase and dumps the contents onto his wooden table. He sets the empty case on the floor, and Cleo immediately jumps in and curls up contentedly.

"Leave your fleas in there," Cone tells the cat.

He reads all the papers and reads them again. Then he sits back and considers the case. It's pretty much as Bigelow described it. The first documents are dated about three weeks previously and deal with Snellig, Firsten and Holbrook's suggested plan for the proposed buy-out of Trimbley & Diggs, Inc.

Subsequent documents amend and refine the plan. Then there's a letter assuring the principals involved that the required funds can be raised through the sale of high-risk bonds, and Snellig, Firsten and Holbrook has "every confidence" that the bond issue will be oversubscribed.

All that is routine stuff, and Cone can't see anything freaky going on. What interests him more are the computer records of trading activity in Trimbley & Diggs. The volume began to climb about ten days ago, and the stock, listed in the NASDAQ market, rose in value steadily from about four dollars a share to its current price of slightly more than eight dollars. Nice.

Cone leans down to address the cat. "Sometimes, the bulls make money," he says, "and sometimes, the bears make money. It's the pigs who always get stuck."

But who are these lucky investors who doubled their stake in about ten days? Cone goes over the computerized trading records again, and what he finds amuses him. He can't spot any trades of 10,000 shares or more, but there are plenty for 9000 shares. Timothy figures that's because a lot of wise guys have heard that the SEC is interested in trades of 10K shares and over. If they buy or sell 9000 shares, they think they're home free.

Since no one is going to finance his travels to investigate out-of-state buyers, he concentrates on the names of New York investors. One that catches his eye is a man named Paul Ramsey, who lives on 47th Street at an address that places his residence west of Tenth Avenue.

That sets off alarm bells, because, after Cone returned from 'Nam, he lived for two years in a five-story walk-up on 48th, east of Tenth, and he knows what a slummy neighborhood that is. It's in the middle of Hell's Kitchen, with run-down tenements, sad mom-and-pop bodegas, dusty beer joints and boarded-up buildings awaiting demolition. It's hard to believe that one of the residents is a stock-market plunger. Not many ghetto dwellers deal in gold coins, either.

He goes through the computer printouts for the fourth time, checking Paul Ramsey's trades. It looks to Cone as if the guy now owns 27,000 shares of Trimbley & Diggs, Inc., bought at an average of six bucks a share. If he sells out today, he'll walk away with a profit of about $54,000. Not bad for someone who lives where a mugger would be happy with a take of ten dollars--enough for a vial of crack.

Cone pulls on his leather cap and takes his grungy raincoat in case the drizzle has thickened. Just before he leaves the loft, he checks the short-barreled S&W .357 in his ankle holster. Reassured, he ventures out to visit his old neighborhood.

Ramsey's building looks the way Cone imagined it: peeling paint, torn shades, cracked windows. It is dreary and dying, and no way would you figure it as the residence of a Wall Street plunger.

He goes into the cramped vestibule, which smells of urine and boiled cabbage. There's a bell plate, but no names are listed in the slots. But there are names on the mailboxes. Two are listed for apartment five-A.

One is Paul Ramsey.

The other is Edward Steiner.

•

Cone finds a working public telephone and calls Neal K. Davenport, a detective with the New York Police Department. He has worked with Davenport on a few things, and the city bull owes him.

"Hey, Sherlock," the N.Y.P.D. man says cheerily. "How ya doing? I haven't heard from you in weeks. So why are you calling now?"

"It's about the commercial garbage-collection business."

"Oh?" Davenport says. "You want a letter of recommendation?"

"Cut the bullshit," Cone says, "and just tell me if I'm right. Private garbage collection, waste disposal and cartage in Manhattan are pretty much controlled by the Families--correct?"

"So I've heard," the N.Y.P.D, man says. "They have the whole fucking city divided into districts and neighborhoods. If you want to pick up shit, you've got to pay dues to the bent noses. So what else is new?"

"Thanks," Cone says. "Nice talking to you."

•

Timothy Cone looks up the telephone number of Edward Steiner, West 47th Street, in the Manhattan directory and calls from the loft.

"Mr. Steiner?"

"Yes. Who's this?"

"Our name is Silas Farthingale. We are the director of client data for the Carlton Insurance Company. A Miss Sally Steiner has applied for a single-premium-annuity policy with Carlton. It pays a death benefit, of course, and you are listed as beneficiary. We wonder if you'd be willing to state your relationship to Miss Steiner so her application can be processed as expeditiously as possible."

"Sure," Eddie says, laughing. "I'm her brother."

"We thank you very much, Mr. Steiner."

So now Cone knows that much.

But none of his theorizing sheds any light on the Steiner woman's pipeline into Wall Street. She may have an informant down there--unless....

•

It's a balmy night, and Sally is strolling around the front lawn when the silver-gray Cadillac pulls into the driveway a little after 12 o'clock. Sally goes back to the lighted terrace and waits for Corsini to come up.

In the den, she offers him a drink. She hasn't any Chivas Regal, but he takes a snifter of Remy Martin.

"I don't want you coming to Ozone Park anymore," Corsini announces. "From now on, you'll make your monthly payments to Tony Ricci, and he'll deliver. I'm bringing him along slowly. He'll be my driver one of these days."

"My monthly payments?" Sally says. "Does that mean I keep the dump?"

"For the time being," he says coldly. "Just keep running it the way you have, and we'll see. You got another stock for me?"

"No. Not yet."

He takes a sip of his cognac. "You better be extra nice to that boyfriend of yours," he advises. "Figure it this way: As long as you keep coming up with inside tips that pay off, that's how long you'll own Steiner Waste Control. You can understand that, can't you?"

"Yeah, sure; it isn't all that complicated."

"Now, about that Trimbley & Diggs stock," he says. "Right now, I'm holding about a hundred thousand shares."

"What?"

"You heard me. A hundred thousand. But don't get your balls in an uproar. 1 only bought nine thousand in my own name. The other buys were made by friends of mine around the country. They'll get a cut of the profits. And none of them bought more than nine thousand shares each, so there's nothing to worry about."

"I hope you're right," Sally says nervously, biting at her thumbnail. "Jesus, you must have about half a million tied up in that stock."

"About," he says carelessly. "I had to borrow to get up the kale. And the people I borrowed from wouldn't like it if I stiffed them. So I'm going to start taking some profits."

"Oh, my God!" Sally says despairingly. "Don't tell me you're going to dump a hundred thousand shares all at once? It'll kill the market."

"Whaddya think--I'm a klutz? Of course I'm not going to dump it all. I'm selling off little by little. It won't hurt the stock price. But I want to see some money."

At the front door, he pauses and turns to her. He reaches out to stroke her cheek, but she jerks angrily away, and he gives her a mirthless smile.

"You're some woman," he says. "You've got guts. I'd teach you how to be nice, but I don't want to ruin what you've got going with your Wall Street guy."

She doesn't answer. Just glares at him. She watches until he gets into the Caddy and drives away. She goes back into the den and stares at his empty brandy glass. Enraged, she backhands it off the desk, hoping it will shatter into 100 pieces. But it bounces harmlessly on the rug, and she leaves it there.

She unloads her first purchase of 9000 shares the next morning, making a profit of about $36,000. She gives Paul Ramsey his five percent, and he looks at the cash in bemusement.

"Cool," he says.

•

On Thursday morning, early, Cone is parked on 11th Avenue across from Steiner Waste Control. He has come prepared with two deli sandwiches (baloney on rye with mustard, roast beef on white with mayo) and four cans of Miller beer in a plastic bag filled with ice cubes.

The garbage dump comes to life. Cone watches as the gate is unlocked and thrown open. Employees arrive, trucks are revved up, the gas pump is busy and a woman comes out of the office to yell something Cone can't hear at an old guy who comes limping from one of the corrugated-steel sheds.

There are six huge Loadmaster compacters, all painted yellow. Timothy thanks God and his good-luck angels when he sees that not only do the garbage trucks bear the legend steiner waste control but each has a big number painted on the side, one to six. At least Cone won't be following the same truck for a week.

Truck number four pulls out first, and Cone starts up the Dodge Shadow and goes after it. For the next seven hours, he eats the truck's exhaust, going where it goes, stopping when it stops, returning to the dump when it returns to drop a load.

Meanwhile, he's making scrawled notes on the back of a brown envelope that originally contained a nasty letter from the IRS warning him that he owed Uncle Sam an additional $17.96. He logs the schedule of truck number four: names and addresses of places it serviced--restaurants, apartment houses, diners, industrial buildings, taverns.

By the end of the day, sandwiches and beers consumed, Cone is bored and cranky, wondering if he has the fire to keep this up for a week. What bugs him is the fear that each truck may have a different schedule of rubbish pickups every day. If that's true, it'll take a month of Sundays to list all of Sally Steiner's customers.

But on Friday morning, he's there again, parked and waiting. Now there are big flatbeds pulling through the Steiner gate to load up with strapped bales of paper and open-bed trucks being filled with cubes of compacted garbage to be taken, Cone presumes, to landfills on Long Island or in New Jersey, and smaller trucks loading up with tons of swill for what purpose Cone doesn't even want to imagine.

On Friday, he follows truck number two. On Monday, he shadows truck number five. And an Tuesday, he takes off after truck number three.

Truck number three is being driven by a redheaded guy with a map of Ireland spread all over his face. The loader is a broad-shouldered black who looks as if he could nudge a locked door off its hinges with no trouble at all.

Everything in their Tuesday routine is normal and dull until about one o'clock, when truck number three slows and turns into an alleyway alongside a one-story cinder-block building on Tenth Avenue. Cone parks across the street and opens his second pack of Camels of the day. From where he sits, he has a good view of the action.

The loader climbs down from the cab. But instead of hefting the cylindrical barrels of trash that have been put out for pickup, he exits the alley and starts walking down Tenth Avenue. Cone straightens up, interested enough to forget to light his cigarette.

In a couple of minutes, a battered Chevy van pulls into the alley and stops right behind the Steiner truck. The loader gets out of the Chevy, opens the back doors and begins to lift the barrels into the van.

"What the hell?" Cone says aloud, and then realizes he now has two cigarettes going at once. He licks thumb and forefinger and pinches one out, saving it carefully in the ashtray. The van, loaded with four barrels, backs out of the alley and starts north on Tenth Avenue. Cone takes a quick look at the cinder-block building. It has a brass plate next to the front door, but it's so small he can't read it from across the street. The yellow truck hasn't moved, so Cone gets rolling and follows the van.

He's keeping a tight tail, but city traffic is heavy and it's doubtful if the loader will spot him, even if he's looking for a shadow. Cone doesn't think that is likely; the guy is driving steadily at legal speeds and making no effort to jink.

On the East Side, they turn up First Avenue and continue north, almost to 125th Street. Now Cone guesses where they're heading: to the Triborough Bridge. They stop briefly to pay their tolls, then head across the span.

They get onto the Long Island Expressway, moving at a lively clip. They turn off onto the Northern State Parkway, turn again onto the Sunken Meadow State Parkway. The van is slowing now, and Cone has time to look around. Pretty country. Plenty of trees. Some impressive homes with white picket fences.

Down Main Street in Smithtown and into an area where the homes are even bigger, set on wide lawns with white-graveled driveways leading to the houses and two-or three-car garages. The van turns into one of those driveways. Cone continues down the road a piece, pulls onto the shoulder and parks. He hops out, lights a cigarette and saunters back. He stands in the semiconcealment of a small copse of pines and watches the loader lug the four barrels, one at a time, into a neat white garage with a shingled roof.

With the four barrels inside, the man starts bringing them out again and sliding them into the van--or so it seems; the barrels are identical in appearance. Timothy is flummoxed until he realizes what's going on. The guy has delivered four new barrels; he's picking up four old barrels that were already stored in the garage.

Cone sees the loader climb behind the wheel of the van. Away he goes. Cone will make book on exactly where he's heading: back to the city to make contact with truck number three, dump the trash in the big yellow Loadmaster and then return the empty barrels to the alleyway alongside that building on Tenth Avenue.

Cone stays where he is, eyeballing the garage and home. Nice place. The house is two stories high with a lot of windows. Weathered brick halfway up and white clapboard the rest of the way. A tiled terrace at one side with French doors to the house. All set on what looks to be a one-acre plot, at least, with a manicured lawn and a few pieces of Victorian cast-iron furniture scattered about.

And he spots a sign on a short post driven into the lawn. It reads: steiner.

•

He's back in Manhattan by four o'clock, but it takes him almost 45 minutes to work his way over to the West Side. He finally parks on 18th Street near Tenth Avenue, with his watch nudging five P.M. He practically runs back to the one-story cinder-block building. The brass plate next to the front door reads: reichhold printing. Just that and nothing more.

The front door is still open, but when he pushes his way in, a blowzy blonde in the front office is putting on her hat. It looks like a velvet chamber pot.

"We're closed for the day," she tells Cone.

"Nah," he says, giving her what he fancies is a charming smile. "The front door is open. I just want to get some letterheads, bills and business cards printed up."

"We don't do that kind of work," she says tartly.

"You don't?" he says. "Well, what kind of work do you do?"

"Financial printing," she says.

"Thank you very much," the Wall Street dick says, tipping his leather cap. "Sorry to bother you."

•

Twiggs's face reddens, he seems to swell, and for a moment, Cone fears the senior partner is going to have cardiac arrest, or at least bust his braces. But suddenly, Twiggs starts laughing, his face all squinched up, tears starting from his eyes. He pounds the desk with his fist.

"The garbage collector!" he says, spluttering. "Oh, God, that's good! That's beautiful! I'll dine off that story for years to come! What do we do now?"

"Nothing you can do about the merger that's in the works. But for the future, you've got some choices. You can get yourself a new printer, with no guarantee that the same thing won't happen again. Or stick with Reichhold, but every time you give him something to print, send over a couple of guys who can make sure all preliminary proofs are destroyed. Or--and I like this one best--equip your mergers-and-acquisitions department with the new desktop publishers. You'll be able to produce most of the documents you need right here in your own shop, including graphs, charts and tables. The machines aren't cheap, but they'll save you a mint on commercial-printing costs."

"I'll look into it immediately," Twiggs says. "You're going to report this garbage collector to the SEC?"

"As soon as possible."

"And what's going to happen to--what's her name?"

"Sally Steiner. If she's the stand-up gonif I think she is, she'll fight any attempt by the SEC to charge her or make her cough up her profits. What, actually, did she do? Dig through some barrels of rubbish, that's all. She's home free. That's what she thinks, and I hate to admit it, but she may be right."

"I wonder," says G. Fergus Twiggs thoughtfully, "if she'd consider employment with an investment banker."

Cone smiles and rises to leave. "You could do a lot worse," he says. "Nice meeting you, Mr. Twiggs."

•

At noon at Steiner Waste Control, there are four big yellow trucks on the tarmac, waiting to unload. Most of the guys have gone to the Stardust Diner for lunch, but Anthony Ricci is waiting in the outer office. Sally Steiner knows what he wants.

"Tony, come into my office."

The kid really is a beauty, no doubt about it, and she wonders what Eddie would think of him--and then decides she's never going to bring them together and find out. Paul Ramsey would kill her.

Ricci has a helmet of crisp black curls, bedroom eyes and a mouth artfully designed for kissing. He has a muscled body and moves with the spring of a young animal. He has been working all morning, but he doesn't smell of garbage; he smells of male sweat with a musky undertone.

"How's it going, 'Tony?" Sally asks him. "Like the job?"

"It's OK," the kid says. "For a while. I'm not about to spend the rest of my life lifting barrels of shit."

"You're not?" she says, putting him on. "And what have you got in mind--an executive job where you can wear monogrammed shirts and Armani suits?"

"Yeah," he says seriously, "I think I would like a desk job."

"With a secretary? A blue-eyed blonde with big knockers?"

He gives her the 100-watt grin. "Maybe. But not necessary."

"What kind of a woman are you looking for?"

He leans toward her slightly, his dark, burning eyes locked with hers. "An older woman," he says in a low voice. "I am tired of young girls who talk only of clothes and rock stars and want to go to the most expensive restaurants and clubs. Yeah, I'm interested in older women."

"Because they're grateful?" Sally suggests.

He considers that. "It's true," he says finally, and she decides he may be an Adonis, but he has no fucking brains. "Also," he continues, "older women are settled and know about life. They are smart about money, and they work hard."

He stares at her with such intensity that she begins to get antsy.

"Well," she says, "let's get down to business." She slides a sealed white envelope from the top drawer of her desk and hands it to him. "You know what's in that, Tony?"

He nods soberly. "More than I make a month for lifting garbage."

"You better believe it," Sally says. "So don't lose it or take off for Las Vegas. A receipt isn't necessary."

That last goes right over his head.

"Maybe some night we could have dinner," he says, more of a statement than a question. "I know a restaurant down on Mulberry Street. Not expensive, but the food is delizioso. Would you like to have dinner with me?"

"Sure," she says to Anthony Ricci. "Why not?"

•

Sergeant Joseph D'Amato, from the Organized Crime Bureau, looks and dresses like a college professor. He's a tall, gawky guy with a Mount Rushmore face and big spatulate hands. His tweed jacket has suede patches on the elbows, and his cordovan kilties are polished to a mirror gloss. He's smoking a long, thin cigarillo, so Cone thankfully lights up his ninth cigarette of the day.

"Those names you gave me," D'Amato says. "All illegals. Members of the same Family. The biggie on your list is Mario Corsini, a hood we've been interested in."

"Is this Corsini into extortion of private carters and garbage collectors?"

"Sure, he is. Why do you ask?"

So, for the second time that morning, Cone describes the activities of Sally Steiner and how she has been able to come up with those profitable stock tips.

"That's lovely," D'Amato says when Cone finishes. "I'd guess she's passing her inside information along to Corsini. For what reason, I don't know. Maybe she's got the hots for the guy. Some women think Mobsters are king shit."

"Maybe," Cone says. "Or maybe he's leaning on her, and those stock tips are what she has to pay to stay in business."

"Could be," the sergeant says. He lights another of his cigarillos. "About seven or eight months ago, Corsini brought a cousin over from the old country. It's legal; the kid has all his papers. His name is Anthony Ricci. Anyway, in that list you gave me, there were two heavy stock buyers in Atlantic City. One was Mario Corsini. The other was Anthony Ricci."

"So?" Cone says. "What does that prove?"

"Anthony Ricci works for Steiner Waste Control."

"Let me buy you lunch," Cone says.

•

Timothy Cone and Jeremy Bigelow are sauntering down through the financial district toward the Battery, stopping at carts and vans to pick up calzone, chicken wings in soy sauce, raw carrots, chocolate-chip cookies, gelato and much, much more.

"I made out like a thief," Timothy says. "I found the leak."

Jeremy stops on the sidewalk, turns, stares at him. "You're kidding," he says.

"Scout's honor," Cone says, and for the third time, he describes how Sally Steiner is digging through trash from Reich hold Printing and finding smeared proofs of confidential financial documents.

He tells Bigelow nothing about the Mario Corsini connection.

Twiggs had succumbed to guffaws after hearing the story, and Joe D'Amato had been amused, but the SEC man is infuriated.

"Son of a bitch," he says angrily. "I should have caught those nine-thousand-share trades. How did you break it?"

"A lot of luck."

"You told Pistol & Burns?"

"Oh, sure. Twiggs called me this morning. They've canned Reich hold and are switching to another commercial printer until they can put in a desktop-printing system. Listen, Jerry, you better tell Snellig, Firsten and Holbrook."

"Yeah," the other man says worriedly, "I'll do that."

He wipes drops of gelato from his lapel. "Do you realize what this means? We'll have to get hold of Reichhold's customer list--get a subpoena if we have to--and alert all his Wall Street customers about what's going on."

That's exactly what Cone wants him to say. This guy is brainy but not the hardest man in the world to manipulate.

"Yeah," he says sympathetically, "a lot of work. Maybe an easier way to handle it would be for you to pay a visit to Reich-hold."

"It could be handled that way," Jeremy says thoughtfully. "A lot less work. No subpoenas, charges and court trials."

"Sure," Cone agrees. "And why should an innocent printer suffer just because Sally Steiner has larceny in her heart?"

•

Back at his loft, Timothy Cone calls Joe D'Amato. "You got a phone number for Mario Corsini? I'd like to call him."

"I haven't got it. But I've got the number of a social club in Ozone Park. Maybe they'll get a message to him to call you back. That's the best I can do."

"Good enough," Cone says.

He calls the Ozone Park social club.

A man answers. "Yeah?" he says in a voice that sounds as if someone had kicked his Adam's apple.

"I'd like to speak to Mr. Mario Corsini," Cone says politely.

"Who?"

"Mario Corsini."

"Never heard of him."

"Who's this?" a new voice shouts.

"Am I speaking to Mr. Mario Corsini?"

"You tell me who you are or I hang up."

"Mr. Corsini, my name is Smedly Tonker, and I am an investigator with the Securities and Exchange Commission."

"So?"

"Forgive me for calling at this late hour," Cone goes on, wondering how many years he can get for impersonating a Federal officer, "but we're working overtime investigating recent stock trading in Trimbley & Diggs, Inc. In the course of our investigation, careful examination of computer records shows that you and your associates took a very considerable long position in that stock."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"I'm sure you do, Mr. Corsini. Our records show a purchase of nine thousand shares by you personally through a broker in Atlantic City."

"I tell you it's all horseshit to me; I don't know nothing about it."

"Mr. Corsini, our investigation shows you and your friends made your stock purchases on the basis of inside tips from a Ms. Sally Steiner of Steiner Waste Control. Do you know how she got her information, Mr. Corsini?"

"I never heard of the broad."

So, for the fourth time, Cone relates the tale of how trash from Reichhold Printing was delivered to Sally's home, and how she rummaged through the garbage to find confidential financial documents.

"Are you claiming you knew nothing about Ms. Steiner's illegal activities, Mr. Corsini?"

"Talk to my lawyers, you putz!" the other man screams and hangs up.

Smiling happily, Cone goes back to his unfinished drink and polishes it off.

•

Sally Steiner thinks of it later as Black Friday. It starts bad and gets progressively worse. On the drive into the city, some fucking cowboy cuts her off on the Long Island Expressway, and she almost rolls the Mazda onto the shoulder.

Then, when she gets to the office, Reich-hold has phoned three times.

"All right," Sally says, sighing, "I'll give him a call."

Reichfold immediately starts spluttering, roaring and cursing her in German. She knows enough of the language to recognize some of the words he's using, and they're not nice.

"What the hell are you talking about?" she demands.

"Oh, yes, oh, yes," he says furiously. "My best customer you have cost me. And who knows how many more? Maybe all. Because you go through my trash, and you read my first proofs, and then you buy stocks, you Schlampe! You are fired, you understand that? And you will hear from my lawyers. For my loss of business, you will pay plenty, you bet."

Sally has been listening to this tirade while standing behind her desk. Now, knees suddenly trembling, she collapses into her swivel chair.

"Who told you all that?" she asks weakly.

"Who? I tell you who. A man from the United States Government, that's who. They know what you have been doing. Oh, yes, they know everything."

She hangs up softly.

Suddenly frightened--not at possible punishment but at possible loss of her investments--she phones Paul Ramsey. Thank God he's in, and she tells him to call his broker immediately and sell everything at the market price. Just unload totally.

"That's cool," he says.

"You'll do it, Paul? Right away?"

"Sure," he says, and his placidity helps calm her.

But when she hangs up the phone, she sees Mario Corsini standing in the doorway of her office.

"Thanks for knocking," she says angrily.

He comes close to the desk, leans forward on whitened knuckles. He stares at her with dead eyes from under the brim of a black fedora.

"Cunt!" he says venomously.

"I can explain," she starts. "I can----"

"You can explain shit!" he says, voice cold and hard. "A boyfriend on Wall Street, huh? And all the time you're digging through garbage. I should have known; that's your style, you no-good bitch. Now I got the SEC on my ass, and who knows what----"

"Hey," Sally says, "take it easy. You're imagining a lot of things that might not happen. Maybe you'll have to give back your profits and pay a fine. That's no big deal for a hot-shot like you."

"No big deal, huh? And I should tell the sharks that? You got shit for brains? Oh, I'll work my way out of this, but I'm going to have to grease a lot of people. It's going to cost me, and guess who's going to pay?"

She doesn't answer.

Corsini looks around the office, goes to the window to peer out at the parking lot. "Nice place you got here," he says.

"And it's going to stay mine," she says. "I'll never sell."

His hand starts to tremble, and he presses it against the side of the desk to steady it. She wonders how close he is to popping her then and there.

"Oh, you'll sell," he says in an unexpectedly soft voice. "Maybe you got the balls to fight me, but does your faggot brother?"

"Screw you," Sally says with more bravado than she feels.

"There is one way you can keep the dump," Mario Corsini says thoughtfully, still staring at her. "You put out for me, and maybe we can work a deal."

"Christ Almighty!" she cries. "Is that the only way you can get a woman?"

"I can get a lot of women," he says, snapping his fingers. "Like that. But I want you. I want to break you." Then he starts describing what he'll do to her.

She jerks to her feet. "You prick!" she screams. "Get the hell out of my office."

"Your office?" he says, looking at her with a stretched grin. "Not for long."

•

She's pouring a drink when she looks up to see a tall gangly man standing in the doorway. He's wearing a ratty corduroy suit and a black-leather cap. He looks like a nut, and that's all Sally needs on this Black Friday.

"I'll take one of those," he says, jerking his chin at the schnapps bottle.

"Who the hell are you?" she demands, putting the bottle away.

"My name is Timothy Cone," the gink says, "and I'm with Haldering and Company on John Street. We do financial investigations, mostly for corporate clients on Wall Street."

"Beat it, will you?" Sally says wearily. "I've already been investigated up and down, inside out and both ways from the middle."

"I know," Cone says. "I'm the one who did it. Our client is Pistol & Burns. Wee Tot Fashions--remember that stock? And I was also in on the Trimbley & Diggs takeover leak."

She stares at him. "You're the bastard who blew the whistle on me?"

"I'm the bastard," he says cheerfully. "Sore?"

"Sore? Why should I be sore? You just ruined my life, that's all."

"Nah," Timothy says, "it's not that bad. I doubt if the SEC will move in on you. They may want you to return your profits, but if you've got a good lawyer, you can fight that. Look, they've closed you down, haven't they? That's the important thing as far as they're concerned."

"So that's why you're here? To cheer me up?"

"Not exactly," Cone says, looking at her directly. "I wanted to talk to you about Corsini."

"Who?"

"Mario Corsini."

"Never heard of him," she says.

"Sure you have," Timothy says. "His cousin works for you. Anthony Ricci."

"My, you've been a busy little boy," she says, but her smile is glassy.

"It's all guesswork," he admits. "But I figure that Steiner Waste Control, like a lot of private carters in the city, pays off the Mob to stay in business. I think Corsini is your collector. You gave him stock tips. What I don't know is whether you did that voluntarily or if he was leaning on you."

"None of your business," she says.

"It is my business," he insists. "I think Corsini is giving you a hard time and you gave him the tips to keep him off your back."

She flops into her swivel chair, drains her drink, peers into the empty cup. "All right," she says, "but you didn't come here just to tell me the story of my life and brag how smart you are. You want something. What is it?"

"I want you to turn and blow the whistle on Corsini," he says.

"And get my ass shot off," she says with a sour grin.

"No," Cone says, shaking his head. "Corsini and his bully boys are shrewd enough to know that any rough stuff would raise a stink strong enough to convict them without a trial."

"You don't know them," Sally says. "They may be smart, but when someone

crosses them or plays them for saps, they stop thinking. Then it's just their stupid pride, machismo and hot blood. Then all they know is revenge."

"Bullshit!" Cone says. "Maybe ten years ago, but the new breed are weasels. It just takes one person like you to stand up to them."

"And if I don't?"

"You want to go on the way you've been going? Paying just to make a living? What makes you think you'd still have a business?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I told you that the SEC probably won't bring criminal charges. But what if the SEC and the Federal D.A. decide you're not being cooperative? You know what they can do if they want to? Just give the story to the newspapers and TV It'll be the talk of Wall Street for at least eight hours. Long enough for a lot of people to decide to bring civil cases against you. Maybe even class-action suits. They'll say you manipulated the stocks--and there's something to that. I'm not saying they'll collect, but your legal fees to fight those suits could bleed you dry."

"Oh-ho," Sally says. "First the carrot and now the stick."

"I'm just telling you what your situation is," Cone says. "Those civil suits could demolish you. But if you become the Joan of Arc of the garbage business, I think the cops and the Manhattan D.A. will pass the word. No one wants to sue the city's star witness who's performing a noble civic duty. Think it over."

•

After he's gone, she sits behind her desk a long time, swinging slowly back and forth in her swivel chair. What Cone sand makes a lot of sense--to him. But, smart as he is, he doesn't know everything. He has half the equation. Sally has the whole thing, all the pluses and minuses. And, at the moment, not a glimmer of how to solve it.

She rises, wanders over to the window. Truck number two has just pulled up at the shed to unload. Anthony Ricci swings down from the cab. Sally stares at him a moment, then hurries out of the office.

"Tony!" she yells, and when he looks up, she beckons. He walks toward her, smiling and wiping his face and neck with a red bandanna.

"It's a hot mother," he says as he comes up to her.

"Yeah," Sally says, "a killer. Listen, what about that dinner you were going to buy me?"

He looks at her, startled. "You wanna go? Hey, that's great! How about tomorrow night? Eight o'clock?"

"Suits me."

"The joint is Brolio's on Mulberry just below Grand Street."

"I'll be there," Sally says.

She gets down to Little Italy the following night in plenty of time but has to cruise around for a while, looking for a parking space. She finally finds an empty slot two blocks away. She walks back to Brolio's. It looks like a scuzzy joint to her, but you never know.

Tony is already there, thank God, waiting for her at a tiny two-stool bar to the left of the entrance.

"Hey!" he says, coming forward to take both hands in his. "You made it! Have any trouble finding the place?"

"Not at all," Sally says, looking around. And then, with feigned surprise: "Tony, I like it. Very pretty."

"Nothing fancy," he says, shrugging. "But the food's great, and you can't beat the prices."

Sally sees a typical, third-rate New York trattoria. Small, only nine tables, and all occupied except one. Crude murals of Vesuvius, the Colosseum, Venetian canals painted on wrinkled walls. Plastic plants in plastic pots. Checkered tablecloths. Dripping candles stuck in raffia-bound chianti bottles. Paper napkins. And hanging in the air, a miasma of garlic strong enough to scare off 100 vampires.

Tony snaps his fingers, and a waiter swathed in a filthy apron comes hustling to usher them to the empty table and remove the reserved card.

"A little wine first?" he suggests.

"Tony, you order," Sally says. "You know what's good."

"A glass of soave to start," Ricci says rapidly to the waiter. "Then the cold antipasto, lobster diavolo, linguine and maybe a salad of arugula and radicchio. With a bottle of that chianti classico I had the other night. The Monte Vertine."

"Very good," the waiter says, nodding approvingly.

Tony gives her his sizzling smile, eyes half-lidded. "This is an occasion. Dinner with the boss."

The food is unexpectedly good. Maybe a little harsh, a little too garlicky, but Sally exclaims with delight over every course, the wine, the crusty bread, the prompt and efficient service.

"You know how to live," she tells Tony.

"Everyone knows how to live," he says. "All you need is money."

"That's so true," Sally says.

She has one glass of the red wine and lets him finish the bottle. He drinks and eats enthusiastically with, she is amused to note, a corner of the paper napkin tucked into his collar and the remainder spread over his chest, hiding a tie of hellish design.

He insists on tortoni and espresso, and then amaretti with ponies of Strega. Sally takes one sip of the liqueur and then pushes the glass toward Tony.

"You finish," she says.

"Sure," he says and downs it in one gulp.

It's after ten o'clock when they rise to leave. He pays the bill with cash, Sally sees--no plastic for him--and leaves a lordly tip. They come out into a black, close night, the sky clotted with clouds and a warm, soft mist drifting.

They skip, laughing, through the mizzle until Sally tugs him to a halt alongside her silver Mazda. "Here we are," she says.

"Fantastico," he breathes and walks around the car admiring the lines.

"C'mon, get in," Sally says. "You can drive."

They slide into the bucket seats. Tony caresses the wheel with his palms, staring at the dash. "Radio, air conditioner, cassette deck," he says. "Even a compass. You got everything."

"All the comforts of home," she says lightly. "I also own a Cadillac, but this baby is more fun to drive."

"I wish----" he starts, then suddenly stops. "Maybe, someday...."

"Maybe sooner than you think," she says. "Do you mind if we sit here a few minutes? There's something I want to talk to you about."

"Sure," he says. "The night's young."

"That cousin of yours," she says. "Mario. What do you think of him?"

Ricci shrugs. "He's OK, I guess. Sometimes, he thinks he's my father. He knows what he wants."

"Yeah," Sally says with a short laugh. "He wants me."

Tony turns to peer at her in the gloom. "What are you saying?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you, Tony? That cousin of yours is trying to get me into bed. He's told me a hundred times he wants me."

"No!"

"Tony," she says, putting a hand on his thigh, "what am I going to do?"

"You told him you don't want, uh, what he wants?"

"I told him a hundred times, but he won't take no for an answer. He just keeps after me. Calls me almost every day. Sends me letters. Dirty letters--you know?"

Tony nods. "He is acting like a fool. If a woman says no to me, I say goodbye. There is always another."

"Sometimes," Sally says, deciding this is the moment, "sometimes, I wish that something would happen to him."

"What? What are you saying?"

They sit in silence then, and Sally gives him time to absorb what she has said. If he belts her, she's sunk. If he gets out of the car and stalks away, she's sunk. If he tells Mario of their conversation, she's sunk. That's a lot of sinking, and her only life preserver is Tony's ambition and greed.

"I'd pay," she says in an aching voice, and she doesn't have to fake the desperation. "I'd pay a nice buck to have it done. Cash. I'd even help plan it. Make it look like an accident."

He doesn't answer, and her hand tightens on his thigh, she moves closer.

"And maybe a good job for the guy who does it," she goes on. "An inside job. I need another executive. Someone I can trust. Someone who's done me a big favor by putting Corsini down."

She looks closely into his face and sees something new: stoniness. His eyes are as hard and shiny as wet coal.

"No," he says flatly, "I cannot do it. Anyone else, but not Mario. He is my cousin. You understand? He is family."

Sally slumps. "Then I'm dead," she says dully.

"No, you are not dead," Anthony Ricci says. "There is a way out for you."

"Yeah?" she says in a low voice. "Like what?"

"Marry me."

She looks at him. "Are you nuts?"

"Listen to me," he says, taking her hand, holding it tightly. "You marry me and Mario will never bother you again. I swear by my mother."

"And what's in it for you?"

"First, I marry a smart, beautiful older woman. It will help me stay in this country. Also, I get a good inside job, a desk, maybe a secretary."

"And a piece of the business?"

He gives her his megawatt smile. "Maybe a little piece."

"And what about the sex department?"

"What about it? Am I so ugly?"

"No," she says. "Ugly you ain't."

"So? What do you say?"

"Let me think about it," Sally says and doesn't object when he reaches for her.

•

Timothy Cone has covered his table with several thicknesses of old newspaper, and they need it; the barbecued ribs, potato chips and pickles make for a messy meal.

As they eat, he describes for the fifth and, he hopes, final time how Sally Steiner was trading stocks on inside information gleaned from the printer's trash. He tells Samantha about the Mob's control of the private carting business and how Sally was giving tips to Mario Corsini.

"For what reason, I don't know exactly," the Wall Street dick admits. "But I think he was leaning on her; that's my guess."

Then he recounts how he went up to see Steiner and did a little leaning of his own, trying to turn her so she'd go to the blues, putting the kibosh on extortion.

By the time he has finished his narrative, they've demolished ribs, chips and pickles. Sam has provided chocolate éclairs for dessert, but they put those in the fridge and settle down with their beers, feet parked up on the littered table.

"My, oh, my," Sam says. "You really have been a busybody, haven't you? But you know what burns my ass?"

"A flame this high?" he asks, holding his hand a yard off the floor.

"Shithead," she says. "When you found the insider leak for Pistol & Burns, your job was finished. Keerect? That's what they hired Haldering for, and you delivered. It should have ended right there. But no, you had to push it and get involved with the Mafia, shaking down garbage collectors and trying to get this Sally Steiner to blow the whistle. Why did you do that, Tim?"

He looks at her. "I don't know," he says. "It just seemed the right thing to do."

"Bullshit!" Sam says. "You know what I think your problem is? I think you see yourself as a nemesis. Death to all evildoers! Get me an éclair, you Masked Avenger."

"Up yours," he says.

They sip their beers, nibble the chocolate éclairs and agree that it's a loathsome combination--but tasty. Their conversation is desultory, with Cone doing most of the talking and Sam replying with monosyllables or grunts.

"Hey," he says finally, "what's with you? Got the fantods or something?"

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"That Sally Steiner. I feel sorry for her."

He snorts.

"What's that supposed to be?" Sam says. "A laugh?"

"If it is, it's on me. I went up to see that put-together lady to find out if she was ready to talk to the cops."

"And?"

"She told me to get lost. She's marrying Tony Ricci, Corsini's cousin."

"You're kidding."

He holds up a palm. "Scout's honor. She snookered me. I thought I had her in a bind, but she wiggled out of it. By marrying Ricci, she gets to keep the business. And she gets Corsini off her back."

An hour later, they're lolling naked on the floor mattress. Popped cans of beer have been placed within easy reach, and the cat, protesting mightily, has been locked in the bathroom.

Samantha, sitting up, begins unpinning her magnificent hair. Timothy watches with pleasure the play of light and shadow on her raised arms, stalwart shoulders, the hard breasts. Suddenly, she stops and stares at him.

"Listen," she says, "you make it sound like Sally Steiner is marrying that Tony Ricci just so she can keep the business. Did it ever occur to you that she might love the guy?"

Cone shrugs. "Could be. There are all kinds of love."

"Yeah," Sam says, reaching for him. "Here's mine."

"'Pitzak retired,' Mario says. 'Where to?' Sally Steiner asks suspiciously. 'Forest Lawn?'"