"Claire looked like she had won the lottery: dressed to kill, her fingers covered with rocks. The real stuff, too. She told me this older guy was sponsoring her. 'Sponsoring.' I never heard it called that, did you?"
"Never did," Rathbone said, smiling.
"Anyway, her guy owns two restaurants in the Orlando area, so I guess he's got mucho dinero. They drove down to scout a location in Lauderdale for a new restaurant. She says he put her on the payroll of his company as a secretary; the corporation pays her salary. So the money he gives her doesn't come out of his pocket, it just reduces his corporate income tax. David, could you do that? Make me a secretary in your company? That way you wouldn't have to give me your own money. It would just be a business expense."
"Well, that's one way of looking at it," Rathbone said. "But by paying her a salary, he's also reducing
his corporation's after-tax income. So one way or another, she's costing him."
"So you don't want to hire me as your private secretary?"
"Afraid not," he said, laughing. "But I'm willing to sponsor you."
They put their drinks aside. He took off his robe and they slid into bed. The thunder was closer, then overhead, then dwindling away. But it was raining heavily, streaming down the windows. The room was filled with a faint ocher light, dim and secret.
She let him do all the things that she knew pleasured him. She lay almost indolent, staring at the fogged windows, until her body roused. Then she closed her eyes, listened to the rain and the sounds he was making. Finally she heard nothing but the thump of her own heart, and cried out. But he would not stop, or could not, and she suffered him gladly.
At last he emerged panting from under the sheet, his hair tousled, a wild, frightened look in his eyes.
"Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.
She smiled, took his face in her hands, kissed his smeared lips.
"Let's do it again, lover," she said.
He managed a small smile, then got out of bed and stalked naked about the darkened room, hands on his hips.
"I thought I might die," he said.
"Die? From what?"
^It was too much. I couldn't stop."
"No one dies from too much love."
"I was afraid I was hurting you."
"You didn't. I'm a tough girl."
"I know. Do you need anything?" "Like what?"
"Kleenex? A washcloth?"
"Nope. I like the way I feel. Now, stop pacing and come over here."
He stood alongside the bed. She leaned to him.
"Now it's my turn," she said.
Within minutes he was shuddering and sobbing. She was tender-cruel and would not let him move away until he surrendered, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then he collapsed facedown across the bed.
"I died and I was born again," he said. "And then I died and was born again."
"That's the way to do it," she said. "Don't ever stop halfway."
He reached under the sheet, grasped her left foot, pulled it to his lips, kissed the instep. Then he looked up at her. "Don't ever leave me, Rita."
"Why should I do that? It's hard to find a sponsor like you." She saw the focus in his eyes change. "Why are you looking at me like that? A penny for your thoughts."
"They're worth more than that. I just had a great idea. I don't want to put you on my payroll, but I know how you can make a steady salary."
"Pushing your queer checks?"
"No, that seam's on hold. But the Palace gang and I are starting a new business, and we'll need a secretary."
"Yeah? What kind of business?"
"It's an investment company. Ellen St. Martin is looking for office space for us. We'll need someone to answer the phone and type a few letters. You can type, can't you?"
"Oh sure. Hunt and peck." "Good enough. How about it? Would you like an office job?"
"Does it mean I'll have to sit behind a desk eight hours a day?"
"Nah. We'll get you an answering machine, so you can come and go as you please."
"Sounds good," she said.
"To me, too. Because your salary won't be coming out of my pocket; just one-fifth of it."
"You think the other guys will go for it? Hiring me, I mean."
"Sure they will. We'll have an office and a secretary; everything on the up-and-up."
"What's this new business called?"
"The Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. Like it?"
"Love it," she said.
24
Simon Clark still resented what he considered a demotion to Florida. In the Chicago office of the U.S. Attorney he had been an executive, a man of substance. He rarely had been personally involved in outside inquiries. He sat at a desk, collected and assimilated reports from detectives, analyzed evidence, prepared briefs, obtained arrest warrants, and finally represented the DA's office in court.
Now he was being called upon to assume the role of what he had scathingly called a "gumshoe." But to his surprise, he found he was enjoying it. The investigation of Mortimer Sparco's discount brokerage required the talents of an actor, and nothing in Clark's education or experience had prepared him for the job. But his ego was not small, and he grudgingly accepted the fact that to nail Sparco, he had to prove himself the more accomplished liar.
There was no difficulty in obtaining sting money from Lester Crockett's office. The $10,000 was deposited in a local bank suggested by Crockett. It took less than a week to obtain a book of blank checks imprinted with Clark's name.
Meanwhile, he had another meeting with Sparco, and on his recommendation bought two different dollar stocks, neither of which was listed on any exchange.
One company, according to the broker, had developed an electronic booster for solar cells, and the other, Sparco claimed, was about to market a revolutionary remedy for baldness. The purchase of the two stocks almost depleted Clark's bank account.
Then Sparco called his hotel and asked him to drop by to hear "some really sensational news." When Clark arrived, the broker took him into his private office and announced he had sold out both stock positions, and Clark had a profit of slightly more than $3,000.
"Why, that's wonderful!" the investigator said. "You're certainly doing a bang-up job. I had no idea I could make so much money so quickly. I hope you have more suggestions as good."
Sparco looked about cautiously, then lowered his voice. "I have a special deal I'm restricting to a select list of clients. Even my account executives don't know about it. Look, there's a restaurant across the street called the Grand Palace. It has a bar in the back that should be deserted this time of day. Why don't we go over there for a drink and a private talk. This investment opportunity is so hot I don't even want to mention it in the office. The walls have ears, you know."
Sparco told the receptionist he'd be right back, and then they dodged through traffic on Commercial Boulevard and entered the Palace Lounge through the side door. They were the only customers, and Ernie brought their drinks to a rear table tucked into a shadowed corner.
"Do you know anything about commodities?" Sparco asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
"Commodities?" Clark said. "You mean like corn, wheat, soybeans?"
"Exactly. Well, about a week ago, a new, SEC-approved investment vehicle was organized on Wall Street. It's callea the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. I heard about it through a close friend. The man running the Fund is a genius in commodity trading. A geniusl He's made a lot of people multimillionaires, and now he's decided to do the same thing for himself. He's keeping a controlling interest, of course, but through my friend I was able to tie up a limited number of shares. Not as many as I wanted because when this fund is announced publicly, the share value will double overnight. At least! It's your chance to get in on the ground floor."
It was an impressive spiel and, Simon Clark reflected, shattered at least three regulations governing the sale of securities.