"The only problem," Sparco went on, "is that because of the limited number of shares I was able to get at the initial offering price, I had to set $50,000 as a minimum investment. I have one package left. Do you think you can swing it?"
"Gee, I don't know," Clark said. "I really don't have that much ready cash."
"Uh-huh," Sparco said, glancing at his watch. "Didn't you tell me your parents live down here?"
"That's right. They have a home in Plantation."
"Think your father would be willing to loan you the money? Just for a short time until you take your profits."
"To tell you the truth, I don't think he has that much cash available. Everything he owns is tied up in his home and long-term government bonds."
"He could get a home-equity loan," Sparco said, looking at his watch again. "The bank doesn't have to know what it's really for. He can tell them home improvements, and they'll accept that."
"I can ask him," Clark said. "You're positive this is a sure thing?"
"Can't miss," Sparco said. "I've been in business fifteen years, and this is the hottest-"
The side door of the Lounge banged open, and a short, stout man came bustling in. He paused until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Then he looked around, spotted the two men at the rear table, and rushed over.
"Mort," he said, "you've got to get me another 50K of that commodity fund. I just heard that the price of shares in the secondary market is already up thirty percent and-"
Sparco rose and put a finger to his lips. "Shhh, Jimmy," he said. "Not so loud. Mr. Clark, this is James Bartlett, a valued client. Jimmy, this gentleman is Simon Clark. We were just discussing the Fund."
"Grab it," Bartlett said to Clark, shaking his hand. "And if you don't want it, I do. Mort, you've got to get me more."
"I'll do my best," Sparco said. "Call me in the morning and I'll let you know."
"I'm depending on you!" Bartlett cried. "Nice to have met you, Mr. Clark." And he scurried out.
Sparco smiled. "Jimmy's a banking consultant and knows a good deal when he sees one. How about it, Mr. Clark? Think you can get your father to take out a home-equity loan? It's the last package of Fund shares I have available, and I'd hate to see you miss out on a dynamite opportunity like this."
Clark considered a moment. "I'll convince my father," he said finally. "Can I call you later today?"
"Anytime before five o'clock. If you haven't called by then, I'll have to give it to someone else. Bartlett isn't the only client begging for more."
They left the Palace Lounge, shook hands, and separated. Sparco returned to his brokerage. When he walked into his office, James Bartlett was seated on the leather couch smoking a fat cigar.
While the two men had a drink from Sparco's office bottle of Chivas, Simon Clark sat in his rented Cutlass, pausing a moment before he drove to headquarters to request additional sting money.
He found it hard to believe the crudeness of south Florida swindlers. Sparco's claiming a profit on Clark's first two investments was an ancient technique used by con men of all stripes, from pool hustlers to bait-and-switch retailers: Let the mark win, or think he's winning. Then, when he plunges heavily, overcome by greed, cut his balls off.
Even more primitive was Sparco's use of a shill. That Jimmy Bartlett was no more a legitimate investor than Clark himself. The two slickers had staged the scene in the bar, confident it would convince the pigeon that he had to invest in a get-rich-quick deal and do it now.
Compared to the sharks on Wall Street and in Chicago's commodity pits, these south Florida chiselers were pilot fish. And yet, for all their dated tricks, they seemed to be thriving. Probably, Clark decided, because they were preying on an ever-growing population of financially unsophisticated retirees trying desperately to augment their Social Security and pension incomes during a time of horrendous inflation.
But if mutts like Sparco and Bartlett could flourish, Clark thought, what might an operator do who knew all the latest methods of duping money-hungry suckers?
There was a fortune to be made, and if you knew the law, as Clark did, the risk was negligible.
It was, he decided, a prospect he'd have to consider seriously. The climate of south Florida was super, and there were more than oranges to be plucked.
25
"What exactly is the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund?" Lester T. Crockett asked. "Do you know?"
"Negative, sir," Harker said.
They were standing in Tony's office, looking down at the chart spread across his desk. It was an organization diagram with a box at the top labeled David Rathbone. Straight lines led to four smaller boxes: Mortimer Sparco, Sidney Coe, James Bartlett, Frank Little. The boxes also contained the names of the assigned investigators: Rita Sullivan, Simon Clark, Manuel Suarez, Henry Ullman, Roger Fortescue.
Within each box was written the subject's ostensible occupation and his relationship with any of the other suspects.
"Here's what we've got so far," Harker reported. "Rathbone tells Sullivan that lie and the guys from the Palace are organizing a new business, the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. They've rented a small office on Federal Highway. Sullivan goes to work there tomorrow as a secretary, the Fund paying her salary.
"Suarez says Coe is pushing shares of the Fund in his boiler room, and Clark says Sparco is doing the same thing in his brokerage. Clark also confirms that Bartlett is in on it. The only one whose connection remains iffy is Frank Little, but I'm betting he's a partner, too.
"And that's about all I've got so far, sir. It's possible, of course, that the Fund is an out-and-out swindle, it really doesn't exist, and they're selling shares in soap bubbles."
"But you don't believe that?" Crockett asked.
"No, sir. If the whole thing is just one big goldbrick, why go to the bother of renting an office and hiring a secretary?"
"Just as a front?"
"Maybe," Harker said, "but I think there's more to it than that. They're having letterheads and business cards printed up, like this is a company that's going to be in business for a while."
"Registered?"
"Not with the SEC, the Chicago Board of Trade, the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, or the State of Florida. They may have offshore registration, but I've been unable to find any evidence of it. I'm hoping Sullivan will be able to tell us more about the nature of the Fund after she's been working in their office awhile."
Crockett thrust his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, stared down at the chart. "Of course," he said, "we could pick up the entire mob right now, on charges of security fraud, mail fraud, and conspiracy. And maybe throw the RICO book at them for good measure."
Harker stared at him. "You don't really want to do that, do you, sir?"
"No," Crockett said, "because the moment we put the cuffs on Rathbone, he'll clam up about the source of that self-destructing check. Have you learned anything more about it?"
"According to Sullivan, Rathbone said that seam's on hold."
"Do you believe that?"
"No-but no more of those queer checks have been reported."
"Ullman is still working on the bank officer?"
"Yes, sir. He's become very buddy-buddy with Mike Mulligan. So I'm expecting a break there."
"Soon, I hope," Crockett said. "The Washington brass keep pushing me. All I can do is keep pushing you. And all you can do is keep pushing Ullman."
"I intend to," Tony said.
"Good. Anything else?"
"Yes, sir. Have you come to any decision about bugging Rathbone's town house?"
"No," Crockett said, "not yet. I'll let you know." And he tramped out of Harker's office.
Tony sat down behind his desk, bent over the chart. He felt aswirl in swindles, and not all of them by the crooks: The good guys, in the course of their investigations, were pulling their share of cons, too. Harker was troubled by it, couldn't convince himself of the need to "fight fire with fire." His distress went deeper than that.