"How long will you be gone?" she asked.
"Three days. I'll fly back from Madrid."
"Can I go?"
He smiled and handed her the tumbler of iced tea. "Not this time. Maybe next trip. I go four or five times a year. Clients need stroking."
"What airport are you leaving from?"
"Miami. Will you drive me down?"
"Of course."
She put the tumbler aside and lay prone again.
"More oil?" he asked.
"Please," she said. "My legs."
He loved it, and she knew it: smoothing the oil onto her hard, muscled thighs, onto the dark satin behind her knees, her smooth calves.
"Will you be faithful while I'm gone?" he said in a low voice.
"Uh-huh."
"I know you will be. Or I'll find out about it. My spies are everywhere. I thought we'd drive up to Boca tonight for dinner. Then meet some people at the Palace for a few laughs."
"Sounds good."
"Happy?" he asked her.
"If I was any happier I'd be unconscious."
He laughed, slapped her oiled rump lightly, and left to pick up his tickets.
That night, at a Spanish restaurant in Boca Raton, they had a pan of paella in the classic version, made with chicken, rabbit, and snails. And they shared a bottle of flinty muscadet. Then they drove back to Fort Lauderdale singing "I Can't Give You Anything But Love." They both had good voices.
The Lounge at the Grand Palace was bouncing: tables filled, the bar two-deep, and waitresses hustling drinks. David's friends were already at the big table, and Rita Sullivan was introduced around. No chair was available for her, but Frank Little offered his lap, and she accepted with great aplomb.
Rathbone excused himself and went over to the bar. He waited patiently and was finally able to grab Ernie's arm.
"That man I was talking to the other night," he said. "The one dressed in black. If he comes in, tell him I'll meet him here Tuesday night. Got it?"
"Got it, Mr. Rathbone," the bartender said. "Tuesday night."
Rathbone slipped him a fin and went back to the gang. After he took his chair at the head of the table, Rita came and sat on his lap. She was drinking vodka gimlets now: the way David liked them, with a lime wedge and just a drop or two of Triple Sec.
After a while Ellen St. Martin waved goodnight and departed. Rita took her chair, sitting between Frank Little and Mortimer Sparco. She asked how long they had all known each other.
"Too long," Sparco said, laughing. "Years and years."
"We're a troop," Little proclaimed, "and David is our scoutmaster. Watch out for him, sweetie; he has merit badges for loving and leaving."
She listened to the idle chatter at the table for a while, then excused herself to go to the ladies' room. She made her phone call from there.
She returned to the big table, finished her gimlet, ordered another. She listened to the bright talk, marveling at how nonchalantly these people spoke of their swindles: of mooches taken, the naive conned, the gullible defrauded and plucked clean. David and his friends dressed nicely, drove Jaguars, and rarely used profanity. But they were a bestiary of thugs.
The gathering broke up shortly after midnight. Rita and David drove back to his town house, laughing at the new business card Frank Little had distributed. It read: "FL Sports Equipment, Inc. Baseball, Football,
Basketball, Soccer, Softball, Volleyball." And at the bottom: "We have the balls for it."
Rathbone took a chilled bottle of Asti Spumante and two flutes from the fridge.
"Oh my," she said, "are you trying to get us drunk?"
"No," he said. "Just keep the glow."
They went up to the terrace. The moon was not full, but it was fat enough. A few shreds of clouds. A balmy easterly wind. Scent of salt sea and bloomy things.
"Be back in a minute," David said. "Don't go away.''
He returned with a portable recorder, inserted a cassette, switched it on.
"I swiped this off a radio station that plays Golden Oldies," he told her. "I was born too late. I should have been around in the 1920s and '30s. Cole Porter. Fred Astaire. Gershwin."
They drank a little wine. They danced to "You're the Top." They drank a little wine. They danced to "I Get a Kick Out of You." They drank a little wine. They danced to "Let's Fall in Love." They drank a little wine. They danced to "Anything Goes," and stopped.
They went to his bedroom. The sheets were silk, and he couldn't get enough of her.
7
Anthony Harker was living on the second floor of a motel on A1A in Pompano Beach. It was on the west side of the highway, but his suite was in the rear so most of the traffic noise was muted.
Rita Sullivan showed up a little after nine p.m. She was wearing a pink linen jumpsuit, her long hair tied back with a dime-store bandanna. There was a chunky silver bracelet on her right wrist.
4'I hope you didn't drive his Bentley," Harker said. "Someone might spot it parked outside."
"No," she said. "He bought me a Chevy Corsica. White."
"Oh?" Tony said, looking at her. "Generous scut, isn't he?"
"Yes," she said, "he is. I hope his flight to London got off okay. If not, and he calls home and I'm not there, I'm in deep shit."
"He took off," Harker said, "but he's not flying to England. I had a CIA tracker standing by at the airport. But Rathbone went to Nassau in the Bahamas. And from there he's going to the Cayman Islands, then on to Limon in Costa Rica, and returning home from there. We checked his ticket after he left, but it was too late to set up a tail."
Rita sighed and looked around. "Got anything to drink in this dump?" she asked.
"Some cold Bud."
"That'll do me fine. How're the allergy and nervous stomach?"
"I'm surviving. Mind drinking out of the can?"
"That's fine," she said. "Pop it for me, will you? The government can't afford better digs for you than this shithouse?"
"It suits me," he said. "I'm only on loan for a year. Then back to New York. I can stand it for a year."
"If you say so. Got a tape recorder?"
"Sure."
"Let me put my report on tape. Then we can talk."
Twenty minutes later she finished dictating the names and descriptions of Rathbone's friends, plus what little she had learned of their activities.
Harker switched off the recorder. "Nice job," he said. "Let's take them one by one. First, have you any glimmer of what Rathbone is up to?"
"Nope. He keeps his office double-locked. He claimed he had to go stroke clients in England, France, Germany, and Spain."
"Uh-huh. But he's heading for places where it's easy to hide money if you pay off the right people. Well, I'll start a search in Nassau, the Caymans, and Costa Rica, but he's probably using a fake name and phony IDs. What about this Ellen St. Martin?"
"Apparently a legit real estate lady," Rita said, "with a small-time scam going on the side. She owns a house-sitting outfit for rich clients who go north from May to November. She gets paid to inspect their homes or condos weekly and make sure the air conditioning is working and the place hasn't been trashed. What the
owners don't know is that she's also renting out their homes to tourists. In fact, some of the places are probably hot-pillow joints. But she makes a nice buck."
"Beautiful. And Frank Little?"
"Here's his business card. Notice the last line."
Tony read aloud: " 4We have the balls for it.' It doesn't double me over with laughter. You think he's legit?"
"And playing around with that crowd? I doubt it."
"All right," Harker said, "I'll have him checked out. Sparco?"
"A discount broker on Commercial. I think he deals in penny stocks. He also handles Rathbone's Wall Street investments."
"Then he'll be registered with the SEC, and I can get a look at his books. Sidney Coe?"