“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.”
They stop at an umbrella stand for a final giant chocolate chip cookie. They munch on those, holding paper napkins under their chins as they walk.
“Sally Steiner,” Bigelow repeats. “What are we going to do about her?”
“What can you do?” Cone asks. “Let’s face it: Your chances of making a legit charge against her for inside trading are zilch. She’s a shrewd lady, and I’m betting she’ll fight you every inch of the way. Maybe you can force her to cough up her profits-but I doubt it. Meanwhile the SEC will be getting a lot of lousy publicity. Everyone will be on Steiner’s side and getting a big laugh out of how clever she was to beat the stock market.”
“Yeah, you’re right. If this was a megamillion deal, I’d push for a formal inquiry by the Commission. But how much could she have made? Half a million?”
“Probably less than that,” Cone says, not mentioning how much Corsini and his pals might have cleared. “But the important thing is that you’re closing her down. The moment you brace Bechtold, you know he’s going to get rid of Steiner. She’ll be losing a good customer and getting cut off from her source of inside scoop.”
“It makes sense,” Jeremy says, nodding. “I’ll just keep the whole thing on the investigative level and file a report saying the leak’s been plugged.”
“And take all the credit,” Cone advises. “I don’t want any glory. My job was with Pistol and Burns, and they’re happy. The rest belongs to you.”
“Thanks, Tim,” Bigelow says gratefully. “Listen, you don’t mind if I split, do you? I want to get uptown and start the ball rolling.”
“Go ahead,” the Wall Street dick says. “Tell the printer it was all Sally Steiner’s fault.”
He watches the SEC man hurry away, tossing the remnants of his cookie into a litter basket. Cone finishes his, then turns and meanders uptown to Haldering amp; Co.
He’s satisfied that he’s put the first part of his plot into place. If he can stage-manage the second part, his scheme will have a chance. Except, he admits, everything depends on the reaction of Sally Steiner. All Cone can do is put the pressure on and hope she’ll cave. She might not, but he’s got to try it. It’s his civic duty, he tells himself virtuously. And besides, the whole thing is a hoot.
Back in his office, he calls Joe D’Amato. Sorry, he’s told, the sergeant is out and can’t be reached. Cone leaves a message and begins to get skittery. A lot depends on timing, and if he can’t get hold of D’Amato and persuade him to play along, the whole scam will collapse.
He chain-smokes two cigarettes and makes a half-assed attempt to compose his long-delayed progress reports. They should be submitted weekly to Samantha Whatley, but at the rate he’s going, they’ve become monthly progress reports.
His phone doesn’t ring until after four o’clock. By that time his throat is raw from smoking, and his “Yeah?” comes out like a croak.
“Joe D’Amato,” the sergeant says. “Something wrong with your voice?”
“Too many coffin nails. Thanks for calling back. I need a favor.”
“Yeah? And what might that be?”
“You got a phone number for Mario Corsini? I’d like to call him.”
“What for? Wanna have lunch with him?”
“Nah, nothing like that.” Then Cone explains what he has in mind. “It’s risky,” he acknowledges, “but I think it’s got a chance, don’t you?”
“Damned little,” D’Amato says. “You’re playing with fire, you know that?”
“Sure, but what have I got to lose? I figure if I go ahead with it, she’ll think seriously about turning.”
“Umm. Maybe.”
“You want to make the call to Corsini yourself?”
“Hell, no. Self-preservation are the first, second, and third laws in this business, and I’ve got to cover my ass. I’m even going to erase the tape of this call.”
“Does that mean you’re going to give me Corsini’s phone number?”
“I haven’t got it. But I’ve got the number of a social club in Ozone Park where he hangs. Maybe they’ll get a message to him to call you back. That’s the best I can do.”
“Good enough,” Cone says. “Let’s have it.”
That evening, on the way home, he stops to buy some baked ham hocks, which he and Cleo dearly love, and a container of potato salad. But back in the loft, he postpones laying out the evening’s feast until he calls that Ozone Park social club.
A man answers. “Yeah?” he says in a voice that sounds like someone has kicked his Adam’s apple.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Mario Corsini,” Cone says politely.
“Who?”
“Mario Corsini.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Sure you have,” Cone says.
“I’m telling you, mister, there’s no one here by that name, and I never heard the name before.”
“Well, look, if a man named Mario Corsini happens to stop by, will you ask him to call this number. It’s really very important. Tell him it’s about Sally Steiner. Got that? Sally Steiner.”
He gives his phone number, repeating it twice, and hangs up. Then he and Cleo go to work on the ham hocks and potato salad. Cleo takes a hunk of gristle under the bathtub for a late-night snack, and Cone mixes himself a vodka and water to cut the grease.
He doesn’t read, listen to the radio, or watch TV. He just slouches at his desk, feet up, planning what he’s going to say if Corsini calls.
The phone rings a little after eight o’clock, and he moves quickly to the kitchenette.
“Hello, asshole,” Samantha Whatley says. “What’re you doing?”
“Will you get off the line,” he says. “I’m expecting an important call.”
Silence. Then: “And what’s this-chopped liver? Fuck you, buster!”
“Listen,” he says desperately, “I’ll call you when-”
But she hangs up, and he goes grumbling back to the vodka bottle. “Who needs her?” he shouts at a startled Cleo, then answers his own question. “I do,” he says.
It’s almost 9:30 when the phone rings again, and by that time Cone is feeling no pain and is ready to take on the entire Cosa Nostra and its Ladies’ Auxiliary.
“Who’s this?” a voice shouts.
“Am I speaking to Mr. Mario Corsini?”
“You tell me who you are or I hang up.”
“Mr. Corsini, my name is Smedley 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 and Diggs, Incorporated. 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. And you said this call was about Sally Steiner. I never heard of the broad.”
“You haven’t? That’s odd since your cousin, Anthony Ricci, works for Steiner Waste Control. Come on, Mr. Corsini, let’s stop playing games. Our investigation shows you and your friends made your stock purchases on the basis of inside tips from Sally Steiner. Do you know how she got her information, Mr. Corsini?”
So, for the fourth time, Cone relates the tale of how trash from Bechtold Printing was delivered to Sally’s Smithtown home, and how she rummaged through the garbage to find confidential financial documents.