“Listen, you cocksucker,” she says stonily, “you and your lousy front aren’t coming anywhere near this place. The business belongs to my family, and that’s where it’s going to stay. I’m not signing any papers. Stick them up your ass and smoke them, you crap-faced motherfucker.”
The hand holding the cigar 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 and doesn’t care.
“Oh, you’ll sell,” he says in an unexpectedly soft voice. “Maybe you got the balls to fight me, but does your crippled mother or faggot brother? I’d start with them. I’d leave you for last, because before I was through, you’d be down on your knees, begging to sell.”
“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. Really put you over the hurdles.” Then he starts describing exactly what he wants to 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.”
Eight
It’s still Friday, and Sally Steiner wonders if this frigging day will ever end. If just one more schmuck starts swearing at her and calling her names, she’s going to take out her pistol and Bam! — right in his family jewels.
Judy Bering goes out for lunch, and Sally calls over to the Stardust Diner for a tunafish on wheat and an iced tea. But when the sandwich arrives, it tastes like wallpaper paste, and after one bite she dumps the whole thing in her wastebasket. The tea is cold and wet, but that’s about all.
Her stomach is still bubbling after that go-around with Mario Corsini. She rummages through her father’s desk, still in the office, and finds his bottle of schnapps in the bottom drawer. It hasn’t been touched since Jake died. She pours a dollop into her iced tea, but the mixture is so awful that she can’t swallow more than a sip.
So she gets a plastic cup from the stack alongside the coffee percolator in the outer office and fills it with ice cubes fished out of her tea. Then she pours in the schnapps, a pear brandy strong enough to take the kink out of her hair. After the first swallow, which almost makes her gag, it begins to slide down a lot easier, killing off those butterflies in her gut.
She’s pouring another 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: another brouhaha with an airhead.
“I’ll take one of those,” he says, jerking his chin at the schnapps bottle. His smile is quirky, but Sally decides he’s not going to be a problem.
“Who the hell are you?” she demands, putting the bottle away.
“Sally Steiner?”
“That’s right. And if you’re selling, I’m not buying. So take a walk.”
“I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“About what?”
“About Paul Ramsey.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she says, “are you from the SEC?”
“Nah,” the gink says. “Do I dress like a guy from the SEC? My name is Timothy Cone, 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 was Pistol and Burns. Wee Tot Fashions-remember that stock? And I was also in on the Trimbley and Diggs takeover leak.”
She stares at him. “You’re the bastard who blew the whistle on me?”
“I’m the bastard,” he says cheerfully.
She sighs. “You make my day complete. All right,” she says, taking out the bottle of pear brandy again, “get yourself a cup out there and we’ll drink to my destruction.”
“It’s not that bad,” he says. “Just listen to me for a minute.”
He comes back with a plastic cup, sits in the armchair alongside her desk, and takes off his cap.
“How did you do it?” she asks, pouring him a stiff wallop of schnapps.
“Find out you were going through Bechtold’s trash? I followed your trucks.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”
“No, that’s how I did it. You were on the computer printouts of trading in Wee Tot Fashions. Then, on the records of Trimbley and Diggs, there was Paul Ramsey. I went up to see him, but came away when I found out he was living with your brother. So that led me back to you.”
“How did you find out Eddie was my brother?”
“I called and told him he was a beneficiary on an insurance policy you had bought, and asked him what the relationship was. He told me you were his sister. Pardon me for saying it, but he’s not too swift in the street-smarts department.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. For instance, tell me how many days you followed my trucks.”
“Four.”
“You were lucky.”
“I know. I tailed the van with Bechtold’s scrap out to your garage in Smithtown. After that it was a breeze.”
Sally takes a deep swallow of her drink. Now it’s going down as smooth as silk. “You’re a real buttinsky, aren’t you?” she says.
“That’s right,” he agrees, and his smile is unexpectedly charming. “That’s what they pay me for. So I got Pistol and Burns to dump Bechtold, and I turned you in to the SEC. Sore?”
“Sore? Why should I be sore? You just ruined my life, that’s all.”
“Nah,” Timothy says, leaning forward to pour himself another shot, “it’s not that bad. Nothing is going to happen to Paul Ramsey. I just mentioned his name so you’d talk to me. And 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.”
She stands suddenly, begins to pace back and forth behind her desk, arms crossed, holding her elbows. “You really are a meddler, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. So which was it? You gave him the tips out of the kindness of your heart or because he came on heavy?”
“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 turns on him suddenly. “All right!” she cries. “I gave him the tips. What difference does it make why I did it? It’s all over now, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not all over,” Cone continues doggedly. “By this time he and his pals have heard from the SEC, and Corsini knows where your tips were coming from. And he knows the SEC has closed you down. No more inside stock tips. So if he was squeezing you before, he’ll squeeze you all the harder now. If he hasn’t already.”