He looks at her. “I don’t know,” he says. “It just seemed the thing to do.”
“Bullshit!” Sam says. “You know what I think your problem is? I think you see yourself as nemesis. Death to all evildoers!”
“Nah, not me. I just saw a chance for the good guys to make a score, so I played out my hand. Listen, the cops helped me plenty. If I can fiddle a good bust for them, then they’re happy and willing to keep cooperating. I wasn’t acting out of anything but pure selfishness.”
“Uh-huh,” Samantha says. “Get me an eclair, you Masked Avenger.”
“Up yours,” he says.
They sip their beers, nibble their chocolate eclairs, and agree it’s a loathsome combination-but tasty. Their conversation becomes desultory, with Cone doing most of the talking, and Sam replying with monosyllables or grunts.
“Hey,” he says finally, “what’s with you? Got the fantods or something?”
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“That Sally Steiner. I feel sorry for her.”
He snorts.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Sam asks. “A laugh?”
“If it is, it’s on me. I went up to see that put-together lady to find out if she was ready to talk to the cops.”
“And?”
“She told me to get lost. She’s marrying Tony Ricci, Corsini’s cousin.”
“You’re kidding.”
He holds up a palm. “Scout’s honor. She snookered me. I thought I had her in a bind, but she wiggled out of it. By marrying Ricci she gets to keep the business. And she gets Corsini off her back. Maybe she’ll have to give her husband a piece of the action, but I’ll bet that garbage dump is going to stay in the Steiner family for another generation. She’s a real survivor.”
“Is she pretty?” Sam asks.
“She’s okay.”
An hour later, they’re lolling naked on the floor mattress. Popped cans of beer have been placed within easy reach, and Cleo, protesting mightily, has been locked in the loo.
Samantha, sitting up, begins unpinning her magnificent hair. Timothy watches with pleasure the play of light and shadow on her raised arms, stalwart shoulders, the small, hard breasts. Suddenly she stops and stares at him.
“Listen,” she says, “you made it sound like Sally Steiner is marrying that Tony Ricci just so she can keep the business in the family. Did it ever occur to you that she might love the guy?”
Cone shrugs. “Could be. There are all kinds of love.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, reaching for him. “Here’s mine.”
BOOK II
One
John J. Dempster, Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of Dempster-Torrey, Inc., comes charging out of his office bathroom, a dynamo in overdrive. Gray brush-cut hair is wet from a shower; he scrubs his scalp furiously with a towel. He’s wearing only boxer shorts imprinted with monetary insignia: dollar, pound, deutsche mark, yen.
Mrs. Esther Giesecke, his executive secretary, follows him to the dressing room, picking up his damp towel. She stands in the doorway as he dresses swiftly.
“All right,” he says, “what have we got?”
“Tommy called from LaGuardia. The Lear is fueled and ready to go. He wants to know when you’ll be leaving.”
“The idiot!” Dempster snaps. “We’ll be leaving when I get there. What else?”
“Hiram Haldering called to confirm your appointment on Monday afternoon at three.”
Another woman appears at the secretary’s side. She is Eve Bookerman, Chief Operating Officer of Dempster-Torrey.
“You sure you want to go to Haldering’s office, J.J.?” she asks. “Why not have him come over here?”
“No,” he says brusquely. “I want to get a look at his operation. Twiggs at Pistol and Burns says it’s a raggedy-assed outfit, but apparently they get results. Eve, I’ll want you to come with me. And Ted Brodsky, too. Tell him about it. Anything else?”
“Your case is packed,” his secretary tells him. “The takeover papers are in there, with a photocopy of your letter of intent. And a preliminary draft of your speech to the Chicago analysts.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she tells him.
“Eve, you got anything?”
“Time magazine wants to do a profile. They’ll assign someone to follow you around for a day. Twenty-four hours in the life of a magnate-that kind of thing.”
“A cover?” he asks sharply.
“They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
“Tell them no cover, no story. Did you send flowers to Ed Schanke’s funeral?”
“I took care of it, J.J.”
“Good. That union should be easier to deal with now. He was a sonofabitch. Well, I guess that’s it. If I think of anything else, I’ll call from the car or plane. You know where to phone me in Chicago and St. Louis. I’ll be back in town Sunday night, so you can reach me at home then if anything comes up.”
He inspects himself in a full-length mirror. He’s wearing a black suit of raw silk, white shirt, regimental striped tie. His black kilties are polished to a high gloss. His only jewelry is a gold wedding band.
“Okay, Esther,” he commands, “check me out.”
“Wallet?” she says. “Keys? Handkerchief? Sunglasses? Reading glasses? Credit cards? Pen? Cigarettes? Lighter? Pillbox?”
As she enumerates all these items, he taps trouser and jacket pockets. “Got everything,” he reports. “Esther, take my case out to Tim. I’ll be along in a minute.”
They move into his outer office, a baronial chamber paneled with bleached pine. It is dominated by an enormous desk-table: a solid slab of polished teak supported on chrome sawhorses.
Mrs. Giesecke carries his attache case into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Dempster puts his back against it and beckons. Eve Bookerman comes into his arms: a long, fervid embrace, lips mashed, tongues seeking.
She pulls away, gasping. “You’ll call me tonight, Jack?” she asks.
“Don’t I always? That ear of yours still giving you trouble?”
“It’s better. The drops are helping.”
“Good. I better get moving.”
“Jack, you be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” he says. “See you on Monday.”
Tim, his bodyguard, is waiting at the executive elevator. The two men ride down forty-two floors to Wall Street.
“Nice day, Mr. Dempster,” Tim says cheerily. “Good flying weather.”
“Too bloody hot. But we’ll be going from one air-conditioned cocoon to another.”
A gray Lincoln limousine is at the curb. Bernie is behind the wheel. He hops out to open the back door, and Dempster slides in. Tim walks around to the traffic side to get in next to his boss.
A black Kawasaki motorcycle is idling about twenty feet to the rear of the limo. It starts up, moves forward so slowly that the man in the saddle drags his steel-toed boot on the pavement. Both driver and the man on the pillion are wearing blue nylon jackets, jeans, massive crash helmets with tinted visors that extend to their chins.
The bike pulls up alongside the Lincoln and stops. The rear rider unzips his jacket. He pulls out an Uzi submachine gun, stock folded down. Firing the weapon with one hand, he sprays the three men in the limousine, shooting through the opened door and the closed windows.
The chauffeur and bodyguard die first, their bodies riddled, jerking as the 9mm slugs cut them open. The muzzle is turned to Dempster. He throws up both hands in angry protest, but the bullets slice through. He is slammed back on the seat, then toppled onto the floor.
The assassin coolly empties the thirty-two-round magazine, then slips the gun back into his jacket. The Kawasaki accelerates, roars away, weaving through traffic. In a moment it is gone.
And so is John J. Dempster.