“Sure,” Cone says. “Listen, that woman you mentioned who made the big trade in Wee Tot Fashions. … What was her name?”
“Sally Steiner. Why the interest?”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Of course,” Bigelow says, offended. “That’s what they’re paying me coolie wages for. She’s a tough bimbo who practically runs that waste disposal business I told you about. Her father owns it. She claims she bought Wee Tot stock because she wants to get out of garbage and open a store that sells kids’ clothes. She figured the annual reports of Wee Tot would help her learn the business. It makes sense.”
“Sure it does,” Timothy Cone says. “Nice seeing you again, Jerry. Give my best to the wife.”
Bigelow looks at him. “How do you know I’m married?” he asks. “I never told you that.”
“Beats me,” Cone says, shrugging. “I just assumed. You’ve got that married look. Also, you’ve got a pinched band of skin around your third finger, left hand, where I figure you wear a ring but maybe take it off during the day in case you meet something interesting.”
Bigelow laughs. “You goddamn sherlock,” he says. “You’ve got me dead to rights. I better watch myself with you; you’re dangerous.”
“Nah,” Cone says, “not me. I’m just a snoop. Thanks, Jerry.”
“For what?”
“All the info you gave me-like Sally Steiner and so forth. I owe you one.”
“Look,” the SEC man says, “if you find out anything more about the Wee Tot Fashions leak, you’ll let me know?”
“Absolutely,” the Wall Street dick vows. “I’m no glory hound.”
They shake hands, and Cone watches the other man move away, towering over everyone else on the street. Then he trudges back to Haldering amp; Co. He stops on the way to buy a knish. He’s still hungry.
Three
May is a rackety month for Sally Steiner. She is living in a jungle and giving as good or better than the blows and bites she endures.
“Listen, Jake,” she says to her father, “I’m going to take a few hours off this afternoon to go see some customers.”
“Yeah?” he says, looking up from his tipsheet. “Who?”
“The new people we got from Pitzak.”
“I already seen them.”
She sighs. “You saw them, pa. But so what? I’m the one they call with their kvetches. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”
“So do what you want to do,” he says. He puts aside his chewed cigar and picks up his whiskey and water. “You’re going to do it anyway, no matter what I say. So why ask?”
“I didn’t ask,” she says, as prickly as he. “I’m telling you.”
But there is only one customer she wants to visit: Bechtold Printing, downtown on Tenth Avenue. She’s planned this interview and dressed for it. Black gabardine suit. High-necked blouse. No jewelry. Opaque pantyhose. Clunky shoes. With a leather portfolio under her arm. The earnest executive.
“Mr. Frederick Bechtold, please,” she says to the lumpy blond receptionist, handing over her business card. “From Steiner Waste Control.”
The klutz takes a look at the card. “He’s in the pressroom,” she says. “I’ll see.”
It’s almost five minutes before the owner comes out, a chunky slob of a man. He’s wearing a cap of folded newsprint and an ink-smeared apron that doesn’t hide a belly so round that it looks like he’s swallowed a spittoon.
“Zo,” he says, peering at her card. “Sally Steiner. You are related to Steiner Waste Control?”
“Daughter,” she says brightly. “I just stopped by to see if you’re satisfied with our service, Mr. Bechtold. Any complaints? Any way we can improve?”
He looks at her in amazement. “Eight years with Pitzak,” he says, “and he never came around. No, lady, no complaints. You pick up twice a week, right on schedule. My contract with Pitzak is still good?”
“Absolutely,” Sally says. “We’ll honor the prices. Nice place you got here, Mr. Bechtold. I’ve heard about your reputation for top-quality financial printing.”
“Zo?” he says, with a smile that isn’t much. “I do the best. The best! You’d like to see my pressroom?”
“Very much.”
It’s a cavern, with noise and clatter bouncing off cinderblock walls. There’s one enormous rotary, quiet now, and four smaller presses clanking along and piling up printed sheets. Sally is surprised at the small work-force-no more than a half-dozen men, all wearing ink-smeared aprons and newsprint caps. Two guys are typing away at word processors. One man is operating a cutter, another a binder. A young black is stacking and packing completed work in cardboard cartons.
“This is my pride,” Frederick Bechtold says, placing his hand gently on the big rotary. “West German. High-speed. The very best. Six colors in one run. And I use high-gloss inks from Sweden. Expensive, but the people I deal with want only the best.”
“You have some big Wall Street accounts, Mr. Bechtold?”
“Absolutely,” he affirms. “For them, everything must be just zo.”
“Annual reports?” Sally suggests.
“For the color, yes. And in black-and-white, we do brochures, documents, instruction booklets, proxy statements-everything. They know they can depend on Bechtold Printing. They give me a deadline, and I meet it. I have never been late. Never!”
Sally shakes her head in wonderment. “A marvelous operation,” she says. “Nice to have met you, Mr. Bechtold. You ever have any complaints about our service, you just give me a call and I’ll take care of it.”
She goes back to the office and gets to work. First, she finds gimpy Ed Fogleman, who runs the dump.
“Ed,” Sally says, “we got a new customer: Bechtold Printing, on Tenth Avenue. It’s a clean job; practically all their shit is paper. We’ll pick up twice a week. Is there any place we can store the barrels for a day or so before we bale?”
He peers at her, puzzled. “Why do you want to do that, Sal?”
She’s prepared for questions. “Because I got a look at their operation, and they use everything from coated stock to blotting paper. Up to now we’ve been baling everything from good rag to newsprint in the same bundle. I figure maybe we could make an extra buck if we separate the good from the lousy and sell different qualities of scrap paper at different prices.”
“Yeah,” the old man says slowly, “that makes sense. But who’s going to spend the time separating all the stuff? Sounds to me like a full-time job-and there goes your profit.”
“That’s why I want to hold out the Bechtold barrels,” Sally says patiently. “To see if it would be worth our while. Where can I put them temporarily?”
Fogleman chews his scraggly mustache. “Maybe in the storeroom,” he says finally. “I can make space. It’s against fire regulations ’cause we got inflammables in there, but if it’s only for a day or so, who’s to know?”
“Thanks, Ed,” Sally says gratefully. “I’ll get the barrels out as soon as I can.”
She goes back to her office and looks out the window every time a truck rolls into the dump. She goes running when she spots Terry Mulloy and Leroy Hamilton in their big Loadmaster compactor.
“Hey, you paskudniks,” she yells, and they stop. Terry leans out the window.
“Sally baby,” he says, grinning. “You’ve finally decided you can’t resist my green Irish joint.”
“Up yours, moron,” she says. “Listen, I’m revising schedules and pulling you two bums off that chemical plant on Twenty-fourth Street and giving you Bechtold Printing on Tenth Avenue.”
“God bless the woman who birthed you,” Leroy Hamilton says. “That chemical place smells something fierce. Gets in your hair, your clothes; you can almost taste that stink.”
“Yeah,” Sally says, “well, now you’ve got Bechtold. A nice clean job. Practically all paper. Pickups on Tuesday and Thursday. When you get the stuff, keep it in separate barrels and leave them in the storeroom. Ed Fogleman will show you where.”