Timothy's Game by Lawrence Sanders Page B

is scribbling in his notebook, the plainclothesman in charge, a big, beefy guy, wanders about the apartment, hands in his pockets. He seems to be whistling noiselessly.
    The body is finally removed on a gurney, covered with a rubber sheet. The plainclothesman crooks a finger at Sally, and the two go into the kitchen. The cop fishes in his pocket and comes up with a little plastic bag. Inside is a chewed cigar butt.
    “You forgot this,” he says, staring at Sally. “It was in the ashtray on the table next to the bed.”
    She dips into her shoulder bag, picks out two fifty-dollar bills.
    “For your favorite charity,” she says.
    “Thank you,” he says, taking the money and handing her the plastic bag. “My sincere condolences on your loss.”
    She’s in the funeral home, holding herself together while a parade of old guys come up and tell her what a mensch her father was. They were Jake’s gin rummy and pinochle pals, and all Sally can say is, “Thank you very much.”
    Then the uniformed doorman tells her there’s a man downstairs who’d like to talk to her. His name is Mario Corsini.
    “Jesus X,” Sally says. “All right, I’ll be down in a minute.”
    She looks around. Everything seems under control. Eddie is holding up well, and they hired a special van with a lift so Becky in her wheelchair could be transported to the funeral home and eventually to the cemetery. Paul is there. Martha is there. And a crowd of relatives, friends, and neighbors. More people than Sally expected. Dotty Rosher isn’t there. Got tsu danken!
    The hearse is parked at the curb, followed by a long line of black limousines. The chauffeurs have congregated, and are smoking up a storm and laughing. The single Cadillac limousine parked across the street is a stretch job, silver gray.
    “Mr. Angelo would like to talk to you,” Corsini says.
    “Now?” Sally says indignantly. “Can’t it wait?”
    “Just a couple of minutes,” he says. “We didn’t want to come inside.”
    “I’d have kicked your ass out,” she says, and means it.
    She crosses the street and climbs into the back, alongside Vic Angelo. Corsini sits up front behind the wheel, but turns sideways so he can keep an eye on Sally and listen to what’s going on.
    “My sincere condolences on your loss,” Angelo says.
    “Thanks.”
    “Your father was an old friend.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “But now we got a business problem. The garbage dump. Who inherits?”
    “My mother, my brother, me.”
    “And who’s going to run it?”
    “Who do you think?” Sally says angrily. “Me. I’ve practically been running the joint for the past ten years.”
    “It’s no business for a woman,” Angelo says, shaking his head regretfully. “Too rough. We’ll make you a nice offer.”
    “Screw your offer,” Sally says wrathfully. “I’m hanging on to the dump. You’ll still get your tax. Jake is dead, but the business belongs to my family and that’s where it’s going to stay.”
    Mario Corsini grins. Or at least he shows a mouthful of big, yellowed teeth. “I don’t think so,” he says.
    Sally stares at the two bandidos. If she had her pistol she would have popped both of them, right there. She knows exactly what they can do to Steiner Waste Control: trouble with the union, trouble with city inspectors, maybe firebombs in the trucks if they want to play hard. There’s no way she can fight that. She could run to the DA and scream about the monthly payoffs—but where’s the proof?
    “All right,” she says, “you want to take over, you can do it. But you’ll be throwing away a fortune.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Angelo says.
    “You guys ever play the stock market?” Sally asks.

Four
    “I ’M GOING TO GIRD a loin,” Timothy Cone says.
    “You’re going to what?” Samantha Whatley demands.
    “Haven’t you ever girded your loins? It’s something like hoisting yourself with your own petard.”
    “Oh, shut up,” she says crossly, “and get to