Timothy's Game by Lawrence Sanders

says. “You came to count the paper clips. Afraid I’ll steal something before you take over?”
    “Nah,” he says with a bleak smile. “Close the door and sit down. You and me gotta have a private talk.”
    “We did,” Sally says. “On Friday night. Remember? So what more have we got to talk about?”
    But she does as he says: closes the door and sits down behind her desk. She examines him in silence.
    He really is a repellent man, with a pitted, ocherous complexion and eyes like wet coal. His shiny black hair is parted in the middle and plastered to his long skull like a gigolo or tango dancer of the 1920s. He’s wearing morticians’ clothes: black suit, white shirt, black tie, black socks, black shoes. No color. No jewelry. He looks like a deep shadow.
    “I gotta tell you,” he says. “I think Vic is making a big mistake.”
    “Don’t tell me,” Sally says bitterly, “tell him.”
    “I did,” he says. “My point is this: We can take over this place anytime we want—but what’s the hurry? Why not give you a chance to deliver the stock tips you promised? If you come through, maybe we could make more loot on the market than we can by taking over. If you can’t deliver, then we grab the business. I told him all that but he wouldn’t listen.”
    “And Vic’s the boss,” Sally says.
    “That’s right,” Corsini says. “Vic’s the boss. So I go along even when I don’t agree. But there’s more than one way to skin a cat. We got a lot of things going on, and there are ways I can stall our moving in on you.”
    “Yeah? What ways?”
    “Just believe me when I tell you I can do it,” Corsini says evasively. “But it means you’ll have to play along with me. With me, not with Vic and me. You understand? He knows nothing about this. If he knew I was talking to you alone, he’d cut off my balls. I told him I was coming here to see how my cousin, Tony Ricci, was being treated.”
    “Well, he’s doing okay. The kid’s a hard worker—and ambitious.”
    “Yeah, I know. I had breakfast with him about an hour ago. He’s all right; he does what I tell him. Anyway, what I want to toss at you is this: On Friday night you said you had a hot tip for us. Vic turned you down. I want you to give me the name of that stock. I’ll invest my own money. Not Vic’s money or our company’s money, but mine, my personal funds. Now if your tip pans out, and I make a nice buck, then I go to Vic and say, ‘Hey, that Sally Steiner wasn’t shitting us; she really can deliver. Why don’t we let her keep the dump as long as she keeps feeding us inside info on stocks.’ What do you think of that?”
    “I think it sucks,” Sally says. “There are two things wrong. First of all, you could do exactly like you tell me, and Vic would still say screw it, we’re taking over the business.”
    “Yeah,” Corsini says, nodding, “that could happen. He’s a stubborn guy who likes things his own way.”
    “Second of all,” Sally says, “how do I know you’re not scamming me? Maybe you just want to make a quick dollar on my tip and you couldn’t care less if or when I lose the dump.”
    He looks at her admiringly. “You got more between your ears than pasta fagioli,” he says. “And sure, you’re exactly right; I could be conning you. But you’re forgetting one thing: You got no choice. Without me, you’re going to lose the business for sure. Play along with me and at least you got a chance.”
    “I got other choices,” she says hotly.
    “Yeah?” he says with a death’s-head grin. “Like what? Like running to the DA and ratting on us? You’d be cold in a week, and so would your mother and brother. Is that what you want?”
    They sit a few moments in silence, eyes locked. They hear the sounds of the dump: trucks rumbling in and out, gears grinding, shouts and laughter. And beyond, the noises of the harsh, raucous city: sirens, whistles, the roar of traffic, and under all a thrumming as if the metropolis