Lawrence Sanders
Sullivan's Sting
1
He was a perfect gentleman, attentive, eager to please. There was something balletic in his movements: a swoop to light Mrs. Winslow's cigarette with a gold Dupont, a bow to place the black mink stole about her fleshy shoulders, a pirouette as the maitre d' came bustling up.
"Was everything satisfactory, Mr. Rathbone?"
"Everything was excellent, Felix," he said, and pressed a folded twenty into the waiting palm.
''The zabaglione was divine," Mrs. Birdie Winslow said. "Something extra, wasn't there?"
"Just a few drops of rum, madam. For flavor."
"Marvelous idea. We must come again."
"Please do," Felix said, escorting them to the door. "On Friday we shall have baked pompano with a champagne sauce."
Outside, they stood a moment staring up at a lucid sky sown with rows of stars. But the easterly wind had an edge, and Mrs. Winslow wrapped her stole tighter. Rathbone slipped an arm lightly about her thick waist.
"Chilly?"
"Not really."
He leaned closer. "Love your perfume. Obsession, isn't it?"
"Oh, David," she said, "you know everything."
"Yes," he said solemnly, "I do." And then laughed, hugging her to share the joke. "All right, now let's test your sense of direction. We're in Boca Raton. Which way do we go to get back to Lauderdale?"
She looked around a moment, then pointed. "That way?"
"And end up in Palm Beach? Nope, we go south."
He handed the ticket to the waiting valet, and they stood in comfortable silence until the black Bentley was brought around.
"Thank you, Mr. Rathbone," the valet said, pocketing his tip. "You folks have a nice evening now, y'hear."
"Everyone in Florida is so polite," Mrs. Winslow said as they drove southward on A1A.
"Uh-huh," David Rathbone said. "The last outpost of civility. All you need is money. Birdie, I hope you don't mind dropping in at this party."
"Of course not. I'll be happy to meet your friends."
"Not friends-clients. I don't socialize much with them. I prefer to keep our relations on a professional level. But I thought it would give you a chance to chat with them, find out for yourself if they're satisfied with my services. That's the best way to select an investment adviser: talk to the man's clients and get their opinions."
"Are they all wealthy?"
"None of them is hurting. And Sidney Coe is rich rich. He keeps a yacht down at Bahia Mar that's just a little smaller than the QE2. Crew of five live aboard, but Coe never takes it out. Just uses it for partying."
"And you handle all his funds?"
"Oh yes. Up about forty percent last year. But all my clients have done as well. At that rate you can double your money in less than two years."
"I'd like that. Poor Ralph used to handle all our investments and after he died I just turned everything over to the bank."
"Banks are all right," Rathbone said, "but too conservative. They're so heavily regulated that there are a lot of aggressive investment opportunities they're not allowed to touch."
"How long will it take the bank to double my money?"
"Probably about ten years-if you're lucky."
"And you can do it in two?"
"Or less," he said. "You won't object if we only spend an hour at the party? Then I'll drive you home. I've got to get back to my office. I have a client in Madrid who's phoning at midnight."
"Madrid? Oh my. Do you have many foreign clients?"
"Five. One in Spain, two in England, one in France, one in Germany. I usually get over there several times a year and visit them all. And of course they frequently come to Florida. Especially in the winter!"
"I can understand that," Birdie Winslow said. "The climate is divine. I'm so glad I moved here."
"So am I," David Rathbone said, and placed a hand gently on her plump knee.
The home was on the Intracoastal Waterway at the Hillsboro Inlet. They parked on a circular driveway of antique brick, along with a Cadillac, BMW, and Jaguar XJ-S. They sat a moment, staring at the glittering mansion.
"David," she said, "it's divine!"
"Is it? Four bedrooms, three baths, marble floors, pool, sauna, private dock. It's listed, fully furnished. They're asking a million five. Interested?"
"Oh heavens, no! Too big for just little old me."
"Of course it is. You have better things to do with your money."
"But why are they selling?"
"They're building on the beach. A larger place with a guest house. Before we go in, let me brief you on what to expect. The host and hostess are Mortimer and Nancy Sparco. He was in sewer pipe in Ohio. Retired now. The guests will be Sidney Coe, the yacht owner I told you about, and his third wife, Cynthia. He made his money in natural gas. Oklahoma. The third married couple are James and Trudy Bartlett. He was a neurosurgeon. Then there's Ellen St. Martin. You already know her. A divorcee. And Frank Little, who may or may not be gay. He's an importer. Mostly sports equipment. The butler's name is Theodore, and the maid is Blanche."
"I'll never remember all that."
"Of course you won't," he said, taking her arm as they strolled up the chattahoochee walk. "But you'll sort them out eventually. Don't forget to ask what they think of the job I'm doing for them."
Mrs. Winslow was happy she'd worn her basic black and pearls, for all the women were in evening gowns and the men, like Rathbone, were spiflfy in white dinner jackets and plaid cummerbunds. She was introduced around, and everyone was just as nice as they could be. Champagne was served in crystal flutes.
Rathbone drew aside and let Mrs. Winslow mingle with the other guests. They spoke of planned cruises, a new restaurant in Miami, the polo season at Wellington, and an upcoming charity ball in Palm Beach for
British royalty. It was all easy talk, moneyed talk, and Mrs. Winslow was dazzled.
"If you don't mind my asking," she said to Cynthia Coe, "what do you think of David Rathbone? I mean as an investment manager. I'm thinking of going in with him."
"Do it," Mrs. Coe said promptly. "The man's a wizard. The best in the business."
"He's got the Midas Touch," James Bartlett said. "Doubled my net worth in two years. You can't go wrong."
"A financial genius," Mortimer Sparco said. "Absolutely trustworthy. He'll make you a mint."
"Divine, " Mrs. Winslow kept breathing. "Divine. "
The hour passed swiftly. Finally, goodbyes were said, with all the women vowing to call Birdie for lunch or a shopping tour of the malls. Then Rathbone drove her home to her rented condo.
"Nice people," he said, "weren't they?"
" Very nice. So friendly. Nothing standoffish at all. David, I've decided I'd like to have you manage my money."
"I think that's a wise decision," he said. "You won't have the nuisance of watching your investments every day. You'll get a monthly statement from me detailing exactly how much you've made. My fee will be deducted automatically from the profits. Suppose I stop by around eleven tomorrow morning with the papers. Just a simple power of attorney and a management contract. It won't take long. And then perhaps we could have lunch at the Sea Watch."
"I'd like that," Birdie Winslow said.
He stopped in front of the lobby, got out of the Bent-ley, came around and held the door open for her. Before they parted, he kissed her cheek lightly.
"Thank you for a lovely evening," he said. "I'm looking forward to a long and mutually profitable relationship."
"Friendship," she said with a tinkly laugh, touching his sun-bleached hair.
"Of course," he said.
He drove swiftly back to the house on the Hillsboro Inlet. The others were still busy cleaning up, wiping out ashtrays, plumping cushions, arranging the chairs precisely.
"Come on, gang," Ellen St. Martin was saying. "Everything's got to be spick-and-span. I'm showing this dump tomorrow."