"Because," the chief said, "the personnel computer spit you out. You did time with the Federal Home Loan Bank Board, didn't you?"
"That's right. Six years as examiner. Working out of San Francisco. But I got tired of crunching numbers and wangled a transfer to the Secret Service."
"Counterfeiting?"
"No," Ullman said with a sour grin, "jogging. I was assigned to the Vice President, and that guy never stops jogging. Rain, sleet, snow-he's out there at seven every morning, with me puffing along behind him."
Crockett stared at him. "You look like you could keep up. Ever play any football?"
"Nah. I was big enough but not fast enough. I'll be reporting to you?"
"Not directly. Your immediate supervisor will be Anthony Harker. He's right down the hall. You better check in with him now; he's expecting you. Good luck." "Sure," Ullman said, hauling his bulk off the little folding chair.
In Harker's office the two agents introduced themselves and shook hands. Tony looked up at the Treasury man.
"About six-four and two-fifty?" he guessed.
"More or less," Ullman said. "I call you Mr. Harker?"
"Tony will do."
"Hank for me. What's this all about?"
Harker took several clipped pages from his top desk drawer and handed them over. "Take a look at this. It's a transcript of a taped telephone conversation called in by an undercover agent, a woman, we planted with the main villain, a guy named David Rathbone."
Ullman scanned the pages swiftly, then tossed them onto the desktop.
"You read it?" Tony said, amazed.
"Yeah. I took a speed-reading course. It's a big help. You want me to get the poop on this David Rathbone?"
"No, he's covered. Your target is James Bartlett, a man who seems to know a lot about banks. I want a complete rundown."
"Shouldn't be too difficult. I still have some good contacts in the bank biz. Do I get an office?"
"Afraid not. We're cramped for space as it is. You'll have to settle for a desk and phone in the bullpen."
"I'll manage," the investigator said.
The first thing Henry Ullman did was to go shopping for clothes. He had come down from D.C. wearing a three-piece, navy blue, pin-striped suit, and he saw at once it might attract a lot of unwanted attention in south Florida. So he bought four knitted polo shirts in pink, lavender, kelly green, and fire-engine red; two pairs of jeans, khaki and black; and a polyester sports jacket in a hellish plaid.
He went back to his motel room to change and inspected himself in a full-length mirror. "Jesus!" he said. Then he went back to the office and started making phone calls. He worked until almost midnight, then found a steakhouse on the Waterway and treated himself to a twenty-four-ounce rare sirloin, baked potato, double portion of fried onion rings, and two bottles of Molson ale.
On the second day he looked up James Bartlett in the Pompano Beach phone directory. None listed. But there was one in the Fort Lauderdale directory and Ull-man hoped that was his pigeon. To make sure, he changed back into his vested pinstripe and drove out to Bay view Drive in his rented Plymouth.
He whistled when he saw the homes in that neighborhood: big, sprawling places with a lot of lawn, palm trees, and usually a boat on a trailer sitting in front of a three-car garage. There were gardeners and swimming-pool maintenance men at work, and the parked cars Ullman saw were Cadillacs, Mercedeses, and top-of-the-line Audis. He figured no one who lived on that stretch of Bay view was drawing food stamps.
He parked, locked the Plymouth, and marched up to the front door of the Bartlett residence. When he pushed the button, there was no bell, but melodious chimes sounded out "Shave and a haircut, two bits."
The man who opened the door was a short roly-poly with a wispy mustache that didn't quite make it. He was wearing Bermuda shorts that revealed pudgy knees, and his fat feet were bare.
"Mr. James Bartlett?" Ullman asked.
He got no answer. "Who're you?" the guy said, giving him a slow up-and-down.
"Sam Henry from Madison, Wisconsin, sir. I'm with the First Farmers' Savings and Loan up there. I'm sure you don't remember me, but I met you at the Milwaukee convention years and years ago."
"Oh? The one where I gave the keynote speech?"
Ullman wasn't about to get tripped up by a trick question like that. "To tell you the truth," he said, laughing, "I was so smashed for the entire convention, I don't remember who gave the speeches or what they talked about."
The man smiled. "Yes," he said, "it was rather wet, inside and out. Sure, I'm Jim Bartlett. What can I do for you?"
"The wife's got arthritis bad, and the doc thinks she'd do better in a warm climate. So I came down to south Florida to scout the territory. I hear it's booming."
"It's doing okay. This year."
"Well, I heard you had relocated here, and I thought I'd look you up and chew the fat awhile."
"I'd ask you in," Bartlett said, "but the house is full of relatives down for the season."
"That's okay," Ullman said. "This won't take but a minute. If we move down here, I'll have to find a slot. I was wondering if you know of any local banks looking for experienced officers."
"What's your specialty?"
"Home mortgage loans."
Bartlett shook his head. "I don't know of anything open at the moment, but I'll ask around. If I hear of anything I'll let you know. How do I get in touch with you?"
Ullman fished in his pocket. ''Here's the card of the motel where I'm staying. It's a ratty place, and I'm looking for something better. If I leave, I'll give you a call. All right?"
"Sure," Bartlett said, taking the card. "Sam Henry of the First Farmers' S and L in Madison-right?"
"You've got it," Ullman said.
Bartlett nodded and pumped the big man's hand. "Nice to see you again, Sam," he said, and closed the door softly.
Ullman drove back to the office and asked Tony Harker for ten minutes. He related the details of his meeting with James Bartlett.
"He's a cutie," he said. "I'll bet he's on the phone right now calling First Farmers' in Madison. But that's okay; I set up my cover with them. They were happy to cooperate with the Secret Service. Here's what I've got on Bartlett so far: He did a year and nine for bank fraud. He's only been in south Florida for seven years, but his most recent tax return shows an adjusted gross of more than eight hundred thousand, and that house he lives in has got to go for a million, at least. He lists himself as a bank consultant, but no one in banking down here has ever heard of him. Or so they say. Something ain't kosher."
"Yeah," Tony said, and pondered a moment. Then: "Hank, that business of Rathbone having our agent open a phony account at the Crescent Bank in Boca-how do you figure that?"
"I don't. A scam of some kind, but it's hard to tell what's going down."
"So what's your next move?" Harker asked. "Tail Bartlett?"
"I don't think so," Ullman said. "In that neighborhood he'd spot my dusty Plymouth in a minute. How about if I take a different angle. According to that transcript, Bartlett has Mike Mulligan of the Crescent Bank in his hip pocket. Suppose I drive up to Boca and get a look at this Mulligan. I'd like to know what the connection is."
"Sounds good to me," Harker said. "Maybe you can turn Mulligan. The only way we're going to flush this gang is by getting someone to sing."
"I'll give it the old college try," Hank said, rose to leave, then paused at the door. "By the way, Bartlett is married. Three kids. The oldest, a girl of nineteen, OD'd on heroin about two years ago."
They stared at each other.
"You better get up to Boca as soon as possible," Tony said.
"I think so," Ullman said.
12
He explained to her that once a month the five men in the Palace gang met for a night of poker. The party was held in their homes, on a rotating basis, and tonight was Rathbone's turn.