"What numbers do you play?" Rathbone asked idly.
"He plays anything with a seven in it," Nancy said. "Claims it's his lucky number. Some luck!"
"It'll hit," Mort said. "Seven has always been very good to me."
"That's where you're making your mistake," Rathbone said. "Look at the winning numbers over the past year. You'll find that most of them have five in them. Like five, fifteen, twenty-five, and so on."
Sparco looked at him. "You're kidding."
Rathbone held up a palm. "Scout's honor. I've studied random number frequency on my computer and believe me, five turns up more often than seven or any other number."
"I don't believe you," Mortimer said.
Rathbone shrugged. "It's even true for the serial numbers on five-dollar bills. You'll find that the digit five occurs most frequently."
"David, you're nuts."
"Am I? Would you like to make a small bet?"
"Mort," Nancy said, "don't do it."
"I'll make it easy on you," Rathbone said. "I'll bet you twenty bucks that the first five-dollar bill we examine will have more fives in the serial number than any other digit."
"All right," Sparco said, "I'll take your bet." Then, when he saw Rathbone reach in his pocket for his money: "Oh no, not your five! You've probably got a ringer all ready for me."
Rathbone shook his head. "What a suspicious bastard you are. You're my friend; I wouldn't cheat you. All right, we'll do it this way." He called over to the bar: "Ernie, you got any fives in the register?"
"Sure, Mr. Rathbone," the bartender said. "How many you want?"
"Just one. Pick out any five-dollar bill you like and bring it over here for a moment, will you?" Then, to Sparco: "Satisfied it's on the up-and-up now?"
"I guess so."
Ernie brought the bill to their table. They bent over it and examined the serial number.
"There you are!" Rathbone said triumphantly. "Three fives. Now do you admit I'm right?"
"Son of a bitch," Mortimer said, and handed a twenty to the other man. "You've got the luck of Old Nick."
"It's the science of numbers," Rathbone said. "You can't fight it."
"Mort, I told you not to bet," Nancy said morosely. "David always wins. I need another drink."
James and Trudy Bartlett joined them, and a few regulars came through the side entrance to sit at the smaller tables. A noisy party of four tourists entered from the dining room, headed for the bar. Sidney and Cynthia Coe arrived, and then Ellen St. Martin and Frank Little. More regulars came in; the tables filled up; someone fed the jukebox; the joint began to jump.
At the big table, the talk was all about a three-year-old filly, Jussigirl, who had won all her eleven starts. Then the conversation turned to the recent run-up in the price of precious metals. Sid Coe, who owned a boiler room on Oakland Park Boulevard, announced his intention of switching his yaks from gemstones to platinum.
Ernie came from behind the bar, leaned over Rathbone, whispered in his ear.
"That guy at the end of the bar, dressed like an undertaker, he says he's a friend of yours, wants to talk to you. Okay, or should I bounce him?"
Rathbone turned his head to stare. "Yes, I know him. Is he sober, Ernie?"
"He's had a few, but he's holding them."
Rathbone excused himself and joined the man standing at the bar. He was tall, skinny, almost cadaverous, wearing a three-piece black suit of some shiny stuff. The two men shook hands.
"Tommy," Rathbone said, "good to see you. When did you get out?"
"About a month ago."
"Hard time?"
"Nah. I can do eighteen months standing on my head. Just the cost of doing business."
"They sure as hell didn't fatten you up."
"The food in that joint is worse than hospital slop. The warden's on the take."
"Need some green?"
"No, thanks, David; I'm doing okay. I had a safe deposit box they never did find. You got anything going?"
"This and that."
"I got something that could be so big it scares me. But I don't know how to handle it. You interested?"
"Depends," Rathbone said. "What is it?"
Tommy leaned closer. His breath was 94 proof. "I shared a cell with an old Kraut who was finishing up five-to-ten. He was in for printing the queer. Not pushing it, just manufacturing fifties and hundreds and selling them to the pushers. He told me a lot about papers, inks, and engraving. The guy really knows his stuff*. He claimed that when he was collared, he had just come up with an invention that could make a zillion if it was handled right. Well, you know how old lags talk, and I thought he was just blowing smoke. He got out a couple of months before I did and told me to look him up and maybe we could work a deal together. So when I was sprung, I decided to do it. Right now he's got a little printshop in Lakeland. We killed a jug one night, a bottle of schnapps that tasted like battery acid, and he showed me his great invention."
"And?" Rathbone said. "What was it?"
Tommy withdrew a small white envelope from his inside jacket pocket, lifted the flap, took out a check. "Take a look at that."
Rathbone examined it. It appeared to be a blank check printed with the name and address of a California bank. "So?" he said.
"Got a pen?"
Rathbone handed over his gold Montblanc ballpoint. Tommy made out the check to David Rathbone for a thousand dollars, dated it correctly, then signed "Mickey Mouse." He slipped the check back into the white envelope, sealed it, handed it to Rathbone.
"Keep it for a week," he said, "then open it. I'll come back here in ten days or so and we'll talk about it. Okay?"
"If you say so, Tommy, but why all the mystery?"
"You'll see. Just leave the check in the envelope for a week and then open it. David, this could be our ticket to paradise. See you around."
Tommy left a sawbuck on the bar, then went out the side entrance. Rathbone put the sealed white envelope in his side pocket and rejoined the crowd at the big table.
"Who was that?" Jimmy Bartlett asked. "The guy you were talking to at the bar."
Rathbone laughed. "You didn't recognize him? That was Termite Tommy."
"Never heard of him."
"He organized a great gig in south Florida. Guaranteed termite extermination. Traveled around in a van offering free termite inspection to homeowners. He also carried ajar of live termites and a bag of sawdust. After he made his inspection, he showed the mooch how his house was about to collapse unless he signed a contract for total termite control. Then Tommy would pocket the up-front deposit and take off. He had a nice thing going for almost three years until the gendarmes caught up with him. He drew eighteen months. But as he said, it's just part of the cost of doing business."
"What's he up to now?" Cynthia Coe asked.
"Who knows?" Rathbone said. "Probably selling earmuffs to south Floridians. The guy's a dynamite yak."
Frank Little leaned across the table. "Hey, David," he said, "catch who just came in. Ever see her before?"
4
Rita Sullivan figured that if she dressed like a flooze, Rathbone would make her for a hooker arrived in south Florida for the season, and he'd be turned off. At the same time she didn't want to look like Miss Priss. So she settled for a rip-off of a collarless Chanel suit in white linen with a double row of brass buttons. The newly shortened miniskirt showed a lot of her long, bare legs. Her white pumps had three-inch heels.
When she got out of her rented Honda Civic, the parking valet caught a flash of tanned thigh and said, in Spanish, "God bless the mother who gave birth to you."
"Thank you," Rita said and, chin high, marched into the Grand Palace.
The maitre d' came bustling forward, giving her an admiring up-and-down. "Ah, madam," he said, "I am so sorry but the kitchen is closed."