Simon Clark was aware of one of the basic tenets of con men, corporate raiders, and investment bankers: Never gamble with your own money. Although he was not ultra-rich, his net worth was sufficient to bankroll Nancy Sparco's new business if he chose to. He did not so choose.
The sting money he had invested with Mortimer Sparco's discount brokerage, if it could be recovered, would be more than enough to get Nancy started. Thus, in effect, the U.S. Government (actually the taxpayers) would finance her escort service in south Florida.
The puzzle was how to reclaim the money before the boom was lowered on Sparco and all his assets seized. Clark thought he might be able to finagle it if he could be present when the bust went down. Sharks like Sparco invariably kept a heavy stack of currency on hand for bribes and getaway insurance. It wouldn't be the first time a law enforcement officer had glommed onto a criminal's money during the confusion of an arrest.
But Clark decided that robbing the robber was just too risky; there had to be a better way of regaining the cash that had presumably purchased shares in the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund.
He put that problem aside temporarily and concentrated on his own future and the path it might take.
While stealing Sparco's poke during the arrest had its dangers, there would be much less peril in lifting a list of the broker's clients. With that in hand, Clark would have a strong base for starting his own discount brokerage, pushing the same penny stocks that had made Sparco a wealthy man.
But running a brokerage, even semi-legitimately, required many registrations, licenses, and permits. And the SEC was always looking over your shoulder. Clark preferred a simpler swindle, with the risk-benefit ratio more in his favor. He decided his best bet might be to follow David Rathbone's example and become an investment adviser or whatever you wanted to call it.
With a limited number of wealthy clients with deficient money smarts, Clark reckoned he could do very well indeed. His background as a U.S. ADA would inspire confidence, he had an impressive physical presence, and his courtroom experience had taught him that when sincerity is demanded, style is everything.
So when he wasn't on the phone to Denver and Chicago, learning more details of Sparco's price manipulation and market domination of certain worthless securities, Clark went looking for permanent housing and an office location. He figured that by using leverage he could hang out his shingle for about a hundred thousand tops. He could do it for less, of course, but recognized the value of front in a business based on clients' faith in his probity.
The only opportunities he had to relax and enjoy south Florida came when Nancy Sparco visited his hotel room, two or three afternoons a week. Then they drank too much, talked too much, loved too much and, as she said, "told the whole world to go screw."
She showed up one afternoon when rainsqualls from the southwest had driven all the tourists off the beach and flooded the streets. Clark saw at once, despite a heavy layer of pancake makeup, that she was sporting a black eye. He embraced her, then held her by the shoulders and stared at the mouse.
"Who hung that on you?" he asked.
"Who?" Nancy said bitterly. "It wasn't the Tooth Fairy. My shithead hubby."
"Does he do that often?"
"No," she admitted. "Maybe a couple of times since we've been married."
"Was he drunk?"
"Nah. Just pissed off when I told him he couldn't screw his way out of a wet paper bag. I guess I shouldn't have said it, but I can't stand the guy anymore. I pray for the day when I can give him the one-finger salute and walk out. Pour me a drink, will you, hon. I've got to take off my shoes; they're soaked through."
He mixed bourbon highballs, and they slumped in armchairs and watched rain stream down the picture windows.
"I never belted a woman in my life," Clark said.
"I know you haven't, sweetie, because you've got class. But I don't have it so bad. A friend of mine, Cynthia Coe-her husband, Sid, runs a boiler room-is a real battered wife. Sid has a rotten temper and he's a mean drunk. When he's crossed, he takes it out on Cynthia. Really slams her around. Once he actually broke her arm."
"Why does she put up with it?"
"Why? M-o-n-e-y. After he beats the shit out of her, he starts crying, apologizes, swears he'll never do it again, and gives her cash, a rock, a gold watch, a string of pearls. Then a month later he's at it again. She says that when she's got enough money and jewelry put aside, she's going to give him the broom. But I doubt it."
"Maybe she enjoys it, too."
"Maybe she does," Nancy said. "A lot of nuts in this world, kiddo. I'm glad you and I are normal." She pulled off her dress and the two of them fell on the bed.
Afterward, Nancy asked, "Listen, you haven't forgotten about my new business, have you?"
"Of course not. I'm working on a couple of angles. You'll get your funding."
"When?"
"A month or so."
"Promise?"
"Yep. Nancy, I'm thinking about moving down here."
She sat up on the bed. "Hey, that's great! I love it! But what about your wife?"
He shrugged. "She'll be happy to see the last of me."
"Divorce?"
"Or separation. Whichever is cheaper. I'll leave it to my lawyer to cut a deal, but it's going to cost me no matter what."
"You plan to get a job down here?"
He didn't answer her question. "Tell me something, Nancy: Does your husband keep a list of his clients at home?"
She stared at him. "Oh-ho," she said, "you do have a plan, don't you? Thinking of joining the game?"
"I might," he said. "I'm tired of being a spectator."
"Well, I never saw Mort's client list. He probably keeps it in the office." "Probably."
"But he does have a personal list of people he calls Super Suckers. Lots of loot and not much sense. That guy I told you about, Sid Coe, has his own list, and so does David Rathbone, another shark we know. They all have a Super Sucker list. Sometimes they get together and trade names like kids trade baseball cards."
"That's interesting," Clark said. "You think you might be able to get me a copy of your husband's list? It's worth a grand to me."
"In addition to the money for my escort service?"
"Of course. Two different deals."
She thought a moment. Then: "Five thousand," she said. "Those names are valuable. Money in the bank."
"How many names?"
"At least twenty. Maybe more. Widows, divorcees, senile old farts, and some younger swingers whose brains are scrambled. But all rich."
"Twenty-five hundred?" he asked.
"You got a deal," she said, and reached for him.