Harry and Larry were the Securivan men. Jay sat down and Larry remained seated as he said, “Keeping a secret that seventeen people in this room already know about, plus the judge and other people at the court, plus one or more people at the bank, plus at least one of the principals in the lawsuit means, not to offend anybody present, but it isn’t a secret you’re gonna keep secret for very long.”
The more senior of the NYPD men present, whose name was Chief Inspector Mologna (pronounced Maloney), now said, “Speakin’ for myself, and speakin’ for the great city of New York, I can tell you right now you already got your secret blowed. This city does not raise up a criminal class that don’t have its eyes open and its ears open and its hands open every blessed moment of the night and day. They’re out there already and they’re waitin’ for you. You put together a mob scene like we got in this room, of course, you’re just engravin’ an invitation.”
“Unfortunately, Chief Inspector,” Jay said, “this is the minimum number possible to obtain agreement.”
“Oh, I understand,” the chief inspector said. “You got your protocols and you got your noses that might get out of joint, so you gotta have this social before you get down to business. But when you do get down to business, take it from me, the crooks will be right with you, every step of the way.”
Larry of Securivan said, “Harry and I think the chief inspector’s right, so, because there are those sharp–eared crooks out there, and, because we don’t want to give them too much time to make their own plans, the sooner you make this move the better.”
“That’s right,” the chief inspector said. “Don’t shilly–shally.”
Jay said, “No, we certainly don’t want to do that.”
“Harry and I,” Larry said, “think the best time to do this is Sunday night.”
“This Sunday night?” Jay asked him. “The day after tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir,” Larry confirmed. “We’d want to get our armored car into position at the curb downstairs here at oh two hundred hours Monday morning.”
His partner Harry spoke up: “This thing weighs, so we’re told, a third of a ton. We’ll have a crew of four with the armored car, to bring the object up and place it into the vehicle.”
“And we,” Chief Inspector Mologna said, “are gonna have patrol cars on that block, and patrol cars up at the next intersection to divert traffic, so you are gonna have no vehicles in that area except your van and our patrols.”
“This all sounds very good,” Jay said.
Jacques Perly said, “When do you think you’d get to my shop?”
Larry considered that. “If we start at oh two hundred hours,” he said, “say it takes fifteen minutes to bring the object up and secure it. At that time of night, fifteen or twenty minutes to drive down to your area. You should count on an arrival time of oh two–thirty to oh two–forty hours.”
One of the other lawyers present said, “That means the experts could start examining the artifact Monday morning.”
“Not quite,” Jay said. “We don’t want to tell anybody else about the move until after it’s made.” With a bow toward the chief inspector, he said, “Granted that secrets are difficult or impossible to keep, we’d still like to limit the advance knowledge of the move as much as we can.”
Another lawyer said, “But they can start their inspections Tuesday morning, surely.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Some of our principals,” another lawyer said, “and some of our senior partners as well, will certainly want to take this opportunity to see the thing in the flesh, as it were.”
“We’ll make accommodations for that as we can,” Jay assured him. “But we don’t want it to become a tourist destination.”
That quip got its chuckle, and another lawyer said, “Oh, I think most of us are mature enough to show restraint.”
Another lawyer said, “However, speed in assessing the object is also a priority, of course. I understand we’re all paying Mr. Perly a per diem for the use of his space, and of course every day the object is out of the vault the risk of theft increases.”
Another lawyer said, “What we’re talking about here is not one object, but thirty–four. A theft doesn’t have to be of the entire piece.”
Jay said, “We’re arranging for private guards to stay with the object 24/7 while it’s at Mr. Perly’s. We’ll all breathe easier once the set is back in the vault downstairs.”
“Amen to that,” said another lawyer, and still another lawyer said, “In fact, the per diem is not that much. In this instance, it is truly better to be safe than sorry.”
Which caused a general murmur of agreement, followed by Jay saying, “Does that cover it all?”
“I’d like to say one thing,” said the chief inspector, and got to his feet. He also picked up his braid–rich hat from the conference table, so he apparently didn’t intend to stay much longer. “At oh two hundred hours in the ayem of this comin’ Monday morning,” he informed them all, “I am gonna be asleep in my bed in Bay Shore, Long Island. And I will not be wantin’ any phone calls.” And he put on his hat.
On that note the meeting concluded, having worked out about as satisfactorily as the one just ending in the park downtown.
Chapter 44
* * *
Andy Kelp came home from the department store wearing three suits and two coats. It wasn’t really that cold out, but it was still better to wear them than to pay for them.
Anne Marie was at her computer on her desk in the bedroom. She looked at him and said, “Did you put on weight?”
“No,” he said. “I put on wool. Let me get these clothes off.”
“Okay,” she said, and shut her computer down, and the phone rang.
Kelp gave it a look of dislike. “It’s gotta be John,” he said.
“You do your strip,” she told him, “and I’ll talk to John.”
“Deal.”
He got half his new wardrobe off when she said, “It is John, and it sounds like he really does have to talk to you.”
“Then I suppose he does. Hello,” he told the phone.
“We’ve got the place where it’s gonna be.”
“Where it’s gonna be. But it isn’t there now.”
“No, but it’s gonna be there soon, and you and me, we should look it over, look the place over before the thing shows up. A little easier now than later.”
This was unfortunately true. Looking at Anne Marie, who had started her own striptease, Kelp said, “So where is this place?”
“Down on Gansevoort Street. An office down there.”
“An office? Doesn’t sound right.”
“I’ll give you the details, you know, in other circumstances.”
“Okay, but …” Kelp looked wistfully toward Anne Marie. “Anne Marie and me, we had plans for this evening, maybe a movie … I tell you what.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s a very trendy hotel down there on Gansevoort,” Kelp said, “now that the area’s gentrified. I could meet you there, in the bar there.”
“Fine. When?”
“We should make it pretty late,” Kelp said, and looked again at Anne Marie, who was smiling. “I’ll meet you in the bar there at midnight,” he said, and did, and saw Dortmunder already in position there at the bar.
Kelp had to admit, even seen from behind and across the room, slouched at the bar, John Dortmunder did not go with this setting. Any observant person in the joint would have taken one look at him in this environment and called the cops on general principles.
Fortunately, this hotel did not generally cater to observant persons. It was the kind of place that attracted rail–thin persons of several genders, all of whom sandpapered their cheekbones every evening before leaving their cave. Being unaware of the existence of any other people at all, none of this rather large and very loud mob of trendoids had noticed the creature from another species who had joined their revels. Dortmunder was in perfect concealment wi
th this crowd.
And now there were two aliens at the bar, once Kelp climbed onto the fuschia stool beside him. The bartendress, an action figure in a skintight black dress, dropped a coaster bearing an ad for condoms on the bar in front of Kelp and said, with complete indifference, “Sir?”
Kelp looked at Dortmunder’s drink, recognized it, and said, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Ew.” She rolled her eyes and slanked away.
Kelp observed Dortmunder’s glass again, from which in fact Dortmunder was now drinking. “That’s bourbon, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Two cubes?”
“Yeah.” Dortmunder shrugged. “They don’t like to leave bourbon all by itself around here,” he explained. “They like to muffle it down a little.”
Kelp looked up and down the bar and saw that the things in front of the other patrons didn’t look so much like drinks as like extraterrestrials. Short extraterrestrials. “Gotcha,” he said.
The bartendress might have felt sullied by having to serve a high–test drink, but she did it, and only charged fourteen dollars for the indignity, sliding a five and a one back at him from his original twenty. Kelp sipped his drink, found it to be as requested, and said, “Tell me about this office where they’re gonna move the thing.”
“It’s some hotshot private detective named Perly,” Dortmunder said. “What makes it a good place to stash the thing is what we’ll find out.”
“And the thing’s gonna get there soon.”
“That’s the story.”
“Probly in an armored car.”
“Probly.”
Kelp contemplated the situation, lubricating his brain muscles with a little more bourbon. “Tough to do an armored car on a city street,” he said. “Those jobs are more for the countryside.”
“Oh, you can do it,” Dortmunder said, “but it takes explosives. I’d rather work more quiet than that.”
“Oh, you know it.” Kelp took a little more of his drink and said, “You look at this place on your way here?”
“No, I figured we oughta get the good news together.”
“When do you want to do that?”
“When you finish your drink,” Dortmunder said, because, it seemed, he’d finished his.
Chapter 45
* * *
Gansevoort Street is part of the far West Village, an old seafaring section, an elbow of twisted streets and skewed buildings poked into the ribs of the Hudson River. The area is still called the Meatpacking District, though it’s been more than half a century since the elevated coal–burning trains from the west came down the left fringe of Manhattan to the slaughterhouses here, towing many cattle cars filled with loud complaints. After the trains were no more, some cows continued to come down by truck, but their heart wasn’t in it, and gradually almost an entire industry shriveled away into history.
Commerce hates a vacuum. Into the space abandoned by the doomed cows came small manufacturing and warehousing. Since the area sits next to the actual Greenwich Village, some nightlife grew as well, and when the grungy old nineteenth–century commercial buildings started being converted into pied–à–terres for movie stars, you knew all hope was gone.
Still, the Meatpacking District, even without much by way of the packing of meat, continues to present a varied countenance to the world, part residential, part trendy shops and restaurants, and part storage and light manufacturing. Into this mix Jacques Perly’s address blended perfectly, as Dortmunder and Kelp discovered when they strolled down the block.
Perly had done nothing to gussy up the facade. It was a narrow stone building, less than thirty feet across, with a battered metal green garage door to the left and a gray metal unmarked door on the right. Factory–style square–paned metal windows stretched across the second floor, fronted by horizontal bands of narrow black steel that were designed not to look like prison bars, to let in a maximum of light and view, and to slice the fingers off anybody who grabbed them.
Faint light gleamed well back of those upstairs windows. The buildings to both sides were taller, with more seriously lit windows here and there. On the right was a four–story brick tenement that had undergone recent conversion to upscale living, with a very elaborate entrance doorway flanked by carriage lamps. The building on the left, three stories high and also brick, extended down to the corner, with shops on the street floor, plus a small door that would lead up to what looked like modest apartments above.
Dortmunder and Kelp stood surveying this scene a few minutes, being occasionally passed by indifferent pedestrians, they all bundled up and hustling because the wind was pretty brisk over here by the river, and then Kelp said, “You know, I read one time, if you’re stuck with a decision you gotta make, there’s rules.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Depending on circumstances, you pick the most active, the earliest in time, or the one on the left.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too,” Dortmunder said.
“That house on the right there,” Kelp said, “that’s shielding a very valuable family.”
“I know that.”
“Whereas, on the left there, the top floor apartment on the right is dark.”
“Maybe they’re out to that bar we were in,” Dortmunder suggested.
“Maybe they’ll stay a while,” Kelp said, and they crossed the street to find that neither the street door nor the second door behind it offered much resistance.
This was a walk–up, so they walked up, where a narrow hall led them rightward to a door with a brass 3C on it and no light visible through the peephole.
“Could be early to bed, though,” Dortmunder said.
“On a Friday night in this neighborhood? I don’t think so,” Kelp said. “But we’ll go in quiet, not to disturb anybody.”
“And not to leave any sign we were here.”
“Not this time.”
Kelp did the honors with the door, and they entered a semi–dark kitchen, illuminated only by distant streetlights from below this level, plus the red–ember glows of all the clocks and other LED lights on all the appliances, giving the room a faint speakeasy air.
“Joe sent me,” Kelp whispered.
The kitchen led to a living room of the same size, making the kitchen fairly large and the living room pretty small. And that led to a bedroom which would also have been the same size except that a third of it had been walled off for a bathroom.
The only illumination in the bedroom to boost the streetlights’ glow came from the red numerals on the alarm clock. The double bed — happily empty — was on the left, against the bathroom wall. The window to the right looked down at Gansevoort Street, and the one straight ahead beyond the bed, looked down at the roof of Perly’s building, which was considerably deeper than wide and featured a large skylight in the rear half.
“I like that skylight,” Kelp whispered.
“There’s nobody here,” Dortmunder said, in a normal voice.
Surprised, Kelp looked around and said, also in a normal voice, “You’re right. And I still like that skylight.”
Perly’s tar–paper flat roof was about six feet below this window. Whatever light they’d seen through his windows had to be toward the front, because nothing at all showed below the skylight glass.
“I like the skylight, too,” Dortmunder said, “but there’s no point looking in it now.”
“No, I know that.”
“I wonder,” Dortmunder said, “about utility access.”
It is not only burglars in New York City who occasionally have trouble getting to the parts of buildings that interest them. In the older and more crowded sections of the city, like the far West Village, the small old structures pressed together in every direction can also make headaches for electric company meter readers, telephone company installers, cable company repairmen, and city inspectors of various stripes. Alleyways, basements, exterior staircases and unmarked doors all have their parts to play in making
it possible for these honest working folk to complete their appointed rounds, and just behind them here tiptoe less honest folk, though in their way just as hardworking.
This window out which Dortmunder and Kelp now gazed was a normal double–hung style, with a simple lock on the inside to keep the parts closed. Dortmunder turned this to unlock it, raised the lower sash, felt the cold wind and heard it ruffle papers and cloth here and there behind him, and leaned forward to look out.
Not much snow on the flat roof below, and none on the skylight, which would be warmed from underneath. The roof of Perly’s building extended to the left past the end of the building Dortmunder and Kelp were in, and it looked as though there was also space between the far end of the roof and the rear of the building on the next street.
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