He was right. Within a few brief minutes of his arrival, the screen flashed a greeting.
>Hi J
He quickly typed an answering welcome, and for the hundredth time he remembered with gratitude the high school teacher he’d roundly despised in business class who had forced him to learn touch-typing.
Hi yourself J How was your day
>Hectic, believe me. It was all day at the Opera league, but Pavorotti was at the tea, and he was so gracious you can’t imagine. How was your day?
The usual. A six hour operation Its sure a relief to just sit for a while
>I know what you mean, but it must be so exciting to be a neuro-surgeon.
I don’t mind the work but I hate all the traveling
>Where are you going this time??
Europe I’m being called in as a consultant An important world figure He’s been destroying his liver has had a couple of heart attacks and acting even more erratic then ever lately
While watching the screen, Chester tore open the bag of chips.
>Who is it, Mason????
Sorry Amber but it’s all top secret I can’t even tell you
>Please. Pretty Please J.
No I’m really sorry but I probly shouldnt have said even as much as I did If his problem is what I think it is I’ll probly be the lead surgeon
>Oh dear. So much responsibility.
How’s JJ
>Oh, he’s fine. He flew to Seattle today. Some kind of conference with one of those computer people. The one who owns a big company there. I can’t remember his name.
Bill Gates
>LOL! You’re teasing.
Paul Allen
>That’s him! JJ talked about a merger or stock swaps, or something. I don’t know anything about that sort of thing.
Don’t ask me I know nothing about stock My finance manager does all the worying for me
>Sigh!!! I envy Leticia. She doesn’t have to do any of this silly entertaining. JJ says I’m the perfect hostess, so I’ll have to put up with a dozen or so of the company’s executives next week on the Amberjay.
Sounds like your going to be busy
Chester fished out a handful of corn chips.
>And bored. They’re bringing out their wives, and you can’t imagine how provincial those Seattle women are. Why one of them last time even admitted she had never been on a yacht before.
How are the children
>It seems funny to hear them called children. Brandon was just made bank manager at First National. Youngest one ever, JJ says. The bank is even grooming him to be chief executive officer or board president or something like that.
And Tiffany
>All wrapped up in art, of course. One-woman exhibit again. The critics can’t praise her work enough. How’s Leticia, by the way?
Fine fine She’s having a meeting of her Red cross comision this week. Being chairman calls for a lot of her time Her birthday is next week and I got to buy her something
>Just have your secretary do it.
I don’t feel right having her do it I should do it myself but I don’t have any idea what to get for her I was thinking maybe a dress but I don’t know what size she wears 10 maybe You know she’s real slim
>LOL!! Poor Mason. 10 is MONSTROUS!!! I wear a 6. Better buy her some pretty lingerie.
I’d just be embarassed going into a womans underwear department
Chester sat forward in his chair. Now they were moving on to the interesting part of the chat. He fished the last of the chips out of the sack, his eyes riveted on the screen.
>LOL!! You men are all alike! Here I’ll tell you exactly what to buy.
OK
>What I’m wearing now is
The message ended there. Chester cursed, crumpled the empty sack and threw it in the direction of the wastebasket. Her computer had crashed—right at the wrong moment. He waited. It might recover. It didn’t.
***
There had been nothing for it but to shut down for the night. Going into the kitchen, Chester was still hungry and in need of a grilled cheese sandwich. The broiler pan stared up at him from the greasy dishwater. He decided to pan-fry instead.
While he was cutting off generous chunks of jack cheese to put into the sandwiches, Marge’s bulk loomed in the doorway. “I told you and told you my computer had to be repaired. Now, are you going to take it in to Jerry’s—first thing in the morning?”
Without looking at her, he nodded. She proceeded to jerk slices of white bread out of the wrapper. Neither of them said anything more as they concentrated on the frying, each with their own pan.
It wasn’t until they sat down, after Chester had downed one sandwich and while Marge was still pouring imitation maple syrup over her two, she finally broke the silence. “I warned you over and over again my old computer was going to crash. Are you for sure going to take it in?”
“Of course,” he said, without conviction. Exasperation growing in his voice, he added. “It’s just as important for me as it is for you. You know that.” Chester had been grappling with the problem. Maybe he could get an advance on this week’s salary from the Old Man, or maybe Jerry would carry him to the end of the month.
Suddenly, as Marge was finishing off the first of her two sandwiches, the solution struck him, “Yup. I’ll take it in on the way to work. And I’ll get a loaner from Jerry, so you’ll be sure to have one tomorrow night. Then he won’t charge me until he’s fixed yours.”
“So you’re absolutely sure I’ll have one by tomorrow afternoon?” She paused for a moment and then went on. “What would there be for us to do if one of the computers was down?”
Chester nodded in vigorous agreement as he ate the last of his sandwich. “I guarantee to have it home and set up by five.”
Marge’s face relaxed. “Burketts is having a sale on glazed donuts. I know they’ll never sell all they baked. I’ll bring home a box of them tomorrow night.”
IN FLAGRANTE
There wasn’t much question about it. He was the prototype of the middle-aged conventioneer, fresh to the big city—probably for the first time—and making the most of his chance to celebrate away from wife, family and anyone else who might know him. His thinning gray hair was disheveled, his tie askew, and he was fumbling to find the appropriate bill in his wallet to pay for his Glendivet.
The sultry looking brunette in the long black dress at the other end of the bar hadn’t taken her eyes off of him for the past half hour, had been counting his drinks and now managed to catch his eye. She decided it was time to make her move—literally. Downing her drink, she eased off the stool and strolled slowly in his direction. Turning to look at her, he produced a lopsided grin, saying, “What’re you drinking? I’ll treat you.”
She smiled, eased herself onto the stool next to him and said, “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
Seemingly befuddled by her request, he paused, then said, “Shouldn’t mix your drinks. Hey, bartender, give this lady some more of whatever she’s been having. And top mine off.”
The relationship progressed rapidly. He continued drinking, exploiting his new audience with a long, rambling description of his business—packaging; his clubs—Kiwanis, Rotarians, Elks and others; his family—a wife and twin daughters about ready to graduate from high school and move on to college—this accompanied by glassine photos in his bulging wallet; his standing in his Indiana community—a king maker who had single-handedly put the current mayor in office.
The audience was attentive and increasingly friendly, with an occasional accidental knee rubbing included. Then an abrupt halt in the flow. He got unsteadily off his stool and announced, “Gotta make a pit stop, like they say at the Indy. Get yourself another drink on me. Be right back.” A careful walk to the men’s room followed the announcement.
The man standing at one of the wash basins inspecting his well-groomed image in the mirror turned to greet the newcomer. “Goi
ng according to plan, Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant grinned as he bellied up to the urinal. “Couldn’t be going better, Sergeant. She’s hooked. She did give me a scare there for a minute, though, when she asked for ‘whatever you’re drinking.’ That bottle of watered-down Glendivet would have tipped her off for sure. When the bartender heard her say that, he almost swallowed his cud. But I steered her away from it.”
“So it’s definitely her room?” Sergeant Devanter asked.
“Right. From the looks of things, in about ten minutes.” He moved over in front of one of the mirrors as he answered the question.
The sergeant inspected the lieutenant’s reflected image. “Muss up your hair some more, Lieut. And shift your tie over to the other side so it’ll look like you tried to straighten it out and overshot.”
The lieutenant complied, commenting on Devanter’s attire while doing so—an expensive gray suit, white silk shirt, solid blue Regis tie with matching zircon tiepin and cuff links. “You aren’t dressed for a bust.”
“Gotta measure up to this fancy hotel, Lieut.” He patted the shoulder holster and added, “But this is the only item I really need.”
“You checked the bug?”
“Yup. Great gadget. Size of a dime. State of the art. Under the light bulb in the lamp on the nightstand. Tested it, and it works like a charm.”
“And you spotted the photographer.”
The sergeant nodded. “Big guy. Sitting at a table near the door leading to the restaurant. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you and the lady friend.”
“Make damn sure you get the film. I want it destroyed immediately.”
“There’s no film. I saw the camera. It’s digital. Uses a floppy.”
“Whatever. We won’t need it because they’ll fall all over themselves ratting on each other.” He paused before adding. “I’d hate to have my old lady see it. She doesn’t take kindly to ‘line-of-duty’ explanations.” Checking his watch, he raised both hands with the fingers widespread, and waved them as he pushed his way out of the restroom. “Ten minutes!”
Staring for a moment at the closed door, the sergeant smiled and turned to give his own image one last inspection. The lieutenant had volunteered to play the patsy. Perhaps it was for the thrill. Perhaps a chance for some free sex with the lusty brunette. More likely it was to maintain his image as a hands-on officer. Devanter grinned at his mental pun, then decided the real reason was ambition. The blackmailers had worked over at least one prominent citizen. Their arrest and conviction would be a large feather in the lieutenant’s cap, which was already in the ring for the retiring chief’s job.
One last look in the mirror, a pull at each one of his cuffs, a flick at a non-existent speck of dust on his jacket, and the sergeant followed his superior out to the lounge.
In less than the predicted ten minutes, the voluptuous, dark-clad figure, followed by an eager but stumbling companion worked its way past the tables and out to the lobby. The heavy-set individual sitting at the restaurant entrance relaxed and ordered one more drink. There was time, and timing would be everything. From across the room, Devanter had also watched the departing couple. He, too, knew timing was everything.
The lieutenant found it difficult to believe his companion’s passion was entirely feigned. The door to her room had barely closed behind them when she was loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. It took little effort on his part to pitch in with enthusiasm once the price had been agreed upon. In moments they were stripped to the buff and rolling on the bed. Though expecting it, the excitement of the moment muffled the sound of the opening door, and it wasn’t until about the third or fourth flash before he became fully aware of the tall figure standing in the doorway, clicking away on the camera.
The photographer stopped to snap out the disk, handed it to someone behind him in the hallway, then slammed the door and sat down on one of the chairs. The woman rolled over to the edge of the bed, didn’t bother to put on any clothes but reached into her purse for a packet of cigarettes. As soon as she had lit one, she unscrewed the light from the table lamp, removed a coin-sized disk and dropped it into her purse.
While she was doing so, the photographer said, “Nice part about these cameras, Lieutenant, is we’ll have a dozen finished copies of the pictures in minutes. Let’s see. We’ll need one for the chief, that’s for sure. And one for your wife, of course.”
The woman blew smoke up toward the ceiling and said, “Don’t forget the newspapers. And maybe a copy for each of his daughters. He actually does have a couple of kids.”
Only gradually was it dawning on the lieutenant that something had gone wrong—very wrong.
The photographer went on. “Now, of course, we don’t really want to do anything so crass. All we ask is you turn in your resignation. We don’t even really want much of your retirement money. We know cops get lousy pensions.”
The lieutenant had caught a glimpse, just a glimpse, of the hand which had received the disk in the hallway. And it had included a spotless white cuff sporting a zircon cuff link.
“Oh, and one more thing. In your retirement letter, be sure to recommend Sergeant Devanter’s promotion to lieutenant.”
IT DOES NO GOOD TO RUN
Mark Brill tried to relax, tried to convince himself the worst was over, tried to think in terms of the ten thousand dollars waiting for him once he had made it through New York customs. He did relax enough to start wondering just how much the Vijaywada painting was worth if the director was willing to pay him ten thousand dollars to smuggle it into the country.
He had never seen the small painting, since it had already been covered over with some grotesque modern product which could easily be removed without damaging the original. But he had seen copies, and hadn’t been impressed. Then he began to wonder whether the penalty, if he were caught, would be proportional to the value of the work.
The plane-boarding in India had been harrowing, in spite of all the prior reassurance he had received from the director. As he had been told, no one had inspected his baggage. The carefully packaged Vijaywada received no attention. He was simply waved on. Knowing the Indian government took a dim view of the smuggling out of national treasures, Mark took an even dimmer view of what he had heard of Indian prisons.
The overnight flight to Frankfurt had been uneventful. He had tried to sleep, with little success. The thought of the painting stored in the baggage compartment was the major contribution to his sleeplessness. All untoward possibilities flashed through his mind and then repeated themselves. If Indian security could have been bribed so easily to ignore the package, why couldn’t they alert American customs to it for an additional reward? Wouldn’t the seller of the Vijaywada brag about his sale, and then word would get back to the wrong persons—customs informants? Maybe some more sophisticated customs officer would recognize the antiquity of the canvas and wonder why it had been used for a modern painting.
Not having to go through customs in Frankfurt helped to ease his mind. Ending up on the New York flight crowded into a middle seat didn’t help, however. The garrulous American in the aisle seat was even less helpful.
“Name’s Ralph Frost. Oil,” he had announced with hand extended, before they had even settled into their seats. From then on, it was mostly a monologue. Questions expected no answer. For that, Mark was grateful.
“Looks like we’re going to be packed in. It’ll take half a day to run us through customs when we get to Kennedy. Lousy bureaucrats. They think everyone is a smuggler. Far as I’m concerned, they could just stop all this nonsense about drugs. Let it come into the country, I say. Flood the market. The price will drop and then the trade will stop. Won’t it?
“And all the nonsense about smuggling in rare birds. Why, half of them are dead when they get here from the dope they’ve been fed to keep them quiet. If the do-gooders are so worried about birds, they should let them come in legally, in cages, where they won’t suffocate. Frankly, I can’t see why anyone w
ould want some squawking parrot in their house. Would you? Guess it takes all kinds.
“The biggest nonsense is trying to stop so-called national treasures from coming into the U.S. Supply and demand, I say. If Americans want to buy them, let ‘em have ‘em. Most of the stuff looks like garbage, anyway. And probably fakes, at that. Have you ever seen some of those old paintings? I was just in Iran, and the old guy who was hosting us insisted on taking me to one of their museums. I wouldn’t give two cents for anything I saw there if I had to keep it. My eight-year old does better with finger paint.”
Mark made a few attempts to stem the flow, or at least to redirect it to some less traumatic topic. Frost’s apparently natural restlessness finally came to the rescue. Soon after the plane leveled off and the seatbelt light darkened, he rose and started to wander around the cabin, presumably not content to settle for an audience of only one.
Mark heaved a sigh of relief and for the first time took full notice of the window-seat passenger, who was leafing through a magazine. A Middle Easterner of some kind, who caught Mark’s glance and introduced himself. The name was Sharad—Mark didn’t catch the last name—and he turned out to be a pleasant relief from Frost. He was polite, was capable of listening as well as talking, and even proved to be rather interesting.
For a while, Mark forgot the painting in the luggage compartment above his head and listened to what it was like growing up in a small village in India. Before long, he was sharing some of his own childhood memories with his companion, and gradually they moved on to the contemporary scene. Sharad pointed out the marked contrast between Indian views of life and those of Americans—the mysticism of the former and the materialism of the latter.
Mark quickly pointed out India’s swift acceptance of Western culture, consumer goods and weapons of war. He called his traveling companion’s attention to the fact they were at the very moment in an Air India airplane. This brought up the whole matter of the remarkable invention of flying, with Mark saying he had never gotten used to it and still expected the whole system to fail at any moment.
Expect the Unexpected Page 16
