“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Freedly said. “Say it isn’t so.”
Zachary said, “What?”
Skoukakis turned toward them a dead–white face and gestured at his open safe. “I’ve been robbed!”
“Shit,” said Freedly, and went out to the car to call in. Zachary said, “What?”
Chapter 7
* * *
Dortmunder’s breakfast was: sweetened grapefruit juice (at which he made a face), two fried eggs over hard, white bread toasted with apricot preserves, instant coffee with a lot of milk and sugar. He had finished everything but the second piece of toast and the third cup of coffee when May came into the kitchen, wearing her coat. “Don’t forget to call Andy Kelp,” she said.
Dortmunder was fiddling with the digital watch. “Mm,” he said, and pressed the button on the side; the pink numbers said 6:10:42:08. “Mm,” he said.
“You’ll be home for dinner?”
“Yeah. I’ll take that stuff over to Arnie this morning. Maybe we’ll eat out.”
“That’d be nice,” she said, and left the kitchen.
Dortmunder drank some coffee, turned the watch around and around in his hands, poked it a bit, and pressed the button on the side. 6:10:42:08.
The front door closed.
Dortmunder chewed toast and considered the watch. When you weren’t pressing the button on the side, the rectangular black face was blank; it looked like Dick Tracy’s wrist TV. Dortmunder held the watch near his mouth. “Hello, less?” he said. “This is Tracy.”
The phone rang.
Dortmunder removed the remaining toast from his mouth by drinking the remaining coffee, patted his lips with a paper napkin, and walked into the living room. He picked up the phone on the fifth ring. “Yeah,” he said.
“What took so long?”
“Hello, Andy.”
“You were in the kitchen, I bet.” The real Andy Kelp sounded just as cheery as the machine Andy Kelp.
“You got a machine on your phone,” Dortmunder accused him.
“You want an extension for your kitchen?”
“What do you want with a machine on your phone?”
“It’d save you steps. I could install it myself, you wouldn’t pay any monthly fee.”
“I don’t need an extension,” Dortmunder said firmly, “and you don’t need a machine.”
“It’s very useful,” Kelp said. “If there’s people I don’t want to talk to, I don’t talk to them.”
“I already do that,” Dortmunder said, and the phone went guk–ick, guk–ick, guk–ick. “Now what?” Dortmunder said.
“Hold on,” Kelp told him. “Somebody’s calling me.”
“Somebody’s calling you? You’re calling me.” But Dortmunder was speaking into a dead phone. “Hello?” he said. “Andy?” Then he shook his head in disgust, hung up, and went back to the kitchen to make another cup of coffee. The water was just boiling when the phone rang. He turned off the flame, walked back to the living room, and answered on the fourth ring. “Yeah,” he said.
“Wha’d you hang up for?”
“I didn’t hang up. You hung up.”
“I told you hold on. That was just my call–waiting signal.”
“Don’t tell me about these things.”
“It’s terrific,” Kelp said. “Say we’re talking like this —”
“Yeah.”
“And somebody else wants to call me. Instead of a busy signal, the phone rings. That’s the click–click you heard.”
“It wasn’t click–click, it was guk–ick.”
“Well, whatever. The point is, I’ve got this button on the phone here, and I press it to put you on hold and answer this other call. Then I tell them I’ll call them back, or whatever I do, and I press the button again, and we go on with our conversation, same as ever.”
“We could go on with our conversation same as ever without all that stuff.”
“But I’d miss that other call.”
“Andy,” Dortmunder said, “if you want to call me, and the line’s busy, what do you do?”
“I hang up.”
“Then what do you do?”
“I call back.”
“So I didn’t miss the call, did I?”
“But this is more efficient.”
“Fine,” said Dortmunder. Another argument saved.
“See what it is,” Kelp said, “I got access — You know what I mean?”
“Access. You can get into.”
“Right. It’s a wholesaler for telephone equipment. Not the phone company; you know, one of those private companies.”
“Yeah.”
“Their warehouse fronts on the street behind me.”
“Ah,” said Dortmunder.
“I got lots of stuff.”
“Terrific.”
“I got — You know how I just dialed your number?”
“With your nose?”
“Heh, heh. That’s pretty good. Listen, lemme tell you. I got these cards. I got this card with holes punched in it for your telephone number, and I put the card in a slot in this phone here, and the card dials the number.”
“More efficient,” Dortmunder said.
“You got it. I got phones now all — You know where I’m calling you from?”
“The closet?”
“The bathroom.”
Dortmunder closed his eyes. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said.
“You know, I was home here when you called yesterday.” Kelp sounded a bit aggrieved.
“Not according to the machine.”
“I kept trying to tell you it was me.”
“You said you were the machine.”
“No, afterward. Did you do the thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Who with?”
“Single–o.”
Kelp chuckled, and said, “You didn’t do the big jewel thing out to Kennedy, did you?”
Skoukakis Credit Jewelers was near Kennedy Airport. Dortmunder said, “How’d you know? Was it in the papers?”
“In the — John, are you —” Guk–ick, guk–ick, guk–ick. “Oop! Hold on.”
“No,” said Dortmunder, and hung up, and went back to the kitchen and turned the heat on under the kettle. He rinsed his breakfast dishes, and the water was just boiling when the phone rang. He went ahead and made coffee, added lots of milk and sugar, stirred, put the spoon in the sink, walked back to the living room, and picked up the phone on the fourteenth ring. “Yeah.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I was making coffee.”
“You need an extension in the kitchen.”
“No, I don’t. Who was your other call?”
“A wrong number.”
“Good thing you didn’t miss it.”
“Well, anyway. Where were you last night?”
“Where you said. Out by Kennedy.”
“Come on, John,” Kelp said. “Don’t milk the joke.”
“Milk what joke?”
Sounding exasperated, Kelp said, “You did not steal some twenty–million–dollar ruby from Kennedy Airport last night.”
“That’s right,” Dortmunder said. “Who said I did?”
“You did. I make a joke about the big heist at Kennedy last night, and you —”
“I was out near Kennedy. Right.”
“Not near Kennedy. At Kennedy.”
“Oh. It was a misunderstanding.”
“So what you hit was a —”
“Andy.”
“What?”
“You maybe aren’t the only one who puts little extras on their phones.”
“There’s something you want?”
“You ever hear of wiretap?”
“Who do you want tapped?”
“Nobody. But let’s just pretend, just for fun, let’s just make believe the police or somebody have tapped your phone or my phone or whatever.”
“For what?”
“Oh, to find out if either on
e of us happened to commit a crime recently.”
“Oh. I see what you mean.”
“Also,” Dortmunder said, “there is no such thing as a twenty–million–dollar ruby.”
“Valuable,” Kelp said. “Priceless. It’s in the papers and on television and everything.”
“I wasn’t thinking that big last night,” Dortmunder said, and the phone went guk–ick, guk–ick, guk–ick. “That’s it,” Dortmunder said. “Good–bye.”
“John! Just hold on a second!”
Dortmunder hung up and carried his coffee back to the kitchen and sat at the table and studied the watch some more. 6:10:42:08.
The phone rang.
Dortmunder turned the watch around and around in his hands. He sipped coffee.
The phone went on ringing.
Dortmunder hit the watch against the tabletop, then pressed the button on its side: 6:10:42:09. “Ah–hah,” Dortmunder said. He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall — eleven–fifteen, more or less — and waited while the sweep second hand went halfway round the face. (The phone still rang.) Then he pressed the button on the side of the watch. 6:10:42:09.
“Mm,” said Dortmunder. He hit the watch against the tabletop, pressed the button. 6:10:42:10. Hit; press. 6:10:42:11.
Fine. If you started at ten minutes after six, and if you hit this watch against the tabletop six thousand times a minute, it’d keep perfect time. Leaving the watch on the table, Dortmunder went to the living room, walked past the ringing phone, put on his other jacket — the one with no tools in it–put the plastic bag with last night’s proceeds in his pocket, and left the apartment.
Chapter 8
* * *
You don’t get to be top cop in the great city of New York by squattin back on your heels and spittin between your knees; no, sir. You get to be top cop in the great city of New York by standin up four–square with your fists at the ready and smash in the face of every pest and nuisance as gets in your way, bedad. And by then you’re makin enough money — with your salary and what dibs of undeclared cash happen to fall from time to time into your open palm — so you no longer have to live in that smelly awful city of New York at all any more, but can have a lovely big house in Bay Shore, out in Suffolk County on Long Island, a nice water–frontage house lookin out at Great South Bay. And you can have your own power boat (called Lucille, after your wife, to keep her quiet), and three ungrateful children, and a summer cottage over on the beach at Fire Island, and a beer belly, and the satisfaction of knowin you’ve done about the best any man could do with the hand you were dealt.
Nine–thirty a.m. Chief Inspector Francis Xavier Mologna (pronounced Maloney), having driven into the city three hours earlier than his usual habit, and having been rigorously briefed for the last thirty minutes, followed his beer belly into the big conference room at Headquarters (One Police Plaza, downtown behind City Hall, a lovely building, all tall and dark brick, built like a giant pinup), and got introduced to a lot of damn new faces. There was no way a man could remember all those names, but fortunately Chief Inspector Mologna didn’t have to; he was accompanied by Leon, his secretary, whose job it was to remember things like that and who happened to be very good at it.
But what a lot of people had crowded into this conference room for this conference. Most of them men, most of them white, but here and there women, here and there black. In addition to Chief Inspector Mologna and Leon and two detectives from New York’s finest, there were also representatives from the Housing Police, the Transit Police, the DA’s office, the State CID, the FBI, the CIA, the United States Mission to the United Nations, United States Customs, the Chicago Natural History Museum, Turkish Intelligence, and the Turkish Mission to the United Nations. The first fifteen or twenty minutes of the meeting was just spent with people introducing themselves to one another. “Pronounced Maloney,” Mologna kept saying, and relied on Leon to remember who everybody was.
An FBI man named — Mologna raised an eyebrow at Leon, seated to his left at the long oval conference table, who wrote Zachary on his yellow pad — Zachary got the ball rolling by standing up and telling them what they all already knew: some son of a bitch had stolen the Byzantine Fire, and some other son of a bitch had stolen it from the first son of a bitch. Zachary had a graphic display — charts and blown–up photographs one after another on an easel — and a pointer, and a kind of stiff mechanical way of pointing at things with the pointer, as though he weren’t quite a human being but was a model put together by the Walt Disney people. A Walt Disney FBI man. “We know,” this fellow (squint at legal pad) Zachary said, “that the first group was Greek Cypriot. Several individuals are already in custody, and the rest should be rounded up soonest. So far, no hard information is available on the second group, though several theories have been advanced.”
You just bet they have, Mologna thought. He caught Leon’s eye and they shared a millisecond twinkle. It was amazing how their minds meshed like that. Here was Chief Inspector Francis Xavier Mologna (pronounced Maloney), 53 years of age, a God–fearing white male Long Island Irishman, and be damned if the person in all of life whose thought processes most closely matched his own wasn’t some damn 28–year–old smart–aleck faggot nigger called Sergeant Leon Windrift. (Had Leon been only homosexual, he would have been bounced out of New York’s finest long ago. Had he been only black, he’d be a patrolman forever. Being a faggot and a nigger, he could neither be fired nor kept in some damn precinct, which is why he’d risen so rapidly through the ranks to a sergeantcy and a job at Headquarters, where Mologna had first noticed him and stolen him for himself.)
“One suggestion,” the FBI man — Zachary — was saying, “has been that a second Greek Cypriot group was responsible for the second purloinment.”
Purloinment?
“The advantage of this theory is that it explains how the second group had so thoroughly infiltrated the first group as to be aware of their intended disposition of the ruby. There are contending factions, of course, within the umbrella groupage of Greek Cypriot nationalism.”
Groupage?
“A second theory proposed has been that agents of the Soviet Union, pursuant to the claims earlier put forward by the Russian Orthodox Church in re annexment of the Byzantine Fire, were responsible for the second theft.”
Annexment?
“In support of this theory is the fact that the USSR Mission to the United Nations has already denied Russian complicacy in the events of last evening. However, a third potentialism would be a transactage by a dissident factor within the Turkish populace.”
Complicacy?
Potentialism?
Transactage?
“Colonel Bubble of Turkish Intelligence —”
Mologna raised an eyebrow at Leon, who wrote on his yellow pad Bubul.
“— has assured us of the unlikelihood of this eventuation, but he will keep it under some advisement.”
Oh, well.
“Fourthly, there is always the possibility of coincidentalistic activity. A mere burglar may have stumbled upon the Byzantine Fire whilst engaged in his own depredatory activities. If there are any further suggestions anyone here might care to make, additional theories as to the perpetrators, their motivations, their future intentionisms, we’ll all be happy to hear them.”
Oh, will we? Mologna and Leon did the eye thing again.
“In the meantime,” Zachary was saying, pointing this way and that randomly with his pointer, “as both felonies were perpetrated within the parameters of the city of New York, they come within the primary jurisdiction of the New York City police force, which will coordinate interagency activities and assume transcendent responsibility for the investigation. Therefore, I am happy at this time to turn the meeting over to Chief Inspector Mo–log–na of the New York City police.”
Grunting, Mologna heaved himself to his feet and rested his beer belly on the table. “It’s pronounced Maloney,” he said. “You people can have your theories, and you can r
un down a lot of Greeks and Turks and Russian Orthodoxes, but I’ll tell you right now what happened. That damn fool jeweler put a sign in his window that he was leavin town. Perfect invitation to a burglar. There was a nice little piece of wire put on the alarm to bypass it. The door was jimmied open as gentle as a weddin night. The safe was cracked by a professional cracksman. He took this damn ruby ring we’re all so excited about, but he didn’t know what it was because he also took a lot of penny–ante rings and bracelets and watches. Your terrorists and dissidents and all them types don’t know how to quiet a burglar alarm or ease open a safe. All they know is machine guns and Molotov cocktails and a lot of noise and fuss and blood. It’s a nice New York hometown burglar is what we’re lookin for, and I tell you right now I’ll find him. My boys’ll toss this entire goddam city, we’ll pick up every grifter and drifter and peterman and second–story man in town, we’ll shake em all by the heels, and when you hear a plink, that’ll be the ring fallin out of somebody’s pocket. In the meantime, anybody got any questions, you deal with Sergeant Windrift here, my secretary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a whole lot of arrestin to do.”
Why Me? Page 3
