Switch

by John Lutz

  They held hands as they went into the living room. Craig poured them each a flute of champagne.

  They toasted each other.

  “You’d better get rid of the purse with that cell phone soon,” Ida said, placing her glass on a paper napkin.

  Craig agreed, but he wasn’t worried. It would be a little while before Alexis Hoffermuth noticed the leather of her purse wasn’t its usual softness, and the brassware was a bit bright and tacky looking. And the clasp didn’t quite hold.

  Then, with a plunging heart, she would realize that it wasn’t her purse.

  But it was exactly like her purse.

  She would open the purse and see that it contained only wadded white tissue.

  And it would dawn on her like a nuclear sunrise—the Cardell bracelet, for which she’d just paid $490,000 at Sotheby’s Auction—was gone.

  Spirited away by a thief!

  Or had it been?

  She would try to recall the features of the woman who looked and acted like a flustered young Lucille Ball. Alexis would realize the woman had switched purses and left her with nothing but wadded tissue.

  But there’d be something else in the purse ... Alexis Hoffermuth’s fingers would jab and dance through the tissue, then close on a familiar object and draw it out.

  The bracelet!

  Relief would course through her. But not without some reservations.

  Craig Clairmont smiled. Alexis Hoffermuth wouldn’t understand. The bracelet somehow had been removed from her purse and then found its way into the substitute bag. Had the thief made some sort of mistake? She certainly was the type to do so.

  Alexis might wonder that again, when her real purse was recovered with the bracelet still in it. A bracelet like it, anyway. It might be a long time, and a lot of wishful and confused thinking, before it occurred to her that the recovered bracelet was yet another not-so-cheap imitation. That the thieves were simply playing for time.

  The very clever thieves.

  Ida and Craig each took another sip of champagne.

  That was when Ida’s eight-year-old daughter, Eloise, flounced into the room.

  May 6, 4:35 p.m.

  They thought at first he’d been struck by the sanitation department truck, one of those behemoths with the huge crusher in back.

  But the man in the alley seemed unhurt except for the fact that he was bending over, holding one hand folded in the other.

  When the trash truck had left the narrow passageway and turned a corner, Otto Berger and Arthur Shoulders exchanged glances. They were both bulky men in cheap brown suits. Otto was slightly the taller of the two. Arthur was slightly wider. Otto made a motion with his head, and the two professional thugs swaggered toward the lone figure in the shadows. The man looked up at them, and Otto smiled, not parting his lips. This was who they were expecting.

  “Bingo, bango,” Arthur said.

  “Gee, what happened to your hand?” Otto asked.

  The man, whose name was Jack Clairmont, grimaced. “I got it caught in the trash truck’s mechanism when they used that damn grinder.”

  “That’s a lotta blood you’re losing,” Arthur said.

  “I’m goddam afraid to look.”

  “What was you doing,” Otto asked, “tossing something into the truck?”

  “Didn’t I see you get something from one of them guys who sling the trash bags?” Arthur asked.

  “Like making an exchange,” Otto said.

  The injured man squinted painfully at them.

  Otto, though huge, was quick. He stepped forward and kicked Jack Clairmont hard in the side of the knee. Clairmont yelped and dropped to his elbows and knees on the concrete.

  “Don’t make no noise now,” Otto said

  Arthur was holding a knife. “He makes noise and it’ll be the last time,” he said.

  Otto gave Jack Clairmont a wide grin. His teeth were in need of thousands of dollars worth of dental work. “Very good, Arthur. This gentleman can’t make noise if his vocal chords are flapping around.”

  “If vocal chords do that,” Arthur said.

  Otto kicked Jack in the buttocks, not hard this time. “Crawl over there into them shadows,” he said.

  Jack Clairmont craned his neck and stared up at them. He looked as if he were about to cry. “Who are you guys?”

  “I’m Mr. Pain,” Otto said.

  Arthur’s turn to smile. Perfect teeth. “And I’m Mr. Suffering.”

  “And you better become Mister Crawl,” Otto said. “Right now would be a good time to start—What the hell was that?

  “Only a cat,” Arthur said.

  “Thing was jet propelled. And black.”

  “Bad luck.”

  “Not for us, Arthur.”

  “What’d it have in its mouth?”

  “Who gives a shit? We got business here, Arthur.”

  “Then business it is.” Arthur looked down at the injured man and grinned. Sometimes he loved his job.

  Otto stared hard at Jack Clairmont and motioned with his head, as he had earlier to Arthur, indicating direction.

  Jack Clairmont began to crawl.

  Then he stopped. “Oh, my God! My hand!”

  Otto sighed. What the hell was this about? He remembered the black cat.

  “I’m missing a finger!” Clairmont moaned. “That goddam crusher on the trash truck cut off my finger! My finger.”

  Otto shrugged. “It ain’t as if anybody’s gonna be asking you for directions.” He kicked the man again and pointed with his finger.

  Moaning, sobbing, Clairmont resumed his crawl toward the shadows, favoring his right hand.

  Still holding the knife, Arthur stood with his beefy arms crossed and stared at him. “He ain’t very fast.”

  “Yeah,” Otto said. “That missing finger, maybe.”

  “You think it could affect his balance? Like when you lose your little toe?”

  “I never lost a little toe, Arthur.”

  Arthur said, “Hey, that cat! You don’t suppose ...”

  “We ain’t got time to look and find out,” Otto said. He glanced around. “This is far enough,” he said to the crawling Clairmont.

  “Yeah,” Arthur said. “Time for you to rest in pieces.” He laughed. No one else did. “I was referring to the separated finger,” Arthur explained. But a joke never worked once you deconstructed it.

  “This guy’s kind of a wet blanket,” Otto said, shoving Jack with his foot so he turned and was leaning with his back against the wall. “We been here too long already. Stick him, Arthur, so we can leave this place before somebody happens by.”

  “Happens by? You must watch the BBC.”

  “Pip, pip. Do stick him, Arthur.”

  Arthur stuck him.

  May 6, 4:58 p.m.

  Ida and Craig were sitting in the living room, watching cable news on the TV with the sound muted. There was no news yet about the Cardell bracelet theft.

  “Where’s Boomerang?” Eloise asked.

  Craig looked at her, this annoying child that came with Ida as part of a set, half of which Craig loved. Loved enough to use, anyway.

  “Who’s Boomerang?” Craig asked, without real interest.

  “Her cat,” Ida said. “You know Boomerang.”

  “Only in the way you can know a cat,” Craig said.

  “I think he ran away again,” Ida said.

  Eloise shrugged. “He doesn’t run away. He always comes back. Like a real boomerang.”

  “Usually with a gift,” Ida said, cringing at the thought of some of the grisly trophies Boomerang had left on the kitchen floor as offerings. Everything from dead sparrows to rat heads. The more horrific the better. Boomerang would reenter the way he’d left, through the kitchen window, always open a crack to the fire escape, and deposit his offering on the throw rug. Then he’d be demonstrably proud. Cats seemed to think that way. At least cats like Boomerang.

  “He’s probably out doing it to the lady cats in the neighborhood,” C
raig said.

  “Craig!” Ida warned.

  Craig smiled. Maybe he and Boomerang weren’t all that different from each other.

  “Trash pickup happen yet?” he asked.

  Ida gave him a stern look. They weren’t supposed to talk about this in front of Eloise. Craig’s brother Jack was going to make the switch of the Hoffermuth bracelet for cash to one of the sanitation workers. Over $240,000. A bargain for the fence, Willard Ord, considering he would remove the bracelet’s jewels and sell them separately for more than twice that much. A steal for Willard. Except for the fact that Jack was going to give Ord’s emissary the remaining duplicate paste bracelet patterned on the Sotheby’s catalog illustration.

  Jack was supposed to call brother Craig on his cell phone when the switch was completed.

  Only he hadn’t called.

  Craig stood up from the sofa. “Goin’ out for a smoke.”

  “Don’t let anyone see you,” Ida said. “The mayor’s given the cops orders to shoot smokers to kill.”

  “Funny, hah, hah,” Craig said. He picked up Alexis Hoffermuth’s purse and folded a sheet of newspaper over it. “Might as well drop this in a mail box.”

  “Not one too close. And bring that damned cat in if you see him.”

  “He’s not a damned cat,” Eloise said.

  Ida pulled a face. “No, honey, he’s not. I’m sorry I said that.”

  “Anyway, he won’t go far. And nobody’ll think he’s a stray, ’cause I put his collar on him.”

  Craig looked at Eloise. “Collar?”

  “That pretty collar with the jewels in it you brought for him,” Eloise said. “The one you left on the table. I put it on him and fastened the clasp. It fits perfect.” She grinned. “Makes him an even handsomer cat.”

  Craig and Ida stared at her, comprehending but not wanting to believe, stunned.

  “Good Christ!” Craig said. He walked in a tight circle, one foot staying in the same place.

  “You put the bracelet on Boomerang?” Ida asked.

  “Collar,” Eloise corrected.

  Craig doubled his fist.

  “Eloise, go to your room!” Ida said.

  Aware that something horrible was going on, and somehow she was the root of it, Eloise obeyed without argument.

  “I wasn’t going to hit her,” Craig said.

  “We knew that, but she didn’t.”

  Craig sighed. “Yeah ...” He stared helplessly at Ida. “What are we gonna do?”

  “Cats don’t like playing dress up. Especially tomcats. But if Boomerang didn’t work the col—bracelet off right away, it probably doesn’t bother him and he’ll leave it alone. When he comes home, he should still be wearing it.”

  “So we do nothing?”

  “Seems the thing to do.”

  “You mean not to do.”

  Ida looked slightly confused. Still in character from earlier that day.

  Craig strode toward the door. “I need a cigarette.”

  Ida would have gone with him; she could use a cigarette herself. Only there was Eloise. Ida didn’t see herself as the kind of mother who’d leave her guilt-stricken kid alone for a cigarette. “Don’t light up till you get outside,” she said to Craig. They’d gotten the landlord’s notice that smoking was no longer allowed in the building.

  “I’m not going out only for a smoke,” Craig said. “Jack was supposed to switch the other fake bracelet for cash with the sanitation guy, then call me. I wanna find out why he never called.”

  Ida told Craig good-bye and counted to ten. She knew she wasn’t as ditzy as the role she played. And she understood what had to be done in this situation even if Craig didn’t. He’d argue with her, and forbid her to do it. That was why it had to be done before he had a chance to disapprove.

  The cat, the bracelet, simply had to be recovered. Craig wouldn’t understand that there were times when your enemies could become your best friends.

  Ida picked up the phone and called the police.

  Craig Clairmont walked over to Amsterdam through a warm May mist before dropping the purse in a mailbox. Then he retraced his steps until he was half a block away from the passageway where the switch was supposed to have taken place.

  Jack was almost invisible in the dark. Craig had to squint and stare hard to see his brother. Jack was down at the far end of the passageway, sitting on the ground as if he might be exhausted, his back propped awkwardly against the brick wall.

  Jack saw Craig, but dimly. He raised his right hand, tried to crook a finger to summon Craig.

  Aw, Jesus!

  But Craig saw the movement and jogged toward him, fearing the worst.

  When he got near his brother, Craig saw all the blood.

  Jack had so much to tell Craig. Things Craig had to know.

  He struggled to speak but couldn’t translate thoughts into words.

  Craig said something to him he didn’t understand.

  The light was fading.

  Jack was barely alive. He rolled his eyes toward his brother Craig. His face was damp from the mist, his breathing ragged.

  “What the hell happened?” Craig asked, bending down next to Jack. He saw a lot of blood, but no injuries, though Craig was holding his stomach with both hands.

  “Double-cross,” Jack said. “Bastard took the bracelet, then instead of giving me the money he started beating on me. I fought back and he hopped in the truck and it started to pull away. I grabbed onto it and that big trash crusher thing came down. My hand got caught in the machinery and it cut off my finger.” Jack hadn’t been gripping his stomach; he’d been clutching one hand with the other and keeping them both in close to his body. He held up the mutilated hand. “Cut the damned thing right off, Look at this, Craig! For God’s sake look!”

  Craig looked and felt his stomach lurch.

  Jack whimpered. “You gotta get me to a hospital.”

  Craig didn’t like this at all. Things would get even more dangerous when the thugs who stole the bracelet realized it was another fake, a paste duplicate, like the one he’d slipped into the Hoffermuth bitch’s purse before dropping it in a mailbox.

  “What’re we gonna do?” Jack asked his older brother, who usually had all the answers.

  Craig grinned to lend Jack hope and courage. “We’re gonna call the police. Get you an ambulance.”

  When Jack didn’t answer, Craig was surprised.

  He looked down and saw that his brother was dead. He hadn’t noticed the mass of blood around Jack’s chest and stomach.

  “Christ, Jack! Somebody stabbed you in the heart!”

  Of course, Jack still didn’t answer.

  Craig stood over his brother, emotions rushing through him, over him, anger, grief, fear, panic.

  But the panic, and then everything else, passed. Reality had to be faced. Manipulated.

  Craig knew he was something Jack never really was—a survivor.

  He also knew that now wasn’t a good time to bring in the police. For any reason.

  There wouldn’t be another trash pickup for several days. Probably nobody would wander down this shadowed passageway. Nobody who’d contact the police, anyway, if they came across a dead body.

  Still, Craig knew that to feel safe for even a short length of time, he’d have to at least partially conceal the body.

  Down near the far end of the alley a Dumpster squatted like a tank without treads. They didn’t empty those Dumpsters very often. And when they did empty this one, there was always the chance Jack wouldn’t be noticed.

  Craig bent over and gripped his brother beneath the arms. Digging in his heels, he began to pull the dead weight that had been Jack.

  If Jack were still alive, he’d understand.

  By the time he’d returned to the apartment, Craig thought he was as depressed as possible.

  That was when Ida told him she’d called the police. About Boomerang the missing cat, not the bracelet, she assured him.

  She thought he took it we
ll.

  May 6, 8:15 p.m.

  They were in the office late. Pearl and her daughter, Jody Jason, had come by to wait for Quinn to finish up so they could leave together and have a light supper and wine.

  But Quinn wasn’t interested in only finishing paperwork. He had something to say.

  Pearl looked at Quinn, not knowing if he was kidding. “You’re serious? This is a case for Q&A Investigations? You want me, personally, to look for someone’s missing cat?”

  Her jet black hair hung to her shoulders, framing a pale face and dark, dark eyes. Her teeth were large and white and perfect. Quinn thought, as he often did, that everything about her was perfect. She was a small woman somehow writ large, as vivid as poster art.

  He nodded. “Boomerang.”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s the cat’s name—Boomerang.”

  “Is this cat an Aussie?”

  Quinn made a face and shrugged.

  “I was just wondering if this case was going to require international travel,” Pearl said.

  Quinn sat quietly. It was the thing to do when Pearl was in this kind of mood. Ignore her. Best not to be in any way assertive. It was pointless to goad her.

  Pearl said, “This cat business is coming to Q&A by way of Renz, right?”

  “Well, yes.” It didn’t do to lie to Pearl.

  “You regard this as women’s work, looking for a missing cat?”

  “In this case, yes. Yours and Jody’s.”

  Something in his voice made Pearl understand that she’d bitched enough about this one.

  Pearl’s long-lost daughter, with whom she’d been reunited only recently, looked like a slimmer Pearl only with springy red hair. She lived with them in the West Seventy-fifth Street brownstone that Quinn was rehabbing. Jody had a mid-level bedroom, bath, and sitting room, where she spent much of her time when she was home. She had inherited a streak of independence from her mother.

  “It’s your case because you have a cat,” Quinn said. “You and Jody.”