Midway along the corridor, Guy paused to unlock a door on the left, pulled it open, reached in to switch on the overhead fluorescent, and gestured his guests to go on in. They did, Guy followed, and all found themselves in a square concrete box, harshly lighted by long white tubes from above, and overly full of Victorian sofas with disintegrating velvet upholstery in many once-rich jeweled colors, rubies and emeralds and sapphires all now sun-bleached and time-stained, with dark wood crest rails and scrolled arms and feet all dinged and dented and deeply scratched, as though they’d been used at one time in a Gay Nineties dodgem car concession.
Many sofas in here. Sofas sat on sofas, with sofas atop. Some sofas tilted upside down, stubby feet in the air, as though hurling themselves into oblivion. Two sofas, however, nearest the door, stood unencumbered, and it was to one of these, after closing the door, that Guy next gestured, then, while they sat obediently side by side, settled himself on the other.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘I understand you might have use of my services.’ He did his best to keep a faint note of incredulity out of his voice but didn’t entirely succeed.
The bright-eyed one spoke again. ‘We’re gonna have some stuff to sell. Morry said you—’
‘Yes, yes,’ Guy said, preferring to put the case in his own words. ‘As I understand the situation from our mutual friend,’ he said delicately, ‘someone has suffered a loss, and you are in a position to believe I may be instrumental in helping the owner reclaim his property.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Except,’ the gloomy one added, in a gloomy voice, ‘this particular loss hasn’t happened yet.’
Guy didn’t like that, not a bit. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘If you two are going to invite me to participate in anything illegal, I’m afraid I must—’
The gloomy one held up a hand for Guy to stop, and Guy surprised himself by stopping. Using the same hand, the gloomy one took something from his interior jacket pocket and extended it.
Paper, some sort of papers. Curious, cautious, Guy took the papers and saw they were color photographs cut without their captions from a magazine, showing the interior of some sort of museum or private collection. Hard to tell exactly what or where, but some of those pieces, well, if they were really what they appeared to be, he could already see they were extremely valuable.
Where was this place? What or whose was it? Well, whatever was on the back of these clippings should give him some hint as to what magazine they’d been cut from, and then he’d easily track down the right issue. So he turned them over, and what was on their backs was masking tape.
Guy looked up and saw the gloomy one watching him with gloomy satisfaction, having guessed ahead of time what his reactions would be. So, do not underestimate these people. Reaching forward, extending the bits of paper, he said, ‘You’ll want these back.’
‘Right,’ the gloomy one said, and took them, and made them disappear.
The bright-eyed one said, ‘So? You’re interested?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Guy told him. ‘It’s very unusual to be approached before the unhappy event. The ethics of the situation leave me at a bit of a loss.’
‘What we’ll do,’ the gloomy one said, ignoring Guy’s ethical quandary, ‘on Monday we’ll bring you some more pictures. Better ones than these. Close-ups, so you’ll know it’s the real stuff. Pictures where they are now, and pictures where they get moved to. You give those pictures to the insurance company—’
Guy said, ‘Not the owner? Sometimes, an owner can—’
‘Not this time. This time, it’s the insurance company, nobody else.’
‘Very well,’ Guy said. ‘If we go forward.’
The bright-eyed one said, ‘Oh, sure. If we go forward.’
The gloomy one nodded that away. He said, ‘You give them all the pictures we give you, all of them, and you dicker like you do, and you keep half of what you get, and we give the stuff back.’
Guy felt increasingly alert. Was this entrapment, somehow? Half was more than he would normally expect in a circumstance like this; his commission – that’s the word he used – was usually between a quarter and a third of whatever the owner or his representative paid for the return of the stolen objects. Were these people ignorant, or baiting him, or what? ‘I see,’ he said carefully.
The gloomy one watched him with an unnervingly bleak eye. ‘Half okay?’ he asked.
Say something, or not? ‘If we go forward,’ Guy said, temporizing. Then, remembering his recent decision not to underestimate these people, he said, ‘It’s higher than usual.’
Was that a smile on the gloomy one’s face? If so, it did nothing to relieve the gloom, as the fellow said, ‘We know it’s high. It’s so you should do what we ask, and don’t do anything else.’
Not entrapment. These two were offering Guy no details, asking him to offer them no encouragement. Most likely, they were working for the owner himself, and this was a false robbery for the insurance money; not the first time that ploy’s been pulled in this old world. Feeling on surer ground, and wanting to test this theory, he said, ‘Not do anything else, like for instance warn the victim, should I happen to know who it is.’
The gloomy one gave him nothing. ‘Like anything,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Just take the pictures on Monday and give them to the insurance company, and dicker, and then we’ll contact you, and, when the price is right, you collect, we’ll tell you where the stuff is, and we’ll come get our half of the money.’
Half. Half of what? Judging from Guy’s previous experience, the insurance company couldn’t be expected to come up with better than 20 percent of the established value of the pieces, particularly if they were valuable enough or well known enough to make resale difficult. Guy’s portion, then, if he chose to go forward, would be in the vicinity of 10 percent. Of what?
Elaborately casual, Guy sat back on the sofa. ‘Do you have an estimate of the value of the items in that lot?’
‘Six mil,’ said the gloomy one.
Guy was a trader; he knew how to keep a poker face. Ten percent of 6 mil is $600,000. ‘What time Monday,’ he asked, ‘can I expect the new pictures?’
36
Walking westward again through Central Park, back toward more familiar territory, Dortmunder and Kelp shared a companionable silence until Kelp said, ‘So. Whadaya think?’
‘I’m thinking,’ Dortmunder said.
Kelp said, ‘I’ll tell you what I think. I think that place is a pipe. Full a valuable stuff; we could break in there with a spoon handle, back up your borrowed truck—’
‘You don’t heist a guy you’re dealing with,’ Dortmunder said, not without reproach in his tone.
‘Not now,’ Kelp explained. ‘After, I meant.’
Dortmunder nodded, accepting that revision, and they continued to walk through the sunshine and the greenery here in the lungs of the city until Kelp said, ‘Does that mean yes?’
‘Does what mean yes?’
‘We’re dealing with him. Are we dealing with him?’
‘Who, Claverack?’ Dortmunder was surprised. ‘Why, you got a better idea?’
‘I thought,’ Kelp said, ‘you were thinking about it.’
‘What’s to think about? He’s the right fence for the job. I knew you’d know the guy, and you know the guy.’
‘Thank you,’ Kelp said modestly, but then went back to the point. ‘John,’ he said, ‘if whether or not we deal with that guy, Guy – you know what I mean, that guy. If that isn’t what you’re thinking about, what are you thinking about?’
‘The string,’ Dortmunder said. ‘This time, we gotta build a long string.’
‘We can do that, you and me,’ Kelp said. ‘With all the people we know? Easy.’
‘Except,’ Dortmunder said, ‘I gotta do something else. And this is already Thursday, and we got to pull the job Saturday night. So you and me and Tiny have to get together, right now, and then I have to work out stuff with Grijk, and then—’
&nb
sp; ‘You know,’ Kelp said, ‘I think that is the way he says his name. Very good.’
‘Thank you. Anyway, I’ll go get him, or however it works, and then we’re off, and you and Tiny are gonna have to collect the people we need, for a meet tomorrow night at the OJ. I’ll be back by then.’
‘Back? You and Grijk? Where you going?’
‘Skiing,’ Dortmunder said.
Kelp looked around at grass and sun and people in shirt sleeves. ‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘it’s the wrong time of year.’
‘Not the way I ski,’ Dortmunder said.
37
Well,’ May said, ‘it’s really kind of nice, isn’t it?’
‘It’s like a motel,’ Dortmunder said.
‘That’s what’s nice about it,’ May told him, looking around at the rose-pink wall-to-wall carpet, the beige fabric-covered walls, the Mediterranean-style wood-veneer furniture with the drawers that slid very easily in and out, the two giant beds with their pale cream covers stretched flat across their surfaces, the wall sconces and the swag light with the dull gold chain, the big TV in the top part of a tall cabinet that you could hide behind cabinet doors that looked as though they’d come from a cathedral somewhere. A very shiny cathedral. ‘It’s not at all like home, that’s what I meant,’ May explained.
Dortmunder stood over by the sliding glass door, looking through the glass and out over the balcony – their very own balcony, with a Lucite-topped table and two white lawn chairs – at the green hills of Vermont, with the long vertical meadows that he now recognized as off-season ski trails. ‘Grijk oughta be here by now,’ he said.
‘Relax, John,’ May suggested. ‘You don’t want him to get in touch with you when he gets here, and you can’t do anything about anything until tonight, anyway.’
Dortmunder nodded. Looking out at the view, he said, ‘There’s just so much about this I don’t like, you know?’
Under the swag light was a round dark wood-veneer table, flanked by two chairs with cushioned seats. Settling into one of these and finding it less comfortable than it looked, May said, ‘Do you want to talk about it, John?’
Did he? There was a little silence while he contemplated that question, and then he sighed and shook his head. ‘The first thing,’ he said, now looking at his own dim green reflection in the glass, ‘is the rush to do it, the pressure, the deadline.’
‘But you’ve got it all organized, don’t you?’
‘How do I know? I’m not even there. Two places at once, that’s another problem. And also, May,’ he added, turning away from the glass and his own cheerless image to the more cheerful view of her seated there with one forearm on the table, fingers hardly twitching at all for a nonexistent cigarette, ‘also beyond that,’ he said, ‘I’ve always believed, and I’ve always said, you shouldn’t get too complicated with a piece of work.’
‘That’s right,’ she agreed.
‘If a job can’t be done with five men,’ he said, ‘it isn’t worth doing. That’s what I’ve always said.’
‘I’ve heard you say it,’ she confirmed.
‘And now here we are, and here’s this thing, it’s in two places at once – no, three, we got a bunch, who knows how many or if they know what they’re doing, going into the bottom of that church over there, that Rivers of Blood place to get the glass box – and we got what, hundreds of guys?’
‘Oh, not that many,’ May said.
‘Not five, either.’ Dortmunder turned back to the sliding glass door, decided he didn’t want to look through his own reflection anymore, grabbed the door’s handle, yanked, felt several sharp pains in his hand and wrist, figured out how to unlock the door, yanked harder than before, and the door zipped away along its well-oiled track, boinked off the end piece, and came demurely rolling back in front of him again. He gently moved it out of the way, then at last looked out unencumbered at all that scenery, and felt that real mountain air on his face, and said, ‘And I still got to find Hochman’s place.’
‘You’ll find it,’ May assured him. ‘Hasn’t it been easy up till now?’
Well, sure; because up to now all it consisted of was an 800 number. Having left his instructions with Tiny and Kelp, having made last-minute arrangements with Grijk, all Dortmunder’d had to do was dial 800 HAPHOUR and book himself and May into Kinohaha for tonight, including the special hotel-operated bus – they called it a jitney, for some reason – that left the Port Authority at 2:00 P.M. and arrived at the hotel door at 6:15. Meanwhile, May had packed for them both, had taken a cab to the Port Authority, and they’d connected there at two minutes to two, ‘Plenty of time,’ as May had pointed out, to catch the nearly-empty bus. They even got to sit in the front row on the right, where you can see where you’re going.
Figuring that anybody who drove this round-trip twice a day to make a living probably knew the quickest routes, Dortmunder kept track of the roads the bus driver chose, jotting them down on a scrap of paper, even while knowing Stan Murch would argue with every decision along the way. Still, he was doing his part. And he didn’t lose the paper, either.
And now it was 6:30, the long June day continuing undiminished outside, they were here in room 1202 on one of Arnie Albright’s good-till-Tuesday credit cards, and it was time for Dortmunder to do his next part. He took a deep inhale of pure country air, coughed, turned away from the view, and said, ‘You want this open or closed?’
‘Oh, open,’ May said. ‘I love the air.’
‘Yeah, it’s okay. I’ll go out, see what I can get.’
‘I’ll be in the tub,’ said May, who, unlike Dortmunder, knew how to be on vacation.
Dortmunder nodded vaguely, searched his pockets, found the room key, and left.
The lobby was huge. Not high-ceilinged, just long and wide and spread out, with acres of neutral carpeting and lots of conversational groups of empty sofas and big free-form-shaped roped-off areas of tropical plants. Vast stretches of this lobby were just wasted, lying fallow, and the reason is, most destination resorts built since World War II have been designed with the idea that someday, someday, the particular state in which this particular resort is located just might legalize gambling; and whadaya know? Right here’s where we’ll put the slots.
All unknowing, Dortmunder walked through several ranks of ghost slot machines, looking around. But not for Grijk. The deal there was, Grijk would drive himself up, by himself, in an embassy car, with all the embassy spy stuff in the trunk, and would find a bed-and-breakfast somewhere in this general neighborhood – Vermont, it’s full of cute little bed-and-breakfast places with interesting histories and authentic architectural details and amiable current owners and fairly solid antique furnishings and Laura Ashley everywhere, check it out – and find his own dinner somewhere, while Dortmunder and May planned to eat at Kinohaha the dinner they were already paying for (or not paying for, given the method of payment) in the package they’d agreed to. Then, after dinner, Grijk would drive over to Kinohaha and wander around the lobby – this big lobby here – until he and Dortmunder caught sight of each other. Then, without either acknowledging awareness or knowledge of the other, Dortmunder would follow Grijk out to his car, they would both board it, and they would drive over to …
Where? That’s what Dortmunder was here to find out. Where is Harry Hochman’s château? And what is the clever, subtle, indirect, fiendishly cunning method by which Dortmunder would ferret out its location? Time would tell.
Over there. Over there, in a lobby corner that now, in its pregambling phase, was rather out of the way and forlorn, stood a small, ornate desk at which sat a small, ornate woman trying to look as though she weren’t bored out of her mind. GUEST SERVICES, read the brass sign on the desk, and if you think that means she’s here to service the guests, you’re wrong, mister, and you’re out of line, and, if you don’t move along this instant, it may become necessary to call for the bell captain. Huh!
‘Excuse me,’ Dortmunder said.
The small, or
nate woman gave him an extremely skeptical look, but no words.
There was a small, ornate chair in front of the s. o. desk and woman, but Dortmunder somehow didn’t feel he ought to sit in it. Standing beside this chair, not touching it at all, bent slightly forward at the waist, he said, ‘My wife and I, uh …’
And the sun broke through the clouds! Perking right up, the guest servitor said, ‘Yes, sir! Do sit down, sit down!’ And she waved many scarlet false nails in the direction of the chair.
So Dortmunder sat down. ‘We just got here,’ he explained, ‘and we thought we’d like to maybe, uh, take a little trip around, see some stuff in the uh, uh, uh …’
‘Neighborhood,’ she suggested. ‘Area. Environs.’
‘Yeah, like that,’ Dortmunder agreed. ‘We figured, we don’t want to spend all our time in the uh, uh, uh …’
‘Hotel,’ she offered. ‘Grounds. Compound.’
‘That’s it.’ Dortmunder rested a palm on the desk, next to the dangerous brass sign. ‘So something away from here,’ he said. ‘Something, uh, uh, uh …’
‘Interesting,’ she concluded. ‘Different. Unusual.’
‘Yeah.’
She pointed one of the scarlet nails off thataway, saying, ‘You saw all of our, uh …’
‘Information?’ he wondered. ‘Brochures? Pamphlets?’ He hadn’t. ‘Yeah,’ he lied, ‘but they’re all uh, uh, uh …’
‘Expected,’ she finished. ‘Standard. Uninspiring.’
‘Yeah.’
She smiled brightly. ‘How about Harry Hochman’s château?’
He gaped at her.
She said, ‘Do you know who Harry Hochman is? He’s the owner of Kinohaha. Do you know what his company is? It’s the third-largest hotel chain in the world. Do you know what he has only eleven miles from this very spot? A beautiful château that he built personally, under his own direction, just for himself and his beloved wife, Adele.’
Don’t Ask Page 21
