Money for Nothing

by Donald E. Westlake

  “Yes, fine.”

  As Josh headed back to his listening post against the plywood, it seemed to him he could almost hear Levrin square his shoulders, squelch his doubts, decide to move forward no matter how strange Mitchell Robbie had turned out to be.

  “You'll use your own credit card,” Levrin said, “but of course we'll reimburse you later. Keep your receipt.”

  “Keep…receipt.”

  “Yes. A reservation has already been made in your name at All-Boro Car Rental at Eleventh Avenue and West Fifty-fourth Street.”

  “…Fifty-fourth Street.”

  “Yes. It's a weekend rental. You needn't write that down!”

  “No, fine, right you are.”

  “You'll get to the car rental agency at nine on Saturday morning. The car is to be a four-door sedan, seats five.”

  “…seats five.”

  “Yes. Once you have the car, drive north on Eleventh Avenue.”

  “…Avenue.”

  “Yes. At Sixty-third Street, on the southeast corner, there is a pay telephone.”

  “…pay telephone.”

  “Yes. Stop there, turn on your flashers—don't write that down, just remember to turn them on.”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Stand at the payphone and soon it will ring, and you will be given your instructions.”

  To proceed, Josh told himself, to Yankee Stadium.

  “And that's it?”

  “That's all of it. You will follow the instructions, and then your part of the operation is complete.”

  “Top hole.”

  “You understand, I can't speak about the rest of the operation, only your part in it.”

  “Oh, quite. Need to know. Think nothing of it.”

  “Well, Mitch, I'm pleased to say, I think Mr. Nimrin's choice in your case was an excellent one. Excellent.”

  “What, off so soon?”

  “More preparations to make. You understand.”

  “I could offer you a Diet Pepsi,” the idiot said. “With or without rum.”

  “Thank you, Mitch, another time.”

  The two voices receded, complimenting each other. Josh waited till he could hear neither of them anymore, then very cautiously opened the thin plywood door a scant inch, to squint out at an empty stage. As he peered there, one-eyed, Robbie came hurrying back into the theater, beaming like a halogen lamp.

  Josh crept out to the stage. “Is he gone?”

  Robbie stopped just short of the stage, all the empty chairs behind him. “Forty thousand dollars!” he cried, in a stage whisper, and actually rubbed his hands together.

  “Yes, I know,” Josh said. “In the Cayman Islands. I checked, and it's real.”

  “For a weekend's work, driving something or somebody somewhere. You know it really doesn't sound that awful, when you finally get to it.”

  “No, not so bad,” Josh said. “You're driving the getaway car.”

  22

  FROM WHAT? ROBBIE ASKED.

  “From the massacre.”

  Robbie backed until his legs bumped into the first metal chair behind him. He dropped into it, making the chair squeak. “I suppose,” he said, “you're going to have to tell me about it.”

  It was quickly told. Kamastan; Mihommed-Sinn; gypsy curse; Yankee Stadium; assassination. When Josh was finished, Robbie stared out through the upstage doorway a while, at that far-off snow-covered mountain. At last, he frowned and said, “They want me to drive to Yankee Stadium? After they do it? It'll be a madhouse there.”

  “I don't know,” Josh admitted. “Mr. Nimrin says, if he were doing it, his people on the honor guard would shoot the rest of the honor guards, release blood packets in their own uniforms, then kill the ambulance attendants on the way out. I don't think his friends are any less ruthless or bloodthirsty than he is. Whatever the details, I guess there'd be a place you were supposed to wait, they'd meet you there.”

  “Seats five,” Robbie said. “But why do they need me? Why do they need us?”

  “We're local, we know how things work, we know how to drive the local roads. That's why they have sleepers in the first place.”

  Josh was back on the settee by now, Robbie still in the aisle seat in the first row, but now he jumped up to start that pacing again. “No,” he said, glaring at the floor. “Can't be done.”

  Josh watched him. “What can't be done?”

  “All this killing.” Forcefully he shook his head as he paced back and forth on the forestage. His English-spy accent was gone, but the facial tics around his mouth were strangely reminiscent of Humphrey Bogart. “We're shupposed to help kill one creep from a hundred thousand miles away to help some other creep a hundred thousand miles away?”

  “I a hundred per cent agree with you,” Josh said. “Believe me, uh, Mitch”—because, if Levrin could call him Mitch, then so could a fellow American ensnared with him in this mess—“believe me, I've been staying awake nights trying to find a way to make this not happen.”

  “There has to be one.”

  “If we go to the police,” Josh told him, “we don't have enough for them, but we've done enough to get ourselves killed. I told my wife we could run and hide in Canada, she told me I'm not the type.”

  Robbie stopped his paces and tics to give Josh one brief intense stare, then nodded. “She's right, you're not.”

  Josh found himself vaguely insulted by that, but rather than pursue it, get caught up in a side issue, he said, “I suppose you are the type.”

  “I would be,” Robbie said, “if that was the way to go. But that isn't the way to go.” Suddenly he turned squarely to face Josh, shoulders hunched forward, jaw grim, arms bent like an ape. “Yeah, Tojo,” he snarled, in a more gravelly voice than ever before, “I'm just a little guy, but that's all right, Tojo, because there's a million more little guys just like me, and they're on their way, Tojo, you hear me? You hear me? They're on their way! Oh-haa-haa-haa-haa-haa!”

  Robbie's insane laughter slowly died away up among the lights. Josh said, “I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that.”

  Robbie cocked his head to peer at Josh. “All right,” he said. “Hold on.” He went over to get the metal chair he'd been sitting on, brought it closer, and sat on it to face Josh up close. “This is why,” he said. “Why your wife's right, but why nevertheless we've still got to do something. And can. The difference between us, you and me, is, you're the corporate type, and I'm the creative type. That's why you—”

  Stiffly, Josh said, “I'm with an advertising agency.”

  “Exactly,” Robbie said, as though he thought Josh were agreeing with him. “You don't think outside the box because you live in the box. Tote that bale, get that paycheck.”

  “Well,” Josh said, angry with himself for feeling defensive but unable to not defend himself, “there is some creativity in what I—”

  “Of course,” Robbie said. “Sell your talents to the man, because that's the only road you can visualize. Here you're in this situation, you say, ‘If I don't do exactly what they want, they'll find out and kill me. But if I do do exactly what they want, they'll massacre a whole lot of innocent people.’”

  “Yes,” Josh said.

  “You look at the possibilities,” Robbie said, “and you say, ‘Close the book. No more possibilities. I'll just have to feel unhappy until something bad happens.’ You see where I live.”

  “Yes,” Josh agreed.

  “Because I don't bend to reality, you see what I mean?” His eyes were more intense than ever, as though now he were channeling Svengali. “Reality bends to me.”

  “Sure,” Josh said. He wondered when he could get out of here, return to a real world of real-world problems.

  Robbie waved an arm, to indicate the theater. “Between productions,” he said, “we have classes in here, and that's what the classes are all about. Creating our own reality, anywhere in the world. Anywhere in a hundred worlds. You wouldn't believe where in space and time this little room
has been.”

  “Uh huh,” Josh said, and gathered himself to rise. “Well—”

  “So when do I meet this con-artist Nimrin?”

  23

  JOSH GOT TO HARRIET LINDE'S OFFICE at five to six. Feeling in some weird way as though he were in the position of host here, he thought he should show up early. He nodded to the doorman on the way by, with the sense he was becoming a regular here, and when he walked into the waiting room Robbie was already present, seated at attention, knees together, on the lefthand sofa, as though he'd been called to the principal's office. He was dressed now in what he must think of as proper apparel for traveling uptown: black lace-up oxfords, black chinos, and a button-down long sleeve white dress shirt, all the buttons buttoned, including collar and cuffs, except the top button at the neck. Not what anyone else in New York was wearing in July, except a few of the non-English speaking cabdrivers.

  Robbie nodded at Josh as the warning bell chimed. He pointed at the closed inner door and said, “She says she's with a patient. Not your guy Nimrin, by any chance?”

  “No, he's not a patient.” Josh came around to take the other sofa. “She didn't say there was a message?”

  “She just said she was with a patient. She came out and I said, ‘I'm waiting for somebody named Nimrin,’ and she said, ‘I'm with a patient,’ and went back in.”

  “Mr. Nimrin didn't say for sure he'd be here,” Josh explained. “But I figure, if there's no message, that probably means he's coming.”

  “I pretty well need to talk to the guy,” Robbie said, and the outer door opened and Mr. Nimrin walked in.

  He stopped in the doorway when he saw Robbie. He looked alert, tense, ready for anything. Still watching Robbie, he said to Josh, “Who's this?”

  “Mitchell Robbie,” Josh said. “You don't recognize him?”

  Mr. Nimrin frowned, but stepped further into the room, letting the door close. “You're Robbie? You've lost weight. Stop drinking beer?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” Robbie said. He frowned at Mr. Nimrin just as hard as Mr. Nimrin frowned at him. “You were the bartender?”

  Mr. Nimrin approached, stopped on the other side of the coffee table, leaned forward, looked as though he cared, and said, “Care for another, sir?”

  “Oh, my God,” Robbie said.

  Coming around the coffee table to the right, Mr. Nimrin made a shooing gesture at Josh. “Sit with your friend,” he said. “I'll take that sofa; I'm larger.”

  That was true. Josh moved over and Mr. Nimrin sat down, saying, “I'm glad you found him.”

  “Levrin found him, too,” Josh said.

  Mr. Nimrin raised an eyebrow at Robbie. “Then you must have played your part,” he said.

  “I always do,” Robbie said. “I heard what the plan is. Kamastan and all that.”

  Mr. Nimrin nodded. “Did they give you a task?”

  “Rent a car. The getaway car, according to Josh.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Nimrin said. “They'll need a local driver. So all you'll have to do is keep quiet, follow orders, and all will be well.”

  “I don't think so,” Robbie said.

  Josh had to twist halfway around on the sofa to look at Robbie, who faced Mr. Nimrin with a serious unflinching look. Meanwhile, Mr. Nimrin was saying, “I thought Josh explained the situation.”

  “He did,” Robbie agreed. “We're caught up in your scam that failed. If we don't pretend you were legitimate all along, everybody will be killed, including you.”

  “Exactly so,” Mr. Nimrin said.

  “Well, not exactly so,” Robbie said. There was a bluntness to him now, the private eye at the end of the movie, explaining who's guilty of what.

  Mr. Nimrin raised an intimidating eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  Including Josh in the conversation, if only briefly, Robbie said, “This is part of what I meant by bending reality to your own needs. The fact is, everything in life is a plot, a story, not just this massacre here, or Nimrin's scheme before. If you can look at the events around you as part of a narrative, you can begin to get some ideas about motivation, and where the story's supposed to wind up.”

  “Sure,” Josh said. He had no idea what Robbie was talking about. He could only see that this was a different Robbie, not pacing, not bouncing off the walls, not trying on different roles as though they were sports jackets. This Mitchell Robbie was insightful and to the point.

  Now, turning his attention back to Mr. Nimrin, Robbie said, “Josh still doesn't see what the story's ending is, but I got it right away. And of course you know it, too.”

  Mr. Nimrin seemed wary, all at once. “Do I?”

  “Certainly.” Robbie showed both hands, palms up. “Here we are in act two, scene one, I told myself. What happens in act three, scene two? At the end of the play?”

  “It's over,” Mr. Nimrin said. “You have a great deal of money, a brute has been removed from a brutal part of the world, and they will never call on these particular sleepers again.”

  “No, they couldn't,” Robbie said. “Because we'll be dead.”

  Josh stared. Robbie had said that so calmly, and yet he seemed deadly serious.

  Mr. Nimrin, also calm, said, “How so?”

  “If this thing goes off,” Robbie said, “there'll be a huge stink. Everybody will want to know who was responsible, so they can go teach them a lesson. So what will they find? Gee, it's home-grown, like Oklahoma City, a coupla crazy radical guys did it all on their own.” Looking again at Josh, he said, “They're rigging the evidence on us right now. They come in, they do the dirty, they go out, and there's nothing left but you and me, face down. The perpetrators.”

  24

  JOSH LOOKED AT MR. NIMRIN'S FACE, and what he saw there told him that Robbie had been absolutely right. Dead right. “You weren't going to tell me,” he said.

  Mr. Nimrin gave him an exasperated snort. “Why should I? They have to believe that you two are authentic sleepers, or my life is ended. Painfully. As important as your life no doubt is to you, so is my life important to me.” Nodding to Robbie, he told him, “Unfortunately, you are very good. Now that you've seen the snare hidden in the underbrush, the situation becomes more complex.”

  “You need us to keep you alive,” Robbie said, “and we need you to keep us alive.”

  “True.” Mr. Nimrin pursed his lips and patted his thighs in a pensive manner. “Unfortunately, I don't see how it can be done.”

  “And,” Josh said, “stop the assassination.”

  Mr. Nimrin gave him a surprised glare. “Do what?”

  “We have to stop the assassination. We can't have—”

  “I hope,” Mr. Nimrin said, in a cold and precise way, “that this is merely emotion speaking, and that a wiser part of your head will soon hold sway.”

  Robbie said to Josh, calm but meaningful, “He's on their side, you know.”

  “But—”

  Josh looked helplessly at Mr. Nimrin, seeing how coiled and watchful the man had become, understanding belatedly that he, at this moment, was at the very brink of a Van Bark-level mistake. Because he and Mr. Nimrin had been working in concert for more than a week, he'd settled into the comfortable conclusion that they were partners, on the same team, working together for a common goal. But that wasn't true. He said, “You want the assassination.”

  “Everyone in this room does,” Mr. Nimrin said. “I want that clear.”

  “Well, no,” Robbie said, and Mr. Nimrin turned his dangerous attention in Robbie's direction. Appearing unfazed by that laser look, Robbie said, “Josh and I have a slightly different goal from you. You want to save your own skin, and you want the job to succeed.”

  “It is my organization,” Mr. Nimrin said. “It is true I am no longer trusted at the highest levels, but it's still my organization. I have belonged with them my entire adult life, through changes of government, social structure and enemy. If the removal of Freddy Mihommed-Sinn is now considered vital to my organization, for whatever reason, then
that is my goal, as well. And it must be yours.”

  “That's where we disagree,” Robbie said.

  Josh said, “Mitch, I don't know. I don't think disagree is what we want to do here.”

  “Wait for it,” Robbie told him, and said to Mr. Nimrin, “We're not in your organization. You signed us up without our knowledge or consent. So we don't care if your organization wins or loses. All we care is that we're both still alive when all you people have gone back where you came from.” He pointed an astonishingly rigid finger at Mr. Nimrin. “You got us into this. You can help to get us out.”

  “How?” Mr. Nimrin seemed really to be interested in the answer.

  Robbie said, “They don't trust you one hundred per cent at this organization of yours anymore, but you're still in it, you're still around those people.”

  “Very much so.”

  “So you can find out what their plans are for us,” Robbie said.

  “You already know,” Mr. Nimrin pointed out.

  Robbie shook his head. “No, their exact plans. What do they mean to do to us? And also, what evidence are they faking, to make us the bad guys? We'll have to know what it is, and where it is, so when the time comes we can get rid of it.”

  “I'm not sure,” Mr. Nimrin said. “They don't tell me much these days, I'm sorry to say. I didn't even know Freddy Mihommed-Sinn was the target.”

  “You're a spy,” Robbie told him. “Act like one. Spy on them.”

  Whatever Mr. Nimrin might have said he didn't, because as he opened his mouth the interior door opened as well, and a man came out, short, obese, fat-faced, dressed in the world's largest pair of blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt like sunrise in the desert. In the crook of his left arm, he held a teddybear close to his chest, its nose against his heart. Tiny eyes peered out at them from inside the fat man's round pale face. If he could have showed an expression there, it would probably have been hauteur. He rolled across the room like an approaching low, and departed.

  When they were alone again, and the fat man's impact had lessened, Robbie said, “You have to help us, you know.” He waggled his pointing finger between himself and Josh. “Because, if we disappear, your goose is cooked, and you know it.”