Money for Nothing

by Donald E. Westlake

  “I'm sure we shall be,” she said, and permitted him to take her hand and bow his head over it. She looked pleased, then surprised, and looked at her hand doubtfully when he straightened. “But you—”

  “The original air kiss,” he told her. “In the old days, when that was a more common greeting, the gentleman would actually kiss his own thumb, rather than permit his lips to touch her flesh, unless he knew her considerably better than you and I know one another. So far.”

  “So far,” she said, with a flirtatious nod. She was a foot taller than him, but she almost managed to appear as though she were looking up at him. So I finally get to see a courtesan at work, Josh realized.

  “But I had no idea you two knew each other,” she said.

  “Oh, sure,” Robbie said. “Old Nimrin recruited us together, years ago.” With a guileless smile at Josh, he said, “Down at Uncle Ray's, wasn't it?”

  “Right,” Josh said.

  Now she was blinking in confusion at the living room. “But it's so late,” she said, “and you are—”

  “I'm going to help Josh with the move from Fire Island tomorrow,” Robbie said, “so I'm here to discuss it. I'm in a play downtown, you may have heard of us, so I couldn't get here till after the show. I know I should be sorry I disturbed your rest, but in fact I'm not.”

  “I'm not going to Fire Island,” Josh told him. “The plans are changed.”

  Surprised, he lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “And I am not really resting,” she said, sounding fretful now that she was reminded. “It always happens, when I go to bed too early. When I go to sleep too early. I wake up in the middle of the night, so restless. If only I had a sleeping draught.”

  Josh opened his mouth, but Robbie got there first. “I'm sure Josh has some sleeping pills. Haven't you, Josh?”

  Josh was still in his clothing, the twist of aluminum foil with the sleeping pills still in his pants pocket. “Sure,” he said. “In the bathroom. Wait here, Tina, chat with Mitch, I'll get you a couple and a glass of water.”

  He raced into the bathroom, paused to gaze in wonder at the rictus-faced maniac in the mirror there, undressed the sleeping pills, filled a glass with water, and hurried back to the living room, where Tina was saying, “It's rather too bad, really, that I wasn't assigned to you, rather than—Oh, there you are, Josh.”

  “And here are the pills. And I heard that.”

  She took them, swallowed them with water, and said, “Thank you. But you must admit, Josh, for me, you are not that…stimulating.”

  “I know,” Josh said. “Sorry.”

  “We have world enough and time, lady,” Robbie assured her. “Come see the show tomorrow night, I'll leave passes at the box office.” Pointing to Josh, he said, “Bring your wooden indian.”

  She laughed. “What a delightful idea. But I must not waste these pills.”

  “No,” Josh agreed.

  “Good night to you both,” she said, and departed, with the waterglass.

  Josh walked to the door with Robbie. “I couldn't believe that,” he whispered. “Jesus, you took a chance.”

  “Not really.” Then, “I don't care about your past, darling,” he whispered. “It's your future that interests me.” With a grin and a wink at Josh, he whispered, “A week or two of your future, anyway. See you in half an hour.”

  36

  TINA SNORED. JOSH COULD ONLY assume she didn't snore as a general rule—it would be a negative quality in a femme fatale—but that it was a side effect of the sleeping pills. Nevertheless, he felt embarrassed for her, and guilty for himself, having brought four men into the bedroom to listen to Tina saw wood.

  The three new ones were Robbie's castmates in the play, introduced in whispers in the dark living room as Nicola, Petkoff, and Bluntschli, which made them sound more like Levrin's friends than Robbie's. But then Petkoff whispered, “Mitch, I'm not Petkoff now,” and whispered to Josh, “I'm Tom, that's Dick, and that's Harry.”

  “No jokes,” Harry/Bluntschli whispered.

  Robbie whispered, “That's why I told him your character names, but whatever you want. Let's do it.”

  So they went into the bedroom, where Tina snored in long grumbling rollers, and Josh opened the closet door. No room in Manhattan is ever entirely dark, the halo over the city seeping in everywhere, so they had no trouble finding the uniforms. They took it all, hats and boots as well, filling their arms and shoulders, all four staggering with the weight of it when they left the room. Josh closed the door behind them, then hurried ahead to open the hall door.

  On his way out, Robbie whispered, “Come to the show tomorrow night. Be sure to bring Tina.”

  “What part am I supposed to be playing?” Josh asked him. “Pander?”

  Robbie was amused by that. “Certainly not. You are the Nurse, the good Nurse. See you tomorrow.”

  Nearly three o'clock, and he still wasn't asleep, though he was now stretched on his substitute bed on the floor. Removing the uniforms from this apartment had almost seemed like a lark ahead of time, until it was done. Only now did he really stop to think how dangerous it was.

  It was true that Tina was unlikely to find the uniforms missing. Since the closet had been so full of Josh and Eve's clothing, plus the uniforms, she was using the smaller closet in Jeremy's room, plus the small suitcase in there that had so upset Eve. Still, Levrin had wanted to look at them tonight, and who knew who else might want to see those props before showtime?

  Josh remembered the pose of outraged innocence Robbie expected him to perform when the discovery was eventually made, and the more he thought about it, the more sure he was he wouldn't be able to bring it off. Robbie could do it, that was the sort of thing he did all his life anyway, but Josh was not a great pretender.

  Levrin and his goons, Josh knew, wouldn't even have to actually torture him to make him tell the truth. All Hugo would have to do was turn those little mean eyes in Josh's direction, and Josh would spill every bean he had. He'd spray like a fountain. Then they would squeeze him like a pimple, race down to Good Rep, squeeze Robbie like a pimple, get their uniforms back, and be off to Yankee Stadium.

  With a side trip to punish Eve and Jeremy.

  But what else could they have done, he and Robbie? What else could they do? I'm going out there a scared little boy, Josh told himself, and I have no idea what I'll be when I come back. If I come back. But I had to try it, didn't I?

  2:56. It had been 2:56 an awfully long time, hadn't it? Was the clock stuck? It shouldn't be—

  2:57. Well, all right, but when am I going to get some sleep? 2:57. 2:57. 2:57. 9:23. What was that?

  “Rouse up, sleepyhead!” called the cheerful voice of the well-rested Tina. “It's a new day!”

  37

  THE NEW DAY WAS THE worst day of Josh's life. Friday, and he'd originally expected to be on his way to Fire Island, to spend a weekend with his family, packing and fretting, with Eve to lend him support. Instead of which, he was alone in the apartment in New York, just fretting. No distractions. No support.

  Would Premier Mihommed-Sinn's arrival in the city today get live coverage from any of the local stations? No; not the stations he could get without cable, anyway.

  After a glum breakfast, he went out to get the Times, and at least the Times knew the Premier was to arrive today. Some background was given in the piece, though not the gypsy curse, and a rundown on tomorrow's events at Yankee Stadium, in which Premier Mihommed-Sinn and his Olympic sprinter, Drogdrd Ozak, while important, were far from the only principals. A number of worthy athletes from around the world were being honored, all of this in connection, apparently, with some important gathering at the United Nations. Notable names would be present at the stadium to receive awards, to present awards, or merely to stand around being important. Of honor guards there would be several, of ceremonies many, but of slaughter? None was mentioned.

  A little before eleven, Tina appeared, in a fitted short white dress and amazingly tall red he
els, so that now she had to stoop to get through doorways. Over her shoulder and bouncing on her hip was a shiny red bag that matched the shoes…and, come to notice, her lipstick. She seemed energized, happy, charged-up, particularly in contrast to Josh's condition of funk.

  “My dear,” she announced, “I must be leaving New York in just a very short while. Before I go, I must stop in at one or two shops. Are we to attend this theater tonight?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I shall buy something to wear. Off-Broadway, is it not?”

  “Very off-Broadway.”

  “I shall be found,” she told him, “in better stores everywhere.” And off she sailed, leaving Josh more morose than ever.

  Afterward, he could never remember how he got through that Friday, alone in the apartment, not knowing if he was going to be responsible for mass murder, not knowing if he was going to be tortured and murdered himself for betraying Andrei Levrin's cause, whatever it was, not knowing what would happen to Eve and Jeremy over this horrible weekend.

  He sat through it, he got through it. He knew enough not to look at the clock, but he couldn't keep from thinking about all those checks. United States Agent. How could he have kept them? If United States Agent were truly impossible to reach, how could he have risked taking their money?

  It all seemed so stupid now. He'd never needed the money that badly, not even at the beginning. It had just been easier to take it, that's all. Easier for him, easier for Mitchell Robbie, easier for poor Robert Van Bark.

  Three others had not taken the money, not cashed the checks. What moral fiber did they have that Josh lacked? Or what wisdom? What was it inside their heads that had told them, “Don't go there, don't have anything to do with that,” that was not in his head? Was he a moral weakling? Was he simply a fool?

  Never in his life had he felt such self-doubt, nor ever had he had such leisure to nurse it.

  Black Friday.

  38

  WHEN TINA SWEPT BACK IN, at about five-thirty, she was as radiant and invigorated as ever, though now burdened with any number of bright shopping bags. She dropped them on the coffee table in front of the lumpish Josh and on the sofa next to him, surrounding him with intimations of a more gladsome world. The names he could see on the shopping bags were Ferragamo, Prada, Bergdorf-Goodman, Henri Bendel. Femme fatality must pay well.

  She stood, long and lean in her snug white dress, one hand on one cocked hip, and studied him, half in concern and half in mock-concern. “But my dear,” she said, “why such a long face?”

  “Because I'm sorry I got into this,” he told her, too low to care anymore what any of these people thought of him.

  “Oh, my poor dear,” she said, and sat in the chair beyond the coffee table, the better to consider his case. “It's because of your Eve, isn't it?”

  “That's part of it.”

  “I know,” she told him. “There were many discussions about that action. There was a fear—I must tell you, I expressed it—a fear that it would harm your morale.”

  “Looks like you were right.”

  “But security remained paramount. That Andrei,” she said, as though he were just some naughty child, “he does not explain himself well, and he does not give consideration to other people's feelings.”

  That was a big enough surprise to make Josh look at her more closely. Other people's feelings? These assassins, these spies, agents, whatever to call them, did any of them ever consider other people's feelings, except as tools to manipulate?

  And what was Tina Pausto doing now? Cooling him down, keeping him calm enough to go on being useful to the scheme. But it didn't matter if he knew that. She was very good at her fakery, as of course she would be, and it was succeeding. He could see through her, and yet the simulation of fellow-feeling worked just as well as the real thing. He found himself responding, wanting to be soothed. He said, “I don't see why they had to do it. Why not let Eve and Jeremy stay where they were? Come back on Sunday, when it's all over.”

  The look she gave him now was a keen one. “Josh, what do you know of our operation?”

  “Everything,” he said, and shrugged. What did anything matter? It was too much effort to go on lying.

  Watching him, she said, “Everything?”

  “I know what the honor guard is going to do at Yankee Stadium tomorrow. I know about Premier Mihommed-Sinn. And I know you're keeping Eve and Jeremy out at Mrs. Rheingold's. All right?”

  She sat back, astonished. “But, my dear, you are amazing! You learned all this—Not from me. And I know not from Andrei.”

  Something kept him from mentioning Mr. Nimrin, though why he should go on thinking of Mr. Nimrin as being worthy of protection he couldn't think. Maybe it was just perversity, the gloomy pleasure of being able to say, “I'll keep my sources to myself, if you don't mind.”

  “Why should I mind?” She offered him one of her sunniest smiles. “You must know, I am not always absolutely completely open with you, either, my dear.”

  “I suspected that.”

  She laughed, then patted her knees with her long fingers. “So you see,” she said, “you have no reason for these sad looks. You know everything that will occur, you know your own so-minor part in it, you know that your family are safe and well cared for in Mrs. Rheingold's very lovely estate, with its incomparable views of Long Island Sound. You even know when this will all be over, so that you may return to your normal life. Though I would suggest,” she said, leaning forward, very confidential, “that you do something about getting cable. Particularly with a small child in the house, you do not want only these networks.”

  He couldn't help it; he laughed. “All right,” he said. “I'll get cable. After all this is over.”

  “Tomorrow,” she assured him. “It's just that little more, and then it's over, and you need never see any of us again. I know you'll like that.”

  “I'll like it more with Andrei than with you,” he said.

  She was delighted with him. “Now you're better,” she said, and jumped to her feet. Gathering up her shopping bags, she said, “I will change and—It is an eight o'clock curtain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. I will change,” she said, and stood there holding all those bag handles while she considered him. “And you will change also,” she informed him. “Change into more festive garments, and into a more festive face.”

  “I'll try.”

  “We shall have a light snack in this neighborhood,” she said, “but not too much, because we don't want to fall asleep in the theater. The actors would be so insulted.”

  “I'm sure they would.”

  “After the play we'll have our real dinner.” Bright-eyed, she said, “Perhaps your friend Mitchell will join us.”

  “I wouldn't be surprised,” Josh said.

  39

  TINA PAUSTO COULD CREATE A stir at the Academy Awards. At the Good Rep theater, she caused more than one patron to walk into a wall. So tall, so sleek, so slender, poured into a basic little black dress from which her completely admirable silvery legs emerged and emerged and emerged. Josh, next to her, felt it must be like this to walk your pet cheetah.

  The cab, which they'd had no trouble capturing (those legs), debouched them in front of Good Rep at five to eight, to find a little cluster of smokers making a miasma in the forecourt. They went through, smokers staggering back from Tina's abrupt presence, and in the little black lobby they waited briefly while another patron had dealings with the young man now on duty at the saleswindow. That patron having cleared, Josh moved forward and said, “Tickets are being held for me. Redmont.”

  The clerk riffled through several envelopes in a small wooden box whose tilted-back top said recipes. He riffled again. “Spell?”

  Josh spelled his name. The clerk riffled again, looked at Josh, shook his head. “Not here.”

  “But Mitchell Robbie said they'd be here. He invited us.”

  “Not here.”

  Was this some sort of
practical joke? Stymied, Josh just stood there and blinked at the clerk.

  Tina leaned down past Josh's shoulder to say, in honeyed tones, “Look under Tina.”

  Josh said, disbelieving, “Tina?”

  “Here it is,” the clerk said, and pushed the little envelope forward, his knuckles bumping painfully into Josh's knuckles because he was looking at Tina. “Enjoy the show,” he told her.

  Arms and the Man is a comedy set in a small town in Bulgaria in 1885. There's a war going on, Bulgarians led by Austrian officers versus Serbs led by Russian officers. In the first act, a Serb soldier, who later turns out to be Swiss for some reason (Bluntschli, played by Harry), hides from Bulgarian troops in the bedroom of Raina, the daughter of a Bulgarian major. She finds him, but he and his pistol talk her into covering for him. She gives him a coat of her father's, who's away at the war, and he leaves.

  The next spring, out in the garden (an even more minimal set), there's some rustic comedy of the rural-lout sort, including the servant Nicola (Dick, with smudged cheeks). The father, Major Petkoff (Tom, with a pillow stomach), is back from the war, and so is his daughter's betrothed, the war hero Sergius (Robbie, looking not like just any doorman, but the doorman at Trump Tower). Sergius and Raina are both devotees of the higher emotions, full of melodramatic gestures and proud stances (a dig at romantic novels peers wanly out of the past).

  Bluntschli, the Serb/Swiss, now that the war is over, shows up to return the coat. It takes another act and a half for everybody to understand that Raina doesn't really want to be a romantic ninny and that she belongs with the realist Bluntschli rather than the preening hero, Sergius. A nice round of applause, and out to dinner.

  Josh was not having a good time. He and Tina and the cast, plus some others of varying significance, trooped through the night-streets after the show, loud and boisterous, across portions of the Lower East Side, where most of them were known at the bar where they filled most of the tables at the back and demanded cheeseburgers and pitchers of beer. Everyone was having a good time, caught up in the exhilaration of another performance, except Josh, who knew he didn't belong here but was afraid to think where he did belong. No matter what he or anyone else did, and despite the best efforts of George Bernard Shaw, all he could think about was Yankee Stadium, tomorrow. Tomorrow.