“I don’t think they’re looking,” Stan told him. “Nothing in the paper yet. There was that big snowstorm over the weekend, you know, maybe they won’t even know it happened until weeks from now.”
“Oh-kay,” Little Feather said.
They all looked at her, and she held up the swatch of hair, which she’d arranged between her thumb and first finger so that it looked as though she’d just cut it off her own head herself just this minute. “Now it’s gonna be okay,” she said.
Fitzroy said, “Little Feather? Are you sure you can make the investigator believe that’s your hair?”
“Watch me,” Little Feather advised. “You don’t get a blackjack dealer’s license in Nevada without knowing how to use your hands.” She had gone in an instant from confusion and fear directly to absolute self-assurance. “Bring on that investigator,” she said.
“And if I can just make a quick pit stop,” Stan said, “I’m outta here.”
Marjorie said, “You’re going to drive all the way back? Today?”
“You bet,” Stan told her. “My pals down there are waiting for me. We’re gonna sell some property we just come into, and we all want to be there to cut up the jackpot. So, could I?”
“Oh, the bathroom,” Little Feather said. “Sure. It’s right down the hall there.”
“Thanks.”
Stan went down the hall, Marjorie moved into a corner to use her cell phone, to find out exactly when the investigator would arrive, and Fitzroy said, “Irwin. We’re off.”
“Right,” Irwin said.
As they shrugged into their coats, Little Feather said, “Where you two going?”
“We shall follow,” Fitzroy told her, “our new friend Stan. I believe he shall lead us to our former partners.”
“Former,” Little Feather said.
Irwin said, “And I believe we’ll find them counting a jackpot. See you, Little Feather.”
44
* * *
He isn’t in that much of a hurry,” Irwin commented. He was behind the wheel of the Voyager, Fitzroy beside him, the courier Stan in a recent red Lexus some distance ahead, southbound on the Northway.
“Then neither are we,” Fitzroy told him, smiling like a man who’s had an advance look at the test answers. Which, in a way, is exactly what he was.
Everything was about to come out right after all, and at long last. His simple but profitable scheme to produce the missing Pottaknobbee heiress had almost derailed several times, had been forced to undergo all the complications produced by Andy Kelp and Tiny Bulcher and John Whatever his name was—and their timely assistance once or twice as well, it had to be admitted—but through it all, the original concept had remained intact. The hair in Little Feather’s hand would prove her ancestry and open the casino coffers to her and to her partners. Oh, happy day.
Of course, Fitzroy had no doubt a little intimidation would be required to keep Little Feather from forgetting she had partners, but Fitzroy also knew that he and Irwin were up to whatever persuasive methods were called for. And the bozos—Irwin’s word, which Fitzroy was happy to borrow, now that they were in endgame—were about to be dealt with for good and all.
In addition to the usual sidearms that he and Irwin packed on their persons, they now had a pair of Glock machine pistols under the Voyager’s front seats, and Fitzroy firmly expected to use them before this day was done.
And with a profit attached as well. Not only would they rid themselves of all these unwelcome associates but those associates, according to Stan, had just performed a very profitable robbery. That profit would do just as nicely in Fitzroy’s pocket.
The only remaining problem that he foresaw was Irwin himself, and those blasted tapes of his. While the tapes existed, perforce Irwin must also continue to exist. Well, once the bozos were dealt with, and once Little Feather was installed as the new full partner in the casino, Fitzroy would be able to turn his attention to the problem of Irwin. He had no doubt it was a problem that would eventually be solved.
In the meantime, on this cold and sunny day, Monday, the eleventh of December, while Little Feather was palming off another person’s hair on an unexpecting investigator, Fitzroy and Irwin drove south, following that red Lexus, staying well back, observing that Stan was in no rush to be once again among his fellow thieves, but was taking his time, staying with the general flow of traffic, barely above the speed limit.
Nearly two hours after they’d started, they came to Albany, then made the transition from the Northway to the Thruway, and shortly afterward, the Lexus began to signal for a right. “It’s a rest area,” Irwin said.
“Good,” Fitzroy commented. “I’ve been feeling for some time I could use a rest area.”
“We need gas, too,” Irwin told him. “I’ll take care of that while you’re in the gents.”
“If I can find a bottle of soda or a sweet roll,” Fitzroy offered, “without our friend Stan piping me, I shall do so.”
“Just don’t still be gone when he comes back,” Irwin said. “I’m following him if you’re here or not.”
“Oh, I’ll be back in plenty of time,” Fitzroy assured him as they followed the Lexus into the rest area and to the passenger car parking lot next to the fast-food restaurant.
Irwin dawdled while they watched Stan on his car phone in there, absorbed in what he was doing, paying no attention to the world around him. “Reporting in,” Irwin commented.
“Establishing a rendezvous,” Fitzroy concluded.
Finally, Stan, too, concluded his phone call, and emerged from the Lexus, to lock it and head for the restaurant.
“Good,” Fitzroy said, “he’s decided to have lunch.”
“You can get me a sweet roll and a bottle of soda,” Irwin said.
“I shall.”
Irwin stopped in front of the restaurant entrance long enough for Fitzroy to climb down from the Voyager, then headed on for the gas pumps while Fitzroy went into the building and followed the sign to the men’s room, which was full of skier daddies and their tiny sons. Moving through all these elbow-height people, Fitzroy entered a stall and spent some time in there, listening to the families bond outside; it sounded like an aviary.
At last, ready to leave, he took down his coat, heavy with weaponry, from the hook on the back of the door, shrugged into it, opened the door, and Tiny Bulcher stepped in, pushing Fitzroy backward so that he sat abruptly on the toilet, while the big man came on in, squeezing into the space, pushing the door closed behind him.
There really wasn’t room for both of them in here. Fitzroy was about to say so, perhaps with some vehemence, when Tiny reached out, delicately, with thumb and first finger of his right hand, like someone choosing just the one perfect grape from a bowl of grapes, and grasped hold of Fitzroy’s Adam’s apple. Fitzroy froze, eyes and mouth wide open, and Tiny leaned down to speak to him very quietly, but with impact: “John is a humanitarian,” he explained. “He says I should let you stay alive unless you irritate me. It’s more complicated that way, but I’m willing to go along with it, not have this major mess on the floor in here with all these kiddies about, if we can do it that way. You gonna irritate me?”
Fitzroy didn’t trust himself to speak. Also, his throat was in extreme pain. Instead, understanding now why Stan had taken his time on the drive south and to whom he had been communicating on his car phone, Fitzroy spastically shook his head. No, he would certainly not irritate Tiny.
“Good.” Tiny released the Adam’s apple, which went on hurting anyway. He leaned his back against the door and said, “I’ll take the coat. Might as well leave the guns in it.”
Not questioning, Fitzroy removed his bulky coat and extended it toward Tiny, who said, “Just drop it on the floor.”
“It’ll get dirty.”
“There are worse problems,” Tiny said.
So Fitzroy dropped his coat on the floor, and Tiny kicked it backward through the space under the door, where hands at once grabbed and removed
it.
And Tiny said, “Now the sweater.”
“It’s terribly cold out there, Tiny,” Fitzroy reminded him.
For answer, Tiny extended that thumb and first finger again, but this time he didn’t reach for the Adam’s apple. This time, he shot a marble from Fitzroy’s forehead.
Fitzroy’s head rang like a temple gong. He took off the sweater and reached it toward Tiny, who pointed at the floor. So he dropped it on the floor, and Tiny kicked it back out of sight and said, “The shirt.”
“Tiny, what are you—”
The thumb and forefinger showed themselves. Fitzroy went to work on the shirt buttons.
Watching him, Tiny said, “What I really liked, Fitzroy, was those Glock machine pistols under the front seat. Don’t stop unbuttoning, Fitzroy.”
Unbuttoning, Fitzroy said, “You saw those? We had no intention to use them, of course.”
“I know,” Tiny said.
Feeling sudden urgency, Fitzroy said, “Tiny, where’s Irwin?”
“At the moment,” Tiny told him, “he’s wrapped in about a mile of duct tape and resting comfortably in a great big tractor-trailer full of raincoats.”
“Raincoats?”
“On their way to Oregon,” Tiny explained, “nonstop. Get there in maybe five days.”
As the shirt went under the door, Fitzroy said, “Tiny, I need Irwin.”
“I don’t,” Tiny said. “Shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“Shoes.”
Fitzroy considered resistance, then unlaced his shoes. His problems were more severe than shoes. He said, “Tiny, Irwin has concealed some audiotapes that could be very incriminating for me.”
“Kick the shoes under the door.”
Fitzroy kicked the shoes under the door. “If Irwin isn’t around to take care of those tapes,” he said, “they’ll be turned over to the police.”
“Socks.”
“Tiny, don’t you understand? If Irwin—”
Tiny showed the thumb and forefinger again. He said, “Sounds like you’re gonna be in some trouble. Good thing you’re taking a trip.”
“I’m taking a trip?”
“Socks, Fitzroy.”
So off came the socks, and away under the door, and Tiny said, “T-shirt.”
Fitzroy said, “Tiny, how far are you going with this? You don’t mean to leave me here, do you? Naked?”
“Oh, naw, Fitzroy,” Tiny assured him, “we ain’t mean guys, not like some. There you go, kick that T-shirt. And now let’s do the pants and the shorts all at once. You got the rhythm here, Fitzroy, don’t falter now.”
“I could shout,” Fitzroy said.
Tiny looked interested. “You think you could? With all these little chirping kiddies out here? And for what fraction of a second, do you figure, Fitzroy? And then what happens next?”
Fitzroy, embarrassed and humiliated beyond belief, trying to assure himself that someday he’d get even for this but having great difficulty fleshing out that fantasy, finished stripping himself, saw the last of his garments kicked under the door and out of sight, and sat, miserable, cold and naked, on the toilet for a few seconds, until something else slid in under the door from outside. A garment of some kind, a deep, rich red.
“There you go,” Tiny said, looking down at this new apparel with approval. “Try that on, there, Fitzroy.”
Fitzroy stooped, grunting, to pick up the garment, which turned out to be a jumpsuit, cotton, many times laundered. On the back, in big white block letters on the deep red material, was printed C H C I. “What are the—What are these letters?”
“Central Hudson Correctional Institution. It’s your medium-tough kind of place. They’re bad guys, but they pull their punches. Like me with you, right now. Put it on, Fitzroy.”
They’re going to put me in this prison, Fitzroy thought in panic and despair. How are they going to do such a thing? Slipping on the legs of the jumpsuit, he said, “Are you going to put me there?”
“What?” Tiny chuckled, a sound from the bass drum section of the orchestra. “Naw, we don’t want you found, Fitzroy, we want you lost. And I guess you do, too. Okay, get up, boy, sleeves in, zip it up, that’s good, turn around, hands behind you, Fitzroy.”
Fitzroy felt the cool, rigid metal as the cuffs went on his wrists.
“Now,” Tiny said, “let’s do the perp walk.”
“Tiny,” Fitzroy said, “this is no way to treat a person who has never been anything—”
His head rang like a temple gong. He blinked and shut up, and Tiny reached past him to open the stall door.
They were all out there, in a cluster, facing the other way, Andy and John and Stan, obscuring the action at this one stall here for all the daddies and kiddies in the room. Tiny nudged Fitzroy in the back, and the five of them marched across the gents and out to the restaurant and out to the parking lot. Fascinated and horrified eyes followed them every step of the way.
It was so obvious what this was. Here was a criminal, a convict, probably been off to New York City or somewhere to testify in some gruesome, horrible crime, being taken back to prison, surrounded by four plainclothes deputies because he’s such a dangerous felon, and to whom, at this point, should Fitzroy call for help? That sneaking, despicable, rotten turncoat of an Irwin was on his way to Oregon in a truckload of raincoats. These tourists all around him weren’t likely to want to abet the escape of a desperate and dangerous criminal. Oh, damn.
They were walking him toward the separate truck parking area, so apparently he, too, was to take a voyage. They had left the family groups now, the observant eyes. The big trucks were parked in long, crowded rows, with very short sight lines, and nobody around anyway. They were leaving the world of witnesses. The ground was cold under Fitzroy’s bare feet; his future was all at once too horrible to contemplate, but all he could think now was, where are they sending me?
Andy walked to his right, John to his left, Tiny and Stan behind him. Fitzroy said, “Andy, is there any chance at all I could appeal to your better nature?”
“Every chance, Fitzroy,” Andy told him. “You already did. That’s why me and John told Tiny not to unplug you unless he had to. And I’m really glad he didn’t have to, you know what I mean?”
Fitzroy sighed. This was the good news. What might have happened otherwise was the bad news. He said, “Where am I going, Andy?”
“You’re gonna like it,” Andy told him. “See that big rig up there, the shiny silver one?”
“Yes.”
“Got a crew of two, got a bunk up in the cab, drive twenty-four hours a day. Back is loaded up with cardboard cartons, big soft cardboard cartons because they’re all full of Nerf balls. You’re gonna go in luxury, Fitzroy, on a cushion of Nerf balls.”
“Go where, Andy?”
“Nerf balls,” Andy repeated. “Where else? San Francisco. You’ll be there in no time, Fitzroy.”
45
* * *
What I especially don’t like about Arnie Albright,” Dortmunder said, “is everything.”
“He must have some qualities,” Stan said.
“No, I don’t think so,” Dortmunder answered. “I think Arnie Albright is the one guy around and about with absolutely zero qualities. I think Arnie Albright is composed one hundred percent of deficits.”
They were having this conversation on the West Side Highway, having driven south in a two-car caravan after completing Fitzroy and Irwin’s travel arrangements. Stan and Dortmunder were in the Lexus, Kelp and Tiny behind them in some doctor’s dark green Bentley, and they were on their way to West Eighty-ninth Street, where a fence lived named Arnie Albright, who was the only fence Dortmunder knew who was neither in jail nor actually a cop running an undercover sting operation.
(The thing to do with those sting operations is know when to stop being a customer. The money’s always very good, and you know the cops aren’t going to rip you off. Also, they keep the neighborhood safe. So long as you aren’t present on roun
dup day, where’s the downside?)
The unfortunate part about selling stolen goods to Arnie Albright was, you had to be in his presence to do so. “I don’t see,” Dortmunder groused, “why Andy can’t go up and talk to him, he knows Arnie as well as I do.”
“Andy says,” Stan told him, “he barely knows Arnie at all, and only through you.”
“Everybody claims to barely know Arnie at all,” Dortmunder said, but he knew there was no way out of this. An Arnie Albright encounter was coming his way, like it or not; like one of those movies where the Earth is going along, minding its own business, and an asteroid crashes into it.
Both cars left the highway at Ninety-sixth Street, went past the argument in front of the parking building on the north side of the street just past the underpass that has been going on for three generations now, went east over to Broadway, then south to Eighty-ninth Street.
When they made the turn, they saw that the van was still where they’d left it. It was a blue Econoline van with white waves painted on its sides, plus the information:
ERSTWHILE FISH EMPORIUM
Estab. since 1947
J. Erstwhile, Founder
This van possessed commercial license plates, which meant it wouldn’t be towed away, which everything else is, sooner or later. It was not a found object, like the Lexus or the Bentley, but had been borrowed from a friend of Kelp’s, one Jerry Erstwhile, ne’er-do-well grandson of the original Jake. Since it was now full of everything the group had liberated from Thurstead, and since they hadn’t known exactly how long they’d have to leave it unattended at the curb, they’d wanted to be sure they had a vehicle that would not draw attention from anybody for any reason whatsoever, and so far, it had apparently worked.
As they drove past the fish van, Stan said, “I’m done with this car, unless you want it for something.”
“Not me,” Dortmunder said.
“No prints around?”
“Not me,” Dortmunder said, showing his gloves.
“Fine, then,” Stan said, and parked next to a fire hydrant, since there were, as usual, no legal places to park within several miles of this location.
Bad News Page 26
