What's the Worst That Could Happen?

by Donald E. Westlake

  And now it turned out it was his, had been spiritually his all along. What a surprise, when the police officer had handed him the ring and he’d turned it over, to see it there: TUI.

  The ring itself was nothing, an undistinguished plain cheap band, except for that symbol on its face. The broken line above two solid lines: Tui, his own personal trigram. He’d even named his umbrella corporation for that symbol, once he’d become wealthy enough to need an umbrella corporation. Trans-Global represented the broken line at the top, while Universal and Industries were the two solid lines, and the initials on the Big Board are TUI. That’s me. This ring is mine, I was more right than I knew.

  He even showed it to the rather slow-witted policeman, though the fellow could have had no idea what he was talking about: “There you are, you see? The symbol of Tui. I based my whole corporation on this.”

  Have to throw the coins, very soon. But first, time to rid oneself of the woman. And protect oneself from whatever danger might grow out of this breach of the bankruptcy court order. “Dear,” Max said, as he stepped back into the house, switching off most of those exterior lights, “in the kitchen.”

  She looked alert, and still fetching, in the terry cloth: “Yes?”

  “Next to the phone, you’ll find the number of a local car service. Give them a call, dear.”

  She looked prettily confused: “We’re leaving the car?”

  Meaning the Lamborghini they’d driven out here in, at the moment in the multicar garage attached to the house. “I’ll have to stay on a bit longer,” Max explained. “Because of this incident.”

  She didn’t like it, but what was she to do? Off she went to make the call, while Max hurried upstairs to dress. Soon she joined him, making a few perfunctory little seductive moves while changing into her own street clothes, but he had no interest any more. Partly, she was now a known quantity—no; a known quality—but mostly he just wanted to be alone, with his new ring.

  Soon, they made their way downstairs, while their terry-cloth robes remained behind, crumpled in wanton embrace in the hamper. Out front, a dark blue Lincoln town car purred discreetly on the drive. Max absently kissed Miss September’s cheek and patted her other cheek, and sent her on her way. Then he moved briskly through the house, switching off lights as he went.

  The library. Deep tan leather armchairs, green glass globed reading lamps, books bought by a decorator by the yard. But among them, The Book, and on the marble mantel over the seldom-used fireplace a small Wedgwood mustard pot containing three shiny pennies.

  So. There was time to throw the coins only once before he’d have to vacate these premises, and they gave him a seven, a nine, an eight, and three consecutive sevens, producing:

  Fantastic. The Creative above, and his own trigram, Tui, the Joyous, below. But only one moving line, the nine in the second place.

  Max flipped the pages of The Book. Hexagram number ten: “Treading (Conduct).” The Judgment: “Treading upon the tail of the tiger. It does not bite the man. Success.”

  Yes, yes, yes. Wasn’t that true? Wasn’t that his entire life story? Treading on the tail of the tiger, getting away with it, and finding success through his rashness.

  Which was just what he’d done tonight, seeing the ring, suddenly wanting it, seeing the joke, seeing the triumph, thinking what’s the worst that could happen? and saying, “That’s my ring!”

  Nine in the second place: “Treading a smooth, level course. The perseverance of a dark man brings good fortune.”

  That’s me. The dark man, overflowing with good fortune. Max smiled as he put away the pennies and The Book.

  Soon the house itself was dark again, and Max was at the wheel of the black Lamborghini, driving the empty Southern State Parkway toward the city. The ring glinted on his finger in the dashboard lights, and Max smiled on it from time to time. I love this ring, he thought. My lucky ring.

  10

  D ortmunder had never felt more sure of himself in his life. He’d stripped that door panel and jumped from that moving car as though he’d been practicing those jukes for a week. When the alley he’d run into, behind and parallel to the main drag, happened to go past the rear of the local hardware store, he’d paused, hunkered down by that back door lock, and caressed it with fingers grown masterful with rage. The door eased open and he slid inside, shutting and relocking it just before the thud of heavy police brogans sounded outside. And yes, they did try the knob.

  Happily, this was another place that left a light on for burglars, so they wouldn’t hurt themselves tripping over things in the dark. Skirting the range of that light, Dortmunder made his way to the front of the shop, settled down there on a can of grout with his chained hands crossed on his knees, and watched through the big plate-glass front window as the search for him ebbed and flowed outside.

  He’d thought it would take half an hour for officialdom to decide he’d managed to get clear of this immediate area, but in fact it was fifty minutes before the police cars—Suffolk County, as well as local—and the cops on foot stopped going back and forth out there.

  When at last there was quiet again in Carrport, and Dortmunder rose from the grout can, it was to find he was very stiff and sore; and why not? Working his shoulders and legs and torso, moaning softly, he made his way slowly to the rear of the store, where a vast array of tools awaited him, wanting only to help him get rid of these cuffs.

  Easy does it. Many screwdrivers and other small hand tools offered themselves for insertion into the keyhole in the middle of the cuffs. Something will pick this lock, something, something . . .

  Ping. The cuffs fell to the floor, and Dortmunder kicked them under a nearby roach poison display. Rubbing his wrists, which were chafed and sore, he moved around the aisles of the store, choosing the tools he wanted to take with him. Then at last he went out by the same back door, and continued on down the same alley.

  Carrport wasn’t that hard to learn. If you walked downhill, you’d eventually reach the cove, and if you turned left at the cove, sooner or later you’d reach Twenty-Seven Vista Drive. Of course, if you were hiding from police cars and foot patrols along the way, it would probably take a little longer than otherwise, but still and all, eventually there would be the house, dark again except for the lying burglar light in the upstairs hall. No police around, no reason not to visit.

  Dortmunder’s method for bypassing the front-door alarm worked just as smoothly as Gus’s had, maybe even more smoothly, but this time Dortmunder didn’t merely saunter on in. This time, he knew the house was occupied—this was robbery, not burglary, important to keep that distinction in mind—and he knew the occupant had a gun and a telephone (and a ring he didn’t deserve, damn his eyes), and he was not at all interested in a dead-on repeat of their previous encounter. So he sidled, he slunk, he stopped many times to listen and to peer at the murky dimness of the upstairs hall, and after all that, the place was empty.

  Empty. You try to be a burglar, and you’re a robber; then you try to be a robber, and turns out you’re a burglar. God damn it to hell!

  Dortmunder tromped around the empty rooms, room after room after room, and it became clear that Max Fairbanks and his girlfriend hadn’t actually been living here at all, had just dropped in to complicate the life of a simple honest housebreaker, and once their bad deed for the day was done, they’d decamped. Yes, here are their terry-cloth robes, in the hamper. Been and come . . . and gone.

  Dortmunder ranged through the empty house, turning lights on and off with abandon, knowing the cops now believed Max Fairbanks was in residence, knowing they would never for a second believe this particular escapee had returned to the scene of the crime.

  But would Fairbanks have left his ill-gotten loot behind, possibly on that kitchen counter he’d mentioned? No; it was gone, too, just as gone as Fairbanks himself. Probably on the bastard’s finger.

  I’m going to get that ring back, Dortmunder swore, a mighty oath, if I have to chew that finger off. Meantime, fi
nishing his interrupted journey from earlier, he went upstairs again for some pillowcases.

  Half an hour later, Dortmunder stepped through the side door to find a long garage with spaces for five cars, three of the spaces occupied. The nearest vehicle was a twelve-passenger Honda van, good only for bringing middle management here from the railroad station. The farthest was a little red sports car, the Mazda RX-7, meant for upper-echelon executives when they wanted to take a spin around the cove. And the one in the middle was a gleaming black four-door Lexus sedan; trust corporate America to buy all its cars from Asia.

  The Lexus was Dortmunder’s choice. He loaded the back seat with eight full and clanking pillowcases, then found the button that opened the overhead door in front of his new transportation, and drove on out of there, pausing like a good houseguest to push the other button that switched off the garage lights and reclosed the door, before he drove away from Twenty-Seven Vista Drive, possibly forever.

  There were a lot of police cars out and about at the moment, roaming here and there in the world, but none of them were concerned with a nice new gleaming black Lexus sedan. Dortmunder found the Long Island Expressway, switched on the stereo to an easy-listening station, and enjoyed a very comfortable ride back to town.

  Where he had two stops to make before going home. The first, on the West Side in Manhattan, was to drop in on a fella named Stoon, who was known to exchange cash for items of value; Stoon liked the stuff in the pillowcases. And the second was to drop the Lexus off at the rear of a place called Maximilian’s Used Cars in Brooklyn. The lot was closed at this hour, of course, but Dortmunder put the Lexus keys into an envelope with a brief and enigmatic note, tossed the envelope over the razor wire for the dobermans to sniff, and then took a cab home, where May was still up, watching the eleven o’clock news. “I always look at that,” she said, gesturing at the set, “just in case they might have something to say about you.”

  “I’m sorry, May,” Dortmunder told her, as he dropped twenty-eight thousand dollars in cash on the coffee table. “I’ve got bad news.”

  11

  D ortmunder walked into the kitchen around nine the next morning, yawning and scratching and blinking his eyes a lot, and Andy Kelp was there, smiling, seated at the kitchen table. “I don’t need this,” Dortmunder said.

  May was also present, already making his coffee, having heard him ricochet around the bedroom and bathroom the last quarter hour. “Now, John,” she said, “don’t be grumpy. Andy came by to say hello.”

  “Hello,” Dortmunder said. He sat at the table already half-covered by Andy’s elbows and reached for the Cheerios, on which he liked to put a lot of sugar and a lot of milk.

  Andy, a bony cheerful guy with a sharp-nosed face, sat smiling like a dentist as he watched Dortmunder shovel on the sugar. “John,” he said, “why have an attitude? May said you scored terrific last night.”

  “She did, huh?”

  May, bringing his coffee—a lot of sugar, a lot of milk—said, “I knew you wouldn’t mind if I told Andy.”

  You think you know a person. Dortmunder hunched his shoulders and ate.

  Andy said, “So, if you scored and you’re home free, what’s the long face?”

  May said, “John, the ring isn’t that important.”

  “It is to me,” Dortmunder said.

  Andy looked alert, like a squirrel hearing an acorn drop. “Ring?”

  Dortmunder gave them both a look. To May he said, “That part you didn’t tell him, huh?”

  “I thought you’d want to.”

  “No,” Dortmunder said, and filled his mouth with enough Cheerios to keep him incommunicado for a week.

  So it was May who told Andy about the FedEx Pak and the sentimental value gift ring from the semi-unknown uncle, and about it fitting John’s finger (at least she didn’t make a point about his allegedly needing some extra luck, he was grateful for that much), and about how when he went out to the Island last night a householder stole it from him.

  Dortmunder had been hunched forward, grimly chewing, staring into the bowl of Cheerios, through the whole recital, and when he looked up now, damn if Andy wasn’t grinning. “Mm,” Dortmunder said.

  Andy said, “John, is that what happened? The guy boosted the ring right off your finger?”

  Dortmunder shrugged, and chewed Cheerios.

  Andy laughed. What a rotten thing to do. “I’m sorry, John,” he said, “but you gotta see the humor in it.”

  Wrong. Dortmunder chewed Cheerios.

  “I mean, it’s what you call your biter bit, you see? You’re the biter, and you got bit.”

  Gently, May said, “Andy, I don’t think John’s quite ready to appreciate the humor.”

  “Oh? Oh, okay.” Andy shrugged and said, “Let me know when you’re ready, John, because it’s really pretty funny. I hate to say it, but the guy’s kinda got style.”

  “Nn mm nn,” Dortmunder said, which meant, “And my ring.”

  “But if you don’t want to talk about it yet,” Andy said, “I can understand that. He made you look foolish, humiliated you, made fun of you—”

  “Andy,” May said, “I think John is going to stab you with his spoon.”

  “But,” Andy said, shifting gears without losing a bit of momentum, “the reason I came over, there’s a little possibility I heard about you might be interested in, having to do with a shipment of emeralds out of Colombia, smuggled, you know, that this ballet troupe is supposed to have, and they’re coming to bam, and I figure—”

  May said, “Andy? Coming to bam what?”

  “No no,” Andy said, “they’re coming to BAM, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, over in Brooklyn, a lot of shows go there that aren’t quite right for Broadway because they don’t use smoke machines, but they’re too big for off Broadway, so this ballet troupe—”

  Andy went on like that for a while, describing American culture, the history of ballet in the New World, and the prominence of emeralds in the Colombian economy, until at last Dortmunder rinsed down his Cheerio cud with a lot of coffee and said, “No.”

  Andy looked at him. “No what?”

  “No emeralds,” Dortmunder said, “no ballet, no bam, no wham, no thank you, ma’am.”

  Andy spread his hands. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m busy.”

  “Yeah? Doing what?”

  “Getting my ring back.”

  May and Andy both looked at him. May said, “John, the ring is gone.”

  “Until I get it back.”

  Andy said, “John? You’re going after this billionaire, this Max guy?”

  “Fairbanks. Yes.” Dortmunder lifted another mountain of Cheerios toward his mouth.

  “Wait!” Andy said. “Don’t eat yet, John, bear with me.”

  Dortmunder reluctantly returned the mountain to the bowl. “And.”

  “And billionaires got guards, security, all these people, you can’t just waltz in and say hello.”

  “I did last night.”

  “From what May tells me,” Andy said, “that’s because last night the guy was doing a little something off the reservation. Had some kinda girl with him, didn’t he?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “But most of the time, John, he’ll be on the reservation, you know? I mean, even if you knew where the reservation was. I mean, how do you even find this guy?”

  “I’ll find him.”

  “How?”

  “Somehow.”

  “All right, look,” Andy said. “This emerald business can hold a few days, they’re still coming up out of South America, dancing in Cancún right now, wherever. If you want, I would work with you on this ring thing and—”

  “Never mind.”

  “No, John, I want to help. We’ll take a swipe at the ring, see what happens, then we’ll talk emeralds.”

  Dortmunder put his spoon down. “I don’t care about emeralds,” he said. “The guy took the damn ring, and I want it back, and I’m not gonna thi
nk about anything else until I get it back, and I didn’t know the guy was an Indian, but that’s okay, if he lives on a reservation I’ll find the reservation and—”

  “That’s just a saying, John.”

  “And so is this,” Dortmunder said. “I’m gonna find the guy, and I’m gonna get the ring. Okay?”

  “Fine by me,” Andy said. “And I’ll help.”

  “Sure,” Dortmunder said, taking a stab at sarcasm. “You got Max Fairbanks’s address?”

  “I’ll call Wally,” Andy said.

  Dortmunder blinked, his attempt at sarcasm dead in the dust. “What?”

  “You remember Wally,” Andy said, “my little computer friend.”

  Dortmunder gave him a look of deepest suspicion. “You aren’t trying to sell me a computer again, are you?”

  “No, I gave up on you, John,” Andy admitted, “but the thing about Wally is, he can access just about any computer anywhere in the world, go scampering around in there like a bunny rabbit, find out anything you want. You need to know where a billionaire called Max Fairbanks is? Wally will tell you.”

  May smiled, saying, “I always liked Wally.”

  “He moved upstate,” Andy said. He looked alertly at Dortmunder. “Well, John? Do I give him a call?”

  Dortmunder sighed. The Cheerios in the bowl were soggy. “You might as well,” he said.

  “See, John,” Andy said, happy as could be, taking somebody’s cellular phone out of his pocket, “already I’m a help.”

  12

  I t was raining over Maximilian’s Used Cars. Actually, it was raining over this entire area, the convergence of Brooklyn and Queens with the Nassau County line, the spot where New York City at last gives up the effort to go on being New York City and drops away into Long Island instead, but the impression was that rain was being delivered specifically to Maximilian’s Used Cars, and that all the rest was spillage.

  Dortmunder, in a raincoat that absorbed water and a hat that absorbed water and shoes that absorbed water, had walked many blocks from the subway, and by now he looked mostly like a pile of clothing left out for the Good Will. He should have taken a cab—he was rich these days, after all—but although it had been cloudy when he’d left home (thus the raincoat) it hadn’t actually been raining in Manhattan when he left, and probably still wasn’t raining there. Only on Maximilian’s, this steady windless watering-can-type rain out of a smudged cloud cover positioned just about seven feet above Dortmunder’s drooping hat.