What's the Worst That Could Happen?

by Donald E. Westlake

  “You’ll be the bait, you mean.”

  “Use as many people as you need,” Max told him. “Think of me as being under your command.”

  Earl’s eyebrow flickered minimally.

  Max said, “In this situation only, of course.”

  “Sir.”

  “He’ll know I’m going to be in Las Vegas. He’ll know when, and he’ll know where. And it’s the only time and place he’ll be sure of knowing where I am. He won’t be able to resist it.”

  “If he’s pursuing you, sir,” Earl said, as the phone on the conference table rang, “then you’re undoubtedly right.”

  The phone rang again. Max said, “You take that, Earl. I’m not here.”

  “Sir.”

  Earl rose from his sofa, crossed to the conference table, picked up the phone, spoke into it: “Radburn.” Listened; spoke: “What time did you leave the message?” Listened; spoke: “What time did you go there?” Listened; spoke: “Did you mention your name in the message?” Listened; spoke: “Mr. Fairbanks will make arrangements for a second package.” Listened; spoke: “Well, it’s too late, then.” Listened; spoke: “Someone will call you.” Hung up; turned and spoke to Fairbanks: “Sir, you’re right.”

  What now, Max thought. He said, “Something happened?”

  “He was in the Watergate apartment,” Earl said. “Your burglar. He got away.”

  “I knew it! That’s why I didn’t go there! What, did he steal the ashtrays?”

  “A bit more than that, sir. There were some Pac contributions—”

  “No! That was fifty thousand dollars!”

  “Yes, sir. Your man Saunders phoned there this morning, not wanting to disturb you, but wanting to pick up the contributions, and left a message on the answering machine. When he arrived later, the package was gone and a note addressed to him by name and signed by you said your secretary had taken care of the contributions.”

  “Saunders wouldn’t fall for a thing like that.”

  “Well, he did, sir,” Earl said. “A short time ago, however, a woman from IMPAC phoned Saunders asking after the donation. He checked around to your secretary and some of the other recipients, discovered the truth, and called my office. They put him through to me here.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Max said. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “One of the committees,” Earl went on, “refused to accept Saunders’s explanation and apology, insisting the delay was another expression of corporate arrogance and a power play. BACPAC , I believe he said it was. Saunders said they told him you can no longer count on their senator.”

  Hell. Hell and damnation. Max did count on that goddam senator. There were a couple of banking bills . . . What a mess that could turn out to be.

  And all because of one stupid seedy small-time burglar.

  “Las Vegas,” Max growled. He could not remember ever having been this angry, not even during his first marriage. “We’ll get that son of a bitch in Las Vegas,” he snarled, “and personally I will tear him limb from limb.”

  “Yes, sir,” Earl said. “My people and I will be happy to deliver him to you.”

  37

  D etective Second Grade Bernard Klematsky, currently assigned to the Fairbanks burglary at the N-Joy, knew all kinds of people. It was useful to him in his work to maintain connections with a great variety of persons, because you never knew when somebody might have just the one fact you needed to get your job done quickly and successfully. And Klematsky liked to be quick almost as much as he liked to be successful.

  Among the variety of Bernard Klematsky’s acquaintances there were even some who spent their time on the opposite side of the law from the side where Klematsky dwelled, and among those latter was a light-fingered fellow named Andrew Octavian Kelp. From time to time, this Kelp provided a bit of information here, a kernel of knowledge there, of benefit to society generally and to Klematsky particularly, so it was an association worth cultivating.

  Not that Kelp was a stoolie; unfortunately, the man would not turn in, up, or on his friends. But he did have a certain underworld expertise that Klematsky could from time to time call upon, and the reason he could do so was because, as it turned out, from time to time Kelp, in the course of his own nefarious doings, also had need of information, which he could get nowhere except from his old friend on the force, Bernard Klematsky. There was a narrow range within which they could be useful to one another, since Klematsky would not knowingly abet a criminal enterprise any more than Kelp would turn rat, but still it was possible for them on occasion to be useful to one another. Besides which, they enjoyed one another’s company.

  All of which was why, on Sunday, May 14, in pursuit of a certain theory he found promising, Bernard Klematsky called Andy Kelp, found him not at home (he was on his way to Washington, DC), and left a message on his answering machine. He left another message Monday morning, and then went out on another part of his caseload, and when he got back to the precinct Kelp had left a message for him. So he called Kelp, got the machine again, and left a message. Later, he went home, and on Tuesday morning when he got to the precinct there was a message waiting from Kelp. So he phoned, got the machine, and left a message. Some time later, he was about to go out to lunch, and in fact was halfway down the stairs, when another detective came out to the landing and called, “Somebody’s on the phone, says you want to talk to him.”

  Klematsky was hungry, as he often was. His mind was on lunch. Still, he turned around and called up to the other detective, “Ask him if his name is Kelp.”

  The detective went away, and Klematsky listened to his stomach make rumbling noises until the detective came back and called down the stairs, “He says, who wants to know?”

  “That’s Andy,” Klematsky said, and smiled. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  They had lunch together in a place of Andy’s choosing, since Bernard was this time the one seeking information; Andy would pick the lunch, and Bernard would pay for it. Andy chose Sazerac, a New Orleans–influenced (but not slavishly so) neighborhood joint at the corner of Hudson and Perry streets in the West Village, down the block from the Sixth Precinct. They were supposed to meet at one o’clock, but Bernard got held up by a couple last-minute things at the precinct, so it was twenty after before he walked down Hudson and into the place, which was about average for him.

  A narrow glass-walled porch wrapped around the two exterior walls of Sazerac, and that was where Andy was seated, looking out the windows at the cops going to and from the Sixth Precinct. Bernard put his hat on a hook—he’d taken to wearing a jaunty Tyrolean hat lately, with a feather, believing it made him seem more devil-may-care—and sat across the table, his back to the Sixth Precinct, saying, “Hello, there, Andy. You look well.”

  “I like your hat,” Andy told him.

  “Why, thanks.”

  “I saw you coming down the street there, I thought it was Peter O’Toole or somebody.”

  “I think he’s taller than I am.”

  “Okay, his brother.”

  The waitress came by to ask her question and Andy said, “I believe I’ll have an Amstel and the crab cakes.”

  Because he was paying for this meal, Bernard said, “Beer? Andy, you’re going to have a drink at lunch?”

  “That’s because I feel safe, with the precinct right there,” Andy told him.

  Bernard looked at the menu and decided he’d have the jambalaya because it looked as though it would be filling without being expensive; then he decided what the heck, he’d have an Amstel, too. The waitress went away, and Andy said, “You see the taxi garage on the corner?”

  Behind him, in other words. Bernard twisted around and looked, and directly across the street was a red brick taxi garage, the yellow cabs going in and out. The precinct was half a block beyond it. Twisting back, he said, “Yeah?”

  “Does it look familiar?”

  “Why not?” Bernard asked. “I’ve seen it before, when I come down to the Six.”

/>   “You’ve seen it on television,” Andy told him.

  “I have?”

  “They used that for the outside of the garage in the show Taxi.”

  “No kidding.” Bernard skewed around for another look, then faced the table and said, “It looked cleaner on TV.”

  “Oh, well, you know,” Andy said. “TV.”

  “Well, that’s true.”

  The waitress brought their Amstel beers and they sipped companionably, and then Bernard said, “I haven’t been hearing much about you lately.”

  “Good,” Andy said.

  “I’d hate to think you’ve reformed or retired or something,” Bernard said.

  “I did all of those things,” Andy said, and began to blink like mad. “I gave up a life of crime because I discovered that crime doesn’t pay. So now I’m legit and I’m happy—”

  “And you’re blinking,” Bernard said. As they both knew, Andy blinked a lot whenever he was telling lies, which was unfortunate in a man of his profession.

  Andy took a breath. He stopped blinking. He said, “So how are things with you, Bernard?”

  “Very interesting,” Bernard said. “We’ve been nabbing the bad guys left and right.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “That’s right. Filling up the prisons so fast they’re out there building more prisons, and we’re filling them up.”

  “I been noticing,” Andy said, “how crime is down, and the streets are safe, and the insurance companies aren’t hardly paying any claims at all any more. So that’s why, huh? The good work you and the guys are doing.”

  “We help,” Bernard said, and they smiled at each other, and the food came.

  They were both serious about food, so they didn’t do much conversation until the thoroughly empty plates were taken away. Then, over Bernard’s dish of ice cream and Andy’s second Amstel, Bernard said, “There are crimes still, here and there.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Bernard, after all your effort.”

  “Funny you should mention insurance companies.”

  “Did I? Oh, yeah, I remember.”

  “Because there’s one kind of crime,” Bernard said, “that really gets me. Nonviolent crime, I mean. Violent crime is something else.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You were never violent,” Bernard pointed out, “back before you reformed and retired, that was one nice thing about you.”

  “Thank you, Bernard.”

  “The one nice thing about you.”

  “Okay.”

  “But among nonviolent crimes,” Bernard said, “the one that really gets my back up is insurance fraud.”

  Andy looked surprised. “You care that much about insurance companies?”

  “I don’t give a damn about insurance companies,” Bernard told him, “they’d cheat their own mothers, if they had mothers. No, what gets me about insurance fraud is, the crook is using me.”

  “Ah.”

  “Oh, Mr. Detective,” Bernard said, imitating a fluttery householder of indeterminate sex, “somebody broke in and stole all my goodies and here’s my list of what they took and please give me the docket number to give my insurance company, and then you can go away and run in circles trying to solve a crime that never happened.”

  “Straight citizens, you’re talking about,” Andy suggested.

  “They’re supposed to be straight,” Bernard said. “Sometimes, though, they get themselves professional assistance, you know?”

  “You mean,” Andy said, “these are people that like hire a couple guys of the type I used to hang with before I—”

  “Reformed and retired.”

  “And all that. Hires them to do what they do anyway, only they bring the stuff back after the insurance is paid?”

  “I think they get a cut,” Bernard said, “or maybe a flat fee. I don’t know how it works. Would you?”

  “Not me,” Andy said, blinking.

  “I suppose you’ve forgotten all that stuff,” Bernard agreed.

  “If I ever even knew it. Are you looking for somebody that helped an honest citizen steal his own goods, Bernard? Is that what this is about?”

  “Absolutely not, Andy,” Bernard said. “I know you wouldn’t give me a friend of yours.”

  Nodding, Andy said, “We respect one another, Bernard. That’s why I was surprised.”

  “Who I’m after,” Bernard said, “who I really and truly want, is not the guys that waltzed out of the place with the stuff, but the owner that set it up.”

  “Because he’s making you part of his scam.”

  “Exactly. And him I’ll get on my own.” Bernard ran his spoon around his empty bowl six or seven times, hoping to find more ice cream, then said, “But I want to be fair.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Maybe this guy didn’t set it up. I admit, I feel a prejudice against him.”

  “That’s big of you, Bernard.”

  “He just gets my back up,” Bernard said. “But if he didn’t set up the job, I don’t want to waste my time on him, spinning my wheels, letting the real bad guys get away.”

  “You want to conserve your energy,” Andy suggested.

  “That’s exactly it. So I’m not asking names or anything like that, I’d just like to know in a theoretical kind of way, did any of your former associates from the bad old days, did they recently say anything about a fake burglary in midtown.”

  “In midtown,” Andy echoed, frowning slightly.

  “That new theater place on Broadway,” Bernard told him, “with the hotel next to it and everything. Called the N-Joy.”

  “And there was a burglary in there recently?” Andy asked. “That you think it doesn’t smell right?”

  “And I could be wrong, I admit that. But I was wondering,” Bernard said, “if the arrogant son of a bitch bankrupt bum that owns the place didn’t maybe set it up himself.”

  “And you’d like to know,” Andy said, “if I heard from anybody that any kind of scam like that was going down anytime recently.”

  “That’s it.”

  Andy looked solemnly at Bernard. His eyes blinked steadily, like a metronome. He said, “I never heard a word of anything like that, Bernard. Not a word.”

  Bernard looked at those blinking eyes. “Thanks, Andy,” he said, “I appreciate it.” And he waved for the check.

  38

  W hen Dortmunder walked into the O.J. Bar & Grill on Amsterdam Avenue at three minutes before ten on Tuesday night, Rollo the bartender, a tall meaty balding blue-jawed guy in a dirty long-sleeved white shirt and dirty white apron, was kneeling on the shelf inside the left front plate-glass window, installing a new neon beer sign. “With you in a minute,” he said, nodding to Dortmunder, his hands full of neon tubes, electric cords, and lengths of chain for hanging the thing.

  “Right,” Dortmunder said, and moved toward the bar, where the regulars were discussing those black lines that’s on everything you buy now that make the cash register go beep.

  “It’s a code,” the first regular was saying. “It’s a code and only the cash registers can read it.”

  “Why do it in code?” the second regular asked him. “The Code War’s over.”

  A third regular now hove about and steamed into the conversation, saying, “What? The Code War? It’s not the Code War, where ya been? It’s the Cold War.”

  The second regular was serene with certainty. “Code,” he said. “It was the Code War because they used all those codes to keep the secrets from each other.” With a little pitying chuckle, he said, “Cold War. Why would anybody call a war cold?”

  The third regular, just as certain but less serene, said, “Anybody’s been awake the last hundred years knows, it was called the Cold War because it’s always winter in Russia.”

  The second regular chuckled again, an irritating sound. “Then how come,” he said, “they eat salad?”

  The third regular, derailed, frowned at the second regular and said, “Salad?”


  “With Russian dressing.”

  Dortmunder leaned on the bar, off to the right of the main conversation, and watched Rollo in the backbar mirror. The barman also had several screwdrivers, a hammer, pliers, and a corkscrew, and was using them all, one-handed, while holding up the beer sign with the other.

  Meanwhile, the conversation was continuing, as the first regular rejoined it, saying, “Code. That’s what I’m talking about, the black lines. It’s some kinda conspiracy, that’s all I know.”

  A fourth regular, who until now had been using the bottles on the backbar as a kind of impromptu eye test, now reared around, righted himself, and said, “Absolutely. A conspiracy.” Closing one eye to focus on the other regulars, he said, “Which conspiracy you mean?”

  “The little black lines on everything you buy,” the first regular said, bringing him up to speed.

  The fourth regular considered that, closing first one eye and then the other: “That’s a conspiracy?”

  “Sure. It’s in code.”

  “Like the war,” said the second regular, with a smirk at the third regular.

  The fourth regular nodded, closed both eyes, clutched the bar, opened both eyes, closed one eye, and said, “Which conspiracy?”

  The first regular was affronted by this question. “How do I know? It’s in code, isn’t it? That’s what makes it secret. If it wasn’t in code, we’d know what it was.”

  The third regular suddenly slapped the bar and said, “That’s what it is. Now I remember.”

  The others all swiveled around on their stools to consider Mister Memory. The first regular said, carefully, “That’s what what is?”

  “The Code War,” the third regular told him. “That’s what they call those little black lines, on accounta that’s what they’re for. When they have price wars.”

  “The Code War,” the second regular announced, incensed that his definition had been taken from him, “was the war between us and Russia that’s over now.”