After which everybody put their plates and glasses and cups and beer cans down and applauded their own singing or something, and turned bright cheery eyes on Dortmunder, who realized he was expected to say something. He looked around and his eye fell on Kelp’s sparkling face.
He lifted his fresh eggnog. “God help us,” Dortmunder said, “every one.”
Chapter 5
* * *
Andy Kelp had friends everywhere, even in the Police Department. Shortly after the New Year, he called a police friend named Bernard Klematsky. “Hi Bernard,” he said. “It’s me, Andy Kelp.”
“Well, hello, Andy. Calling to confess?”
Kelp chuckled. “Always the kidder,” he said. “Lemme buy you a drink when you come off.”
“Why?”
“I wanna pick your brains.”
“In that case,” Bernard said, “you can buy me spaghetti with clam sauce. At Unfredo’s. Ten–thirty.”
“I’ll be there,” Kelp promised, and he was, but Bernard was fifteen minutes late. “Over here,” Kelp called, when Bernard at last arrived, and waved at him across the half–empty restaurant from his table in the corner.
It took a while for Bernard to disencumber himself of his fur hat, his silk scarf, his leather gloves and his wool overcoat, storing them all on the hanger–jangly metal rack by the front door, and then he stood revealed as an average–appearing fellow of thirty–something, with bushy black hair, a rather long and fleshy nose, a rumpled dark blue suit with a rumpled dark blue necktie, and the indefinable air about him of a teacher of … mathematics. A lay teacher, in a parochial school. He came over to the table, rubbing his hands together for warmth, saying, “Cold out tonight.”
“You mean you want a drink and spaghetti.”
“A Rob Roy straight up would be a very nice thing.” Kelp caught the eye of Sal the waiter, ordered the Rob Roy, and said, “And another bourbon and soda.”
“You wanna order?”
“We might as well,” said Bernard. “I’ll have the escalope limone and spaghettini on the side, with clam sauce.”
“Aw, Bernard,” Kelp said, giving him a reproachful look. Bernard didn’t care. He was very happy to be indoors in the warm. Smiling at Kelp, he said, “What about the wine? A nice Verdicchio?”
“Bernard, you’re holding me up.”
“Whoever heard of a cop holding up a robber?”
“Everybody,” Kelp said, and told Sal the waiter, “I’ll have the chicken parmigiana, spaghetti on the side with the red sauce, and we’ll take the Verdicchio.”
Sal the waiter went away, and Bernard shook his head, saying, “All that tomato.”
“I like tomato. Can we talk now?”
“Wait’ll I been bribed,” Bernard said. “What’ve you been up to lately, Andy?”
“Oh, this and that,” Kelp said.
“One thing and the other, huh?”
“More or less,” Kelp agreed.
“Same old thing, in other words.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Kelp said.
“Well, you’re looking good,” Bernard told him. “Whatever you’re up to, it agrees with you.”
“You look good, too,” Kelp said, and the drinks arrived. “Ah, the bribe,” Bernard said. He swigged down half his Rob Roy, beamed, patted his belly, and said, “There. Now we can talk.”
“Good.” Kelp leaned closer over the white tablecloth. “I need a guy’s name and address.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bernard. “You want to pick my brains, or you want to pick Police Department records?”
“Both.”
“Andy, fun’s fun, but maybe you’re about to overstep, you know what I mean?”
Kelp was uncertain on that score himself, and the uncertainty made him nervous. He put away a bit more of his second bourbon and soda, and said, “If you say no, it’s no. I wouldn’t argue with you, Bernard.” He tried a friendly grin. “And I wouldn’t ask for the spaghettini back either.”
“Or the Rob Roy,” Bernard said, and finished it. Then he said, “Okay, Andy, try it on me, and if I say no there won’t be any hard feelings on either side.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Kelp cleared his throat, and blinked several times.
Bernard pointed at Kelp’s face. “Whenever you blink a lot like that,” he said, “you’re about to tell a lie.”
“No, I’m not,” Kelp said, blinking furiously.
“So let’s hear it,” Bernard said.
Kelp willed his eyelids to remain up. His eyes began to burn. Looking with great sincerity through his burning eyes at Bernard, he said, “What I’m about to tell you is the absolute truth.”
“Relax, Andy,” Bernard told him. “Nobody says I have to believe you. If it’s a good story, I’ll do what I can.”
“Fair enough,” Kelp said, and permitted himself to blink. “I have this cousin,” he said, blinking, “and he’s got himself in hot water with some people.”
“Would I know these people?”
“For your sake,” Kelp said, “I hope not.”
“You worry about me. That’s nice.”
“Anyway,” Kelp went on, “you know me, you know my family, we’ve never been violence–prone.”
“That’s true,” Bernard said. “That’s one of the nice things about you, Andy.”
“My cousin’s the same way. Anyway, he has the idea these people put a hitman on him.”
Bernard looked interested. “Really? Does he want police protection?”
“Excuse me, Bernard,” Kelp said, “but from what I can see, all police protection ever does for anybody is they get to fall out the window of a better class hotel.”
“We won’t argue the point,” Bernard said, which was what he said any time he lacked arguments on his own side. “Tell me more about your cousin.”
“He wants to do his own protecting,” Kelp said. “And in order to do it, he has to identify this guy for sure. Now, he knows some things about him, but he doesn’t have the guy’s name and address. That’s where we need help.”
Bernard looked somber. He said, “Andy, maybe now you should tell me the truth. Is this cousin of yours figuring to hit the hitman? Because if so, I can’t —”
“No no no!” Kelp said, and his eyes didn’t blink at all. “I told you, Bernard, non–violence, it’s an old family tradition. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
“They all leave the cat dead.”
“I swear to God, Bernard,” Kelp said, and actually raised his hand in the Boy Scout pledge. “My cousin strictly wants to know for sure who the guy is, and his dealing with the problem will absolutely one hundred per cent not include physical violence.”
“He wants to outbid the other side?”
“I have no idea what’s in my cousin’s mind,” Kelp said, blinking like mad.
“All right,” Bernard said. “Tell me what you know about the guy.”
“He’s white,” Kelp said. “He’s tall, skinny, black haired, he’s got a game leg. The right foot’s in a big orthopedic shoe, and he limps. Also, he got picked up for something late in October, I don’t know for what, and a very famous lawyer called J. Radcliffe Stonewiler got him off.”
Bernard frowned deeply. “You know a lot of funny details about this guy,” he said.
“Please, Bernard,” Kelp said. “Don’t ask me where I get my information, or I’ll have to make up some cockamamie lie, and I’m no good at that.”
“Oh, Andy,” Bernard said, “you underestimate yourself.” And the food and wine arrived. “Nice,” Bernard said. “Let’s eat a while, and I’ll think about this.”
“Great idea,” said Kelp.
So they ate, and they drank wine, and at the end of the meal Bernard said, “Andy, can you promise me, if I get you anything on this bird, nothing illegal will happen?”
Kelp stared at him. “Nothing illegal? Bernard, you can’t be serious. Do you have any idea just how many laws there are?”
&nb
sp; “All right,” Bernard said, patting the air. “All right.”
But Kelp had momentum, and couldn’t stop all at once. “You can’t walk down the street without breaking the law, Bernard,” he said. “Every day they pass new laws, and they never get rid of any of the old laws, and you can’t live a normal life without doing things illegal.”
“Okay, Andy, okay. I said okay, didn’t I?”
“Bernard, just off the top of your head, how many laws would you say you broke so far today?”
Bernard pointed a stern finger across the table. “Lay off, Andy,” he said. “Now I mean it.”
Kelp stopped, took a deep breath, got hold of himself, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s a subject that’s close to my heart, that’s all”
Bernard said, “Let me rephrase it, Andy, okay? No major crimes. No, wait, you’ll be talking about industrial pollution in a minute. No violent crimes. Is that a fair request?”
“Bernard,” Kelp said, with solemnity, “it is not my intention, or my cousin’s intention, to harm one hair of this fellow’s head. He won’t get killed, he won’t get wounded. All right?”
“Thank you,” Bernard said. “Let me make a phone call, see what I can do.” He pushed his chair back and said, “While I’m gone, order me an espresso and a Sambuca, okay?” And he got to his feet and headed toward the phone booth in the back.
“Bernard,” Kelp muttered after his departing back, “you’re a highway robber.” But he ordered the espresso and Sambuca from Sal the waiter, and the same for himself, and was chewing on one of the coffee beans from the Sambuca when Bernard came back. Kelp gave him an alert look, but first Bernard had to taste his Sambuca, then he had to put a sugar cube in his espresso. Finally, stirring the espresso, he looked seriously at Kelp and said, “Your cousin’s tangled with a wrong guy.”
“I thought so,” said Kelp.
“His name’s Leo Zane,” Bernard said, “and he has the worst kind of no record.”
“I don’t think I follow.”
“Picked up lots of times, always on very serious stuff — murder, attempted murder, aggravated assault, twice for arson — but never convicted.”
“Slippery,” Kelp suggested.
“Like a snake. And twice as dangerous. If your cousin wants to deal with this guy, he better wear gloves.”
“I’ll tell him. Did you happen to get an address while you were on the phone?”
Bernard shook his head. “Zane isn’t a homebody,” he said. “He lives in furnished rooms, residence hotels, he’s a loner and moves around a lot.”
“Drat.”
“There’s one thing that might help,” Bernard said. “There’s a clinic up in Westchester he goes to sometimes. On account of his foot. Apparently, that’s the only place he ever goes for treatment, that one clinic.”
“What’s it called?”
“Westchester Orthopedic.”
“Thanks, Bernard,” Kelp said. “I’ll tell my cousin.”
Bernard pointed a serious finger at Kelp. “If anything happens to Zane,” he said, “anything at all, I’ll connect it back to you, Andy, I swear I will.”
Kelp spread his hands in utter innocence. Not a blink marred his eyes. “Don’t you think I know that, Bernard? I know you’re a straight guy. I wouldn’t have called you if I figured to pull something like that.”
“All right,” said Bernard. Relaxing, he looked down at his Sambuca, smiled, and said, “You ever try this?”
“Try what?”
Bernard took out a pack of matches, lit one, held it over the Sambuca, and a small blue flame formed on top of the liqueur, where the coffee beans floated. Bernard shook out the match, and sat smiling at the blue flame.
Kelp didn’t get it. “What’s that for?” he asked.
“The idea is,” Bernard said, “it like roasts the coffee beans.”
“But what’s that burning?”
“The alcohol, of course.”
“Then why do it?”
Bernard looked startled. “By God, you’re right,” he said, and blew out the flame.
“I hope you made a wish,” Kelp said.
Chapter 6
* * *
The scrawny black cat jumped from the floor up to the windowsill, where Leo Zane was pouring milk into the saucer. Setting the milk carton on the table nearby, Zane stood at the window a minute longer, scratching the cat behind the ear as it lapped up milk. A dreary March rain dribbled down the glass, and Zane’s foot continued to ache. It was the weather, of course, the dampness of the end of winter, and the trip to the clinic, his first in almost six months, had done no good at all.
He ought to go away for a while, somewhere warm and dry. Maybe Los Angeles, sit in the sun, absorb some warmth into the bones of his foot. Absorb warmth into his body, his entire body was cold and achy now; the damp pain, like death, crept up through his frame from his foot, filling him with chills and cramps. No matter how much clothing he wore, no matter how warm the room or how much hot coffee he drank, the cold torment was still there, deep in his bones.
What was keeping him in New York? Very little, beyond his own lethargy. Every year around this time he made the same vague plans to leave, but he never went, he always found some excuse, he seemed wedded to the climate that made him sick. And this year?
Well, in fact, this year there were one or two jobs still open. The psychiatrist’s wife, for instance; she was turning out to be surprisingly difficult to dispatch. Of course, the jobs that had to look like accident or natural causes were always the most difficult. And then there was the Chauncey job, that was still on tap.
Not that Zane expected actually to do anything on the Chauncey job. His one conversation with that fellow Dortmunder, plus the occasional interval of observing the man, had convinced him Dortmunder would try no tricks. Once Chauncey collected from the insurance company — possibly next month, more likely in May — Dortmunder would assuredly turn over the painting, Chauncey would pay Zane the remaining fifteen thousand due on the contract, and that would be that.
The psychiatrist’s wife. If only she drove a car. You’d think, in this day and age — Movement beyond the window attracted Zane’s attention.
Down below, a man hunched against the rain as he entered his automobile, a dark blue Jaguar sedan, parked by the fire hydrant. It had MD plates, from over in New Jersey, and Zane reflected again on what a dodge that was. Put MD plates on a car, you could park anywhere you wanted, just as though doctors still made house calls. Up at the clinic they were parked all over the — Hadn’t there been a Jaguar sedan parked outside the clinic?
Dark blue, like this one?
Down below, the Jaguar’s windshield wipers clicked into motion, swiping back and forth. As Zane watched, the Jaguar moved away, rolling sedately down the block, its yellow right directional blinking, an intermittent bright spot in the rain. He wasn’t positive it was the same sort of car as he’d seen near the clinic. Same color, perhaps, but a different make?
“Grrowww!” said the cat, and scratched at Zane’s wrist.
Startled, Zane released his grip — lost in thought, he’d been strangling the thing — and the cat ran away to hide under the daybed. Zane picked up the milk carton, for something to do, and limped with it to the refrigerator. The cat’s eyes peered out at him from under the bed, but he ignored it. His mind was moving again, away from the unanswerable questions about the car, on to other concerns. He sat at the formica table, brooding, his eyes vague, his hands relaxed with curved fingers on the tabletop, the aching in his foot forgotten for the moment, everything forgotten for the moment.
The psychiatrist’s wife. An accident, a fall. Hmmmmmm …
Chapter 7
* * *
Kelp was so happy he was crowing. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, Dortmunder,” he said. “Not after this.”
“All right,” Dortmunder said. Owing a debt of gratitude to another person always made him nervous, and that other person being Kelp didn’t
improve the situation.
“Over two months I staked out that clinic,” Kelp pointed out. “I musta gone through a thousand paperback books. Day after day, three, four days a week, and boy, I finally hit it.”
“For sure,” Dortmunder said. “This time it’s positively for sure.” In the last two months Kelp had three times followed limping men home from the Westchester Orthopedic Clinic, a site that by the very nature of things would be bound to provide a certain steady quota of limping men, and all three times Kelp had insisted Dortmunder accompany him on expeditions to remote neighborhoods to look at these guys, and none of them had been even remotely like the killer Dortmunder had met back in November.
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