Why Me? d-5

by Donald E. Westlake

  Dortmunder pocketed the watch, took one last look around, saw nothing else of interest, and left. He did not bother to close the safe.

  4

  Georgios Skoukakis hummed a little tune as he drove his maroon Buick Riviera northeastward across Queens toward Belmont Race Track and Floral Park and his own tidy little home near Lake Success. He had to smile when he thought how excited those two men had been, so nervous and keyed up. Here were they, experienced guerrillas, soldiers, fighters in Cyprus, young men barely in their thirties, healthy, professional and well-armed. And on the other hand here was himself, Georgios Skoukakis, 52, naturalized American citizen, jeweler, small merchant, no history of violence or guerrilla activity, never even in the Army, and who was it stayed calm? Who was it had to say, "Easy, easy, gentlemen, haste makes waste"? Who was it behaved naturally, normally, calmly, holding the Byzantine Fire in the palm of his hand as though it were an everyday event, placing it in the safe in his shop as though it were nothing more than a fairly expensive watch brought in for repair? Who was it but Georgios Skoukakis himself, smiling a comfortable smile as he drove through quiet Queens streets, puffing his second-favorite pipe, humming a little self-congratulatory tune.

  Unlike most countries, which are merely two nations—North and South Korea, East and West Germany, Christian and Moslem Lebanon, white and black South Africa, Israel and Palestine, the two Cypruses, the two Irelands—the United States is several hundred nations, all coexisting like parallel universes or multilayered plywood on the same messily drawn rectangle which is America. There's the Boston Ireland, the Miami Beach Israel, the northern California Italy, the southern Florida Cuba, the Minnesota Sweden, the Yorkville Germany, the Chinas in every large city, the East Los Angeles Mexico, the Brooklyn Puerto Rico, a whole lot of Africas, and the Pittsburgh Poland, to name a few.

  The natives of these countries carry their dual allegiances very lightly for the most part, hardly ever worrying about potential conflict, and always equally prepared to serve whichever of their nations has need of them. Thus the IRA in the original Ireland is financed and armed by the Irish in the American Ireland. Thus the furtherance of Puerto Rican independence is abetted by the blowing up of New York bars. And thus, a Greek-born naturalized American jeweler is available for assistance in the Greco-Turkish squabble over Cyprus.

  Georgios Skoukakis, in addition to the usual watch mending and engagement-ring peddling of the jeweler's trade, had a sideline which had now become useful to his other nation. From time to time he still visited the old country, and he always combined business with pleasure by transporting jewelry in both directions—all perfectly legal, since prior to the first such trip several years ago he had applied for and obtained all the necessary permissions and licenses. Over the years he had helped to finance many a pleasant vacation by transporting digital watches to Salonika and returning with old gold.

  Tomorrow, another such trip would take place. The bags were packed, the reservations made, everything was ready. He and Irene would arise in the morning, drive to Kennedy Airport (with a pause at the shop, just a few blocks out of the way), then leave the car in the long-term parking lot, take the free bus to the terminals, and smoothly board the Olympic Airways morning flight for Athens. And on this trip, in among the charm bracelets and earrings yawned over by the bored Customs inspectors, would be a mixed assortment of somewhat garish costume jewelry, featuring large fake stones.

  The boldness of this plan was its strongest asset. The least likely route for the Byzantine Fire, of course, would be a round trip directly back to the same airport from which it had been stolen. Even so, very few individuals would be able to clear a large red-stoned ring through the Customs officials of any airport in America tomorrow morning; Georgios Skoukakis was perhaps uniquely qualified for the task. How fortunate that he also happened to be such a calm and reliable and steady man.

  Turning onto Marcum Lane, Georgios Skoukakis was a bit surprised to notice light in the living room windows of his house, but then he smiled to himself, realizing that Irene too was probably feeling tense tonight, unable to sleep, and was waiting up for his return. Which was fine; it would be pleasant to talk with her, tell her about the excitable young men.

  He didn't bother to put the car in the garage, leaving it in the driveway for the morning. Crossing the lawn, he paused to light his pipe—puff, puff, puff. His hands were absolutely steady.

  Irene must have seen him through the window, for as he crossed the porch she opened the front door. Her tense and strained expression told him he'd been right; she was quite upset, much more nervous about this adventure than she'd earlier let on.

  "Everything's fine, Irene," he assured her, as he stepped into the house, turned, paused, blinked, and the bottom fell out of his throat. He stared through the archway into the living room at two tall slender men in topcoats and dark suits who were getting to their feet from the flower-pattern armchairs and walking this way. The younger one had a moustache. The older one was holding out his wallet, showing identification, saying, "FBI, Mr. Skoukakis. Agent Zachary."

  "I confess," Georgios Skoukakis cried. "I did it!"

  5

  May was sitting in the living room, squinting through cigarette smoke and doing the quiz in the latest Cosmopolitan. Dortmunder shut the door and she squinted across the room at him, saying, "How'd it go?"

  "Okay. Nothing special. How was the movie?"

  "Nice. It was about a hardware store in Missouri in 1890. Beautiful shots. Terrific period feeling."

  Dortmunder didn't share May's enthusiasm for movies; his question had been merely polite. He said, "The owner came in while I was in the store."

  "No! What happened?"

  "I guess he was the owner. Him and two other guys. Came in for a minute, fooled around, left. Didn't even turn the lights on."

  "That's weird." She watched him empty bracelets and rings out of his pockets onto the coffee table. "Some nice stuff."

  "I got you something." He handed her the watch. "You press the button on the side."

  She did so: "Nice. Very nice. Thank you, John."

  "Sure."

  She pressed the button again. "It says ten after six."

  "Yeah?"

  "How do I set the time?"

  "I don't know," Dortmunder said. "I didn't see any instructions. It was the display model."

  "I'll figure it out," she said. She twiddled the button, then pressed it again. Clouds of cigarette smoke enveloped her head from the eighth-of-an-inch butt in the corner of her mouth. She put the watch down, took another crumpled cigarette from the pocket of her gray cardigan, and lit it from the ember she removed from her lower lip.

  Dortmunder said, "You want anything?"

  "No, thanks, I'm set."

  Dortmunder went away to the kitchen and came back with a bourbon and water and a small white plastic bag. "Figure out the watch?"

  "I'll look at it later." She had been frowning at the quiz again, and now she said, "Would you say I am very dependent, somewhat dependent, slightly dependent, or not at all dependent?"

  "That depends." On one knee, he scooped the loot from the coffee table into the plastic bag. "I'll take this stuff over to Arnie in the morning."

  "Andy Kelp called."

  "He's got some kind of machine on his phone."

  "He says please call him in the morning."

  "I don't know if I want to keep talking to a machine forever." He tied shut the top of the plastic bag, put it on the coffee table, picked up the watch and pressed the button. Pink LED digits said 6:10:42:08. He twiddled the button, pressed it again: 6:10:42:08. "Hm," he said.

  May said, "I'll put slightly dependent."

  Dortmunder yawned. Putting the watch down, he said, "I'll look at it in the morning."

  "I mean," May said, "nobody's not at all dependent."

  6

  Malcolm Zachary loved being an FBI man. It gave a certain meaningful tension to everything he did. When he got out of a car and sl
ammed the door, he didn't do it like just anybody, he did it like an FBI man: step, swing, slam, a fluid motion, flex of muscle, solid and determined, graceful in a manly sort of way. Malcolm Zachary got out of cars like an FBI man, drank coffee like an FBI man, sat quietly listening like an FBI man. It was terrific; it gave him a heightened self-awareness of the most delicious sort, like suddenly seeing yourself on closed-circuit television in a store window. It went with him through life, everywhere, in everything he did. He brushed his teeth like an FBI man—shoulders squared, elbow up high and sawing left and right, chick-chick, chick-chick. He made love like an FBI man—ankles together, elbows bearing the weight, hum-pah, hum-pah.

  He also, Malcolm Zachary, questioned a suspect like an FBI man, which in the present circumstance was perhaps unfortunate. While Zachary couldn't remember any suspect ever collapsing quite so rapidly as Georgios Skoukakis, it was unfortunately true that he could also not remember any suspect ever clamming up again quite so fast. One statement—"FBI, Mr. Skoukakis. Agent Zachary" — and the suspect had opened up like a landing craft: "I confess! I did it!" But then came the first question—"We'll want the names of your associates" — and the landing craft immediately snapped reshut and rusted into place.

  Having an awareness of other people that was less heightened than his awareness of himself, Zachary had no idea what had gone wrong. He didn't know how fragile and false had been that self-deception in Georgios Skoukakis' brain which he, Zachary, had destroyed by his mere presence. On the other hand he had no clue to the roiled tumble of emotions coursing through the poor man immediately after his blurted confession: the humiliation, the self-contempt, regret, horror, despair, the knowledge that he had now destroyed everything forever, with no hope of ever ever ever repairing the damage he had done.

  "We'll want the names of your associates."

  Bang! Instant redemption. Georgios Skoukakis had destroyed himself forever, but valor was still possible. He would not betray his associates. Zachary could have put bamboo shards under Skoukakis' fingernails, burning coals between his toes—he wouldn't, of course, that not being the FBI way, but just as a hypothetical—and Georgios Skoukakis would not betray his associates. Very seldom is it given to a man, having failed, to atone for his failure quite so rapidly as in the case of Georgios Skoukakis.

  Of none of which was Zachary aware. He knew only that Skoukakis had cracked at the first tap of the shell. So now Zachary was standing here, ballpoint pen in right hand, notebook in left hand (exactly like an FBI man), waiting for the answer to his first question and not yet aware that the answer was not going to come. He prodded a bit: "Well?"

  "Never," said Georgios Skoukakis.

  Zachary frowned at him. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Never."

  Zachary's partner, a younger man with a moustache named Freedly—Well, no. The man was named Freedly.

  Zachary's partner, a younger man named Freedly with a moustache—

  Zachary's partner, a moustached younger man named Freedly—

  Freedly said, "Have you got the ring on you?"

  "Just a minute, Bob," Zachary said. "Let's get the answer to this other question first."

  "He won't answer that question, Mac," Freedly said. "Well, Mr. Skoukakis? Is it on you?"

  "No," said Skoukakis.

  Zachary said, "What do you mean, he won't answer it?"

  The suspect's wife, Irene Skoukakis, said something short, fast, and probably vicious in a foreign language, no doubt Greek.

  "None of that," Zachary told her.

  Skoukakis looked terribly ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry, Irene," he said. "I just wasn't man enough."

  This time the wife spoke one word in English.

  "None of that either," Zachary told her.

  Freedly said, "Where is it, Mr. Skoukakis?"

  Skoukakis sighed. "In my shop," he said.

  "I would like," Zachary said, "to return to the interrogation. I asked a question."

  "He won't answer it," Freedly said. "Let's go get the ring."

  Zachary frowned like an FBI man. "What?"

  "It's in his shop," Freedly said. "That's the point, isn't it? He won't give us any names, Mac, so let's forget that and go get the ring. Come along, Mr. Skoukakis."

  Zachary didn't dislike Freedly—it would not have been possible for him to dislike a fellow FBI man—but there were moments when his liking for Freedly became less than perfect. Freedly didn't always behave like a proper FBI man, which left Zachary at times out in limbo someplace, being an FBI man all on his own while Freedly was just sort of doing things. Like now—fifteen or twenty minutes of interrogation bypassed completely, and they were merely going to get the ring. Zachary said, "What about the wife?"

  "She isn't going anywhere," Freedly said. "Are you, Mrs. Skoukakis?"

  Irene Skoukakis was a bit old to smolder, but she managed. "I shall get a divorce," she said. "But first I shall be unfaithful with a Turk."

  Her husband moaned.

  "Let's go," Freedly said.

  Okay, okay; Zachary turned the pages, skipped ahead, found his place, and said, like an FBI man, "Right. Let's go get that ring. Come along, Skoukakis."

  "Good night, Irene."

  Zachary and Freedly and the suspect went outside, and the wife slammed the door very hard after them. Their agency car, an avocado Pontiac, was across the street under a maple tree. They started in that direction and Skoukakis said, "Do you want to follow me?"

  Zachary didn't understand the question. Apparently Freedly did, though, because he grinned at Skoukakis and said, "Oh, no, Mr. Skoukakis. You'll ride with us."

  "Oh, yes," Skoukakis said. "Of course. I wasn't thinking."

  "Naturally you'll ride with us," Zachary said, having caught up. "What are you trying to pull?"

  "Nothing," Skoukakis said.

  Freedly drove, Zachary and Skoukakis riding in back, Skoukakis giving directions to his store. Freedly radioed in while they were stopped at a red light, saying, "We picked up Skoukakis. He says the object is at his shop. We're on the way there with him."

  "Wrapping it up fast," said the radio, in a loud, distorted, but cheerful voice. "That's the way to do it."

  "You bet," Freedly said. He stopped talking on the radio and drove the car forward.

  Skoukakis said, "Excuse me."

  "You were on our list," Freedly told him.

  "Ah," Skoukakis said.

  Zachary frowned. "What?"

  "I didn't know you had a list," Skoukakis said.

  "We've got lots of lists," Freedly told him. "The hit squad was Greek. It seemed political rather than criminal. They'd want to get it out of the country, and you were one of the likelier possibilities."

  "The FBI has its methods," Zachary said. He'd caught up again.

  At the shop, Skoukakis unlocked the door and went in first, switching on the lights and then stopping dead. "Move along," Zachary said.

  Skoukakis cried out in Greek. He ran forward. Zachary made a grab for him but missed, and Skoukakis stopped again.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake," Freedly said. "Say it isn't so."

  Zachary said, "What?"

  Skoukakis turned toward them a dead-white face and gestured at his open safe. "I've been robbed!"

  "Shit," said Freedly, and went out to the car to call in. Zachary said, "What?"

  7

  Dortmunder's breakfast was: sweetened grapefruit juice (at which he made a face), two fried eggs over hard, white bread toasted with apricot preserves, instant coffee with a lot of milk and sugar. He had finished everything but the second piece of toast and the third cup of coffee when May came into the kitchen, wearing her coat. "Don't forget to call Andy Kelp," she said.

  Dortmunder was fiddling with the digital watch. "Mm," he said, and pressed the button on the side; the pink numbers said 6:10:42:08. "Mm," he said.

  "You'll be home for dinner?"

  "Yeah. I'll take that stuff over to Arnie this morning. Maybe we'll eat out."

&n
bsp; "That'd be nice," she said, and left the kitchen.

  Dortmunder drank some coffee, turned the watch around and around in his hands, poked it a bit, and pressed the button on the side. 6:10:42:08.

  The front door closed.

  Dortmunder chewed toast and considered the watch. When you weren't pressing the button on the side, the rectangular black face was blank; it looked like Dick Tracy's wrist TV. Dortmunder held the watch near his mouth. "Hello, less?" he said. "This is Tracy."

  The phone rang.

  Dortmunder removed the remaining toast from his mouth by drinking the remaining coffee, patted his lips with a paper napkin, and walked into the living room. He picked up the phone on the fifth ring. "Yeah," he said.

  "What took so long?"

  "Hello, Andy."

  "You were in the kitchen, I bet." The real Andy Kelp sounded just as cheery as the machine Andy Kelp.

  "You got a machine on your phone," Dortmunder accused him.

  "You want an extension for your kitchen?"

  "What do you want with a machine on your phone?"

  "It'd save you steps. I could install it myself, you wouldn't pay any monthly fee."

  "I don't need an extension," Dortmunder said firmly, "and you don't need a machine."

  "It's very useful," Kelp said. "If there's people I don't want to talk to, I don't talk to them."

  "I already do that," Dortmunder said, and the phone went guk-ick, guk-ick, guk-ick. "Now what?" Dortmunder said.

  "Hold on," Kelp told him. "Somebody's calling me."

  "Somebody's calling you? You're calling me." But Dortmunder was speaking into a dead phone. "Hello?" he said. "Andy?" Then he shook his head in disgust, hung up, and went back to the kitchen to make another cup of coffee. The water was just boiling when the phone rang. He turned off the flame, walked back to the living room, and answered on the fourth ring. "Yeah," he said.