Why Me? d-5

by Donald E. Westlake

  "I know what you mean," Dortmunder said.

  Next, he tried Kelp's number again, just in case the idiot had retired his phone-ahead box, but it was the cheery girl who answered. "Oh," Dortmunder said. "He's still got that box on, huh? Sorry to bother you."

  "No," said the girl, "I'm here—" But Dortmunder, disgusted, was already hanging up, breaking the connection before she said, " — at Andy's apartment."

  Immediately, with Dortmunder's hand still on it, the phone rang. He picked up the receiver again: "Hello?"

  "You been on the phone."

  "I'm still on the phone," Dortmunder pointed out. "How you doing, Stan?"

  "I'm okay," Stan Murch said. "I think I got a nice one. Needs some planning, some leadership. You available?"

  "Very," Dortmunder said.

  "I thought, just a couple guys. Ralph Winslow, you know him?"

  "Sure. He's okay."

  "And Tiny Bulcher."

  "Is he out again?"

  "Turned out the gorilla didn't press charges."

  "Oh."

  "We'll meet tonight at the O.J. Ten o'clock good?"

  "Sure."

  "Do you know how I can get in touch with Andy Kelp?"

  "No," said Dortmunder.

  12

  The name «Stoon» appeared among the doorbells at neither 21 nor 23 Perry Street. Coming out of the latter, pausing on the stoop to consider the perfidy of life, Dortmunder saw activity diagonally across the way. Three men were emerging from a building over there, the two flankers each holding an elbow of the one in the middle. Additionally, the flanker on the left was carrying a large blue canvas bag, which appeared to be very heavy. The three men hustled across the street to a battered light blue Ford parked near Dortmunder, who could see that the man in the middle—short, round-faced—seemed much less happy than his companions, both of whom were large, rather beefy, and obviously quite pleased with themselves. As they stuffed their short companion into the back seat of the Ford and the heavy blue canvas bag into the front seat, one of them said, "This'll keep you inside for quite a while." What the short man answered, if anything, Dortmunder didn't hear.

  The two big, self-satisfied men also entered the Ford, one in front and one in back, and the car drove away. Dortmunder watched it go. At the corner, it turned and drove out of sight.

  Dortmunder sighed. There was no question in his mind, of course, but he might as well make absolutely sure. He walked across the street, entered the vestibule of the building the trio had appeared from, and scanned the names beside the bells.

  Stoon.

  "You lookin for somebody?"

  Dortmunder turned and saw a truculent fortyish Puerto Rican armed with a push broom. The super. Dortmunder said, "Liebowitz."

  "They moved out," the super said.

  "Oh."

  Dortmunder walked away. At the corner, a cop looked at him very hard. By then Dortmunder was so disgusted that, forgetting the plastic bag of jewelry in his jacket pocket, he looked back at the cop just as hard. The cop shrugged and went on about his business. Dortmunder went home.

  13

  Jack Mackenzie got along so well with the cops because they all thought he was Irish. His ancestry was, in fact, Scottish, a shameful secret wild horses couldn't have dragged out of him.

  Being a police reporter for a large metropolitan TV station, it was a good thing Mackenzie was so tight with the men in blue—otherwise, he wouldn't have kept the job very long. But the cops knew good old Jack would always get their names right, would put them on camera if at all possible, would always believe their version of how the suspect fell off the roof, and would never twit them for their occasional inevitable failures. And that's why, when Chief Inspector Francis Xavier Mologna (which Jack Mackenzie always pronounced Maloney) decided to go public with this Byzantine Fire problem, it was red-haired, freckle-faced, jovial, hard-drinking, pseudo-Irish Jack Mackenzie who got the nod for the exclusive interview.

  The meeting took place in a conference room at Headquarters, down several flights from Mologna's own office. With its indirect lighting, serious-looking desk, and windowless walls thoroughly diapered in sound-absorbing Virgin-Mary-blue drapes, this room had been designed for television. If a police spokesman stood behind that desk, in front of those drapes, holding up an old.22 rifle while announcing that the arrest of those four college sophomores had just narrowly averted the overthrow of the Republic, you believed him.

  The meeting was scheduled at four o'clock, just early enough to make the opening segment of the six o'clock news. (The rest of the press would get the story a bit later, also in time for the six o'clock news, but not till the end of the program rather than the beginning. Friendship is a wonderful thing.) Mackenzie arrived a bit early accompanied by his three-man crew (one operated the camera, one ran the sound equipment, and the union wouldn't tell anybody what the third man did), and he joshed with the officer on guard in the hallway while his boys set up their equipment and checked light levels over every square inch of the room.

  Mologna himself, in a uniform so rich with braid that he looked like an ocean liner at night, emerged from the elevator down the hall at three minutes past four, accompanied by his secretary, Sergeant Leon Windrift, and two anonymous plainclothes detectives carrying folders full of handouts and statistics. Mologna and Mackenzie met in the hall and shook hands, beaming with approval on one another. "Good to see you, Jack," said Mologna.

  "How are you, Chief Inspector? You're looking fine. Lost a couple pounds, didn't you?"

  In fact, Mologna had gained a few pounds. His smile even broader and happier than before, he patted his beer belly—thup, thup—and said, "Hard to keep in fightin trim, stuck to that desk every day."

  "Well, you're looking fine," Mackenzie repeated, which was about as far as he could take such nonsense.

  The two went on into the conference room, followed by Mologna's minions, and Mackenzie's crew put out their cigarettes and prepared to go to work. Since this was to be an interview rather than a press conference—that was scheduled at four-thirty, in this same room—Mologna sat at the desk rather than stand behind it (his beer belly hardly showed at all), while Mackenzie took the chair to the right of the desk. More light level readings were taken, and then the sound man asked them to just talk to one another while he took sound levels. Both participants were old hands at this and chatted about baseball—the new season just getting under way down there in Florida, if Mackenzie were a sports reporter he could be down there now in the warm, etc., etc. — until the sound man told them they could stop the drivel. Then they settled down to the business at hand.

  Mackenzie: "Maybe you better give me my lead-in question. I'm not sure exactly what you want to announce here."

  Mologna: "I want to announce progress on this fuckin ruby ring. Why not tell me you understand I'm in charge and how'm I doin?"

  Mackenzie: "Okay, fine. Chief Inspector Mologna, you've been placed in charge of the investigation into last night's theft of the Byzantine Fire. Do you have any progress to report?"

  Mologna: "Well, yes and no, Jack. We have the bunch that pulled the job out at Kennedy International Airport, but unfortunately we don't as yet have the ring."

  Mackenzie: "But arrests have been made?"

  Mologna: "Definitely. We've held back the announcement, hopin to finish the case. The alleged perpetrators are aliens, apparently involved in the current troubles in Cyprus. We nabbed all four this mornin."

  Mackenzie: "So the theft of the Byzantine Fire was a political act."

  Mologna (chuckles): "Well, Jack, that may be the way they look at it. I'm a simple New York cop, and to me a holdup is a holdup."

  Mackenzie: "So these people will be tried like any common criminal."

  Mologna: "That's up to the courts, Jack."

  Mackenzie: "Yes, of course. Chief Inspector, if you are satisfied you have in fact apprehended the criminals, why is it the Byzantine Fire is still missing?"

  Mologna: "Well,
Jack, that's the reason I want to make a direct appeal to the public. The fact is, and this is why we've made no announcement till now, the ring was stolen twice."

  Mackenzie: "Twice?"

  Mologna: "That's right, Jack. The original perpetrators intended to smuggle the ring out of the country, and in connection with their plans they left it in a jeweler's shop on Rockaway Boulevard in the South Ozone Park section of Queens."

  Mackenzie: "Off the tape here, do you have a color photo of this store? Otherwise I'll have to phone our people to get out there right away."

  Mologna: "Now, Jack, you know I take care of you. Turnbull here has everythin you need."

  Mackenzie: "Great. Back on the tape. Chief Inspector, you say the ring was left in a jeweler's shop?"

  Mologna: "That's right, Jack. Due to some very good police work—and I want to say that the Federal Bureau of Investigation was very helpful in this part of the case—we'd rounded up the entire gang well before sunup this mornin. Unfortunately, durin that time the jeweler's shop underwent an entirely unconnected burglary. Some thief, as yet unapprehended, took away the Byzantine Fire along with the rest of his loot from the store. This is the man we are now lookin for."

  Mackenzie: "Chief Inspector, do you mean to say that some minor-league crook in this city is now in possession of the multi-million-dollar Byzantine Fire?"

  Mologna: "That's precisely the case, Jack."

  Mackenzie: "Chief Inspector, may I ask what is being done?"

  Mologna: "Everythin is bein done, Jack. Since the discovery of the burglary, I have put into effect an order to question every known criminal in the city of New York."

  Mackenzie: "A pretty large order, Chief Inspector."

  Mologna: "We're devotin our full resources to the job, Jack." (Out of camera range, Sergeant Leon Windrift slid a piece of paper onto the desk in front of Mologna, who did not blatantly look at it.) "As of three o'clock this afternoon, in all five boroughs of this city, seventeen thousand, three hundred and fifty-four individuals have been picked up for questionin. The result so far of this blitz has been six hundred and ninety-one arrests for crimes and offenses unrelated to the disappearance of the Byzantine Fire."

  Mackenzie: "Chief Inspector, are you saying that so far today six hundred ninety-one unsolved crimes have been solved?"

  Mologna: "That's up to the courts, Jack. All I can tell you is, we're satisfied with the results up till now."

  Mackenzie: "So, no matter what else happens, today's police blitz has been a definite plus from the point of view of the honest citizens of New York."

  Mologna: "I'd say so, Jack. But now we'd like to ask those honest citizens to give us their assistance." (turning directly to camera) "The Byzantine Fire is a very valuable ruby ring, but it's more than that. As Americans, we were makin a gift of that ruby ring, all of us, to a friendly nation. As New Yorkers, I think we all feel a little ashamed that this has happened in our fair city. I am showin you a picture of the Byzantine Fire. If you have seen this ring, or if you have any information at all that could be helpful in this investigation, please call the special police number you now see on your screen." (turns back to Mackenzie)

  Mackenzie: "And in the meantime, Chief Inspector, the police blitz will continue?"

  Mologna: "Absolutely, Jack."

  Mackenzie: "Until the Byzantine Fire is found."

  Mologna: "Jack, the criminal element in the city of New York will learn to regret the very existence of the Byzantine Fire."

  Mackenzie: "Thank you very much, Chief Inspector Francis Mologna."

  That ended the interview. Mackenzie and Mologna shook hands once more and exchanged a few words while Mackenzie's crew packed up. Then Mologna resat behind the desk to await the rest of the press—due now to arrive in about ten minutes—while Mackenzie hurried back to the TV station, there to pose against another Virgin-Mary-blue drape for reaction shots and a lead-in explanation of the story and better-organized phrasing of a couple of his questions. These shots were mixed with portions of the interview tape, plus a nice clear color photo of the facade of Skoukakis Credit Jewelers, plus another nice clear color photo of the Byzantine Fire on a background of black velvet, plus a superimposition of the special police number (which would be dialed by a lot of giggling 12-year-olds), and the whole thing was ready just in time for the six o'clock news.

  A very attractive little scoop.

  14

  It's a pity Dortmunder watched the wrong channel. At six-oh-three, while Jack Mackenzie was describing Dortmunder's most recent exploit (anonymously) to several hundred thousand more or less indifferent viewers, his potentially most rapt audience was a bare few clicks away along the dial, watching something called "file film" of people in white dresses running around a sunny broad tree-lined street amid the pop-chatter of small arms fire, as a voice-over announcer stated that fighting between government troops and rebels had broken out yet again. Where this fighting had broken out Dortmunder wasn't sure, not having paid that close attention to the voice-over voice. On the other hand, he didn't much care, either; if a lot of people in white dresses wanted to run around a sunny broad tree-lined street while being shot at, that was up to them. Dortmunder was mostly brooding about his own problems: drinking beer, paying minimal attention to the six o'clock news, and brooding.

  May came home while the sports news was being given its usual exhaustive airing, a subject in which Dortmunder's lack of interest was so profound that he hadn't waited until the commercial to go get another beer. Returning to the living room with the new beer, he saw May walk in the front door and switched off the TV set just as the post-sports commercial was starting. Which was also unfortunate, because right after that commercial the hot news about the Byzantine Fire was going to be broadcast by the (helplessly furious at both Mackenzie and Mologna) police beat reporter for this channel, a man blamelessly suffering because his Irish name—Costello—sounded Italian.

  "Let me take one of those," Dortmunder said, and took her left-hand grocery sack.

  "Thanks." The cigarette bobbled in the corner of her mouth.

  It was May's belief that her activities as a cashier down at the Safeway made her in a way a member of the Safeway family, and how could the family begrudge her a little for herself? So every day she came home with a couple of full grocery sacks, which was very helpful for their domestic economy.

  They carried today's groceries to the kitchen, with May saying along the way, "Somebody's passing fake food stamps."

  "Counterfeit?"

  "It's the noncash economy you read about," May said. "Credit cards, checks, food stamps. People don't deal in money any more."

  "Um" said Dortmunder. The noncash economy was one of his major career problems. No cash payrolls, no cash deliveries, no cash anywhere.

  "They're nice, too," May said. "Very good plates. The only trouble is, the paper's different. Thinner. You can feel the difference."

  "Not smart," Dortmunder said.

  "That's right. Does a cashier look at all that paper? No. But you touch every piece that comes by."

  "Food stamps." Dortmunder leaned against the sink, slurping at his beer while May put the groceries away. "You wouldn't think it'd be worth it."

  "Oh, no? With prices the way they are? You just don't know, John."

  "I guess not."

  "If I didn't have the job at the Safeway, I wouldn't mind some queer food stamps myself."

  "Big operation," Dortmunder mused. "You've got your printer, you've got your salesmen on the street."

  "I was thinking," May said. "I could maybe be a salesman. Right there at the register."

  Dortmunder frowned at her. "I don't know, May. I wouldn't like you to take chances."

  "Just to deal with customers I know. I'll think about it, anyway."

  "It'd be an easy pinch, is all."

  "I won't do it unless things get really tight around here. How'd you do with Arnie?"

  "Um," Dortmunder said.

  May was putti
ng two plastic-wrapped trays of chicken parts in the refrigerator. She gave Dortmunder a questioning look, closed the refrigerator door, and while folding up the grocery sacks said, "Something went wrong."

  "Arnie got arrested. While I was there."

  "They didn't take you with?"

  "They didn't see me."

  "That's good. Wha'd they take him for?"

  "It's a sweep. There was some big jewel robbery out at Kennedy last night."

  "I saw something about it in the paper."

  "So the law's busting everybody," Dortmunder said, "looking for it."

  "The poor guy."

  "That took it?" Dortmunder shook his head. "He deserves what he gets, making all this trouble. It's the guys like Arnie I feel sorry for. Arnie and me."

  "Won't they have to let him go after a while?"

  "Arnie's probably out already," Dortmunder said, "but he won't be buying for a while. And I heard about another possible guy and went there, and the cops were grabbing him, too. I guess they're hitting particular on the fences because it's a jewel."

  "So you've still got the goods?"

  "In the bedroom."

  May would know he meant the hiding place in the back of the dresser. "Never mind," she said. "You'll have better luck tomorrow." Fishing out a new cigarette, she lit it from the final coal of the old one, then flipped the ember into the sink, where it briefly sizzled.

  "I'm sorry, May," Dortmunder said.

  "It's not your fault," she said. "Besides, you never know what's going to happen in this life. That's why I brought home the chicken. We'll eat out tomorrow."

  "Sure." As much to encourage himself as her, he said, "Stan Murch called. He's got something, he says. Needs a planner."

  "Well, that's you."

  "I'm seeing him tonight."

  "What's the score?"

  "I don't know yet," Dortmunder said. "I hope it isn't jewelry again."

  "The noncash economy," May said, smiling.

  "Maybe it's food stamps," Dortmunder said.