“I move the following amendment: the removal be made after the collection has been photographed, and that to be completed as quickly as possible, but no longer than ten weeks and,” here came the sweeteners for Dillon and Bialzac, “we will produce, under Dr. Bialzac’s editorship, the first complete color catalog of the Dillon Collection, to be sold by the foundation and the profits split equally between them and the history of art department.”
That ought to do it—something for everyone. Ruth glanced around the table. Stewart’s face remained blank. Marge Tice winked. Clough’s expression was bleak. His return to the islands, delayed. And Bialzac relaxed.
“That is quite out of the question, Dr. Harris,” Dillon intoned.
“But on what objection?” Ruth asked. “What difference will seven or eight weeks make?”
“Our move to New York includes photographing the collection and the production of a new catalog. Mr. Stewart has arranged for that. We will, of course, make these catalogs available to you when they are ready.”
She had lost. With as much grace as she could muster, Ruth sat back in her chair and listened as the financial underpinnings of her college collapsed around her. Dillon ended the meeting and dismissed the Board with thanks.
Chapter Three
In an age of mass architecture and design, it has become difficult to distinguish one venue from another. Malls in the suburbs of most cities are so much alike that once inside there is no way to tell where you are. Hotels and lobbies blend into one long, carpeted sameness. Ike recalled Charlie Garland’s story about the time he was running late to catch a flight to Columbus and got on his plane just as the door closed. He arrived at the end of the flight, booked into his room at the hotel, ate dinner and it was not until the following morning that he discovered that he was in Toledo.
Waiting rooms, however, are different. Doctor’s offices have year-old Time magazines, The Reader’s Digest, and two-day-old newspapers, set off by a faint scent of disinfectant. They differed from dentists’ in that they had a different smell. Ike could not recall what the difference was, but he was sure that if he were led blindfolded into a dentist’s office he would know it.
Callend College offered The Smithsonian, alumnae magazines, well-designed four-color brochures noting Callend’s academic programs, and coffee-table prospectuses of the college showing the beauties of the Shenandoah Valley. No question about where you were.
Ike tossed the pamphlet describing the college’s annual art festival, Artscape, on the table and stood as the conference room door swung open. Six people filed out. He inspected them as they emerged, judging their state of mind by their expression, sorting and classifying them. A tall stooped man exited looking satisfied, perhaps smug. Next, an agitated, bespectacled, bearded man Ike could not place. He recognized Marge Tice, who flashed him a smile. A beaming Doctor Clough followed, and behind him a willowy young man in a plum-colored velvet jacket.
Ike focused his attention on Ruth Harris—Sydney Harris in another lifetime. Some people, he thought, improve with age. A striking girl years ago—she had grown into a beautiful woman—and at this moment, a very angry woman. If she shared her father’s personality, he guessed his meeting would go badly.
As her secretary ushered him into the office, he rehearsed what he wanted to say, wishing all the while that he had arranged the meeting yesterday or the next day or any day but today. She sat ramrod straight in her swivel chair and glared at Ike. Her left hand toyed with the letter opener.
“Yes, Sheriff, what can I do for you?” she growled.
Ike launched into his speech. There were complaints from some of the merchants in town about some bad checks. They believed they were mostly, perhaps all, being written by area citizens passing themselves off as college students. The merchants wished to continue the tradition of honoring Callend girls’, excuse me, women’s, checks without question, but times change. They wanted to establish some means of ensuring that the young women writing checks, without question, were Callend students and proposed that the college issue each student a picture ID. That would help them and the sheriff’s office because lately, there had been incidents involving these…young women…he might have handled more diplomatically had he, Ike, ah, been able to make the connection.
“What incidents, Sheriff?” Ruth Harris asked, her voice like ice.
“Dr. Harris, we’ve had a couple of arrests involving your…women and their dates. Trespass, public drunkenness, a little pot, which I think needn’t have made the police blotter if we could have established their connection here sooner, called someone, and let you handle them. It’s embarrassing to them to have to call parents…or whomever.…”
“Let me get this straight, Sheriff, you correct me if I’m wrong. Lord knows I do not want to overburden the sheriff’s office, or its mental capacity. You want Callend to provide picture identification for its students so you can keep them separate from the townies that have been bilking the local shopkeepers. Am I right so far? We have eight hundred students here plus two hundred and fifty faculty, staff and support personnel, who will also be branded, I assume, and this is so your people, who have lived in this social backwash all their lives, can separate perfect strangers from the college from local residents and their children. Have I got it so far?”
“Well, not quite, you see—”
“What did you have in mind? Nice plastic card or would you prefer a tattoo? I am told that you can get a bar code tattoo now. That would do it, don’t you think? Folks down at the local Piggly Wiggly can run the student through the checkout scanner. You can’t lose a tattoo, Sheriff, no chance of it falling into the wrong hands.”
“Dr. Harris, please, it’s a real problem and not as simple as you seem to think.”
“Sheriff, the whole idea of carrying identification, of proving you are, or are not, who you pretend to be, is hateful. I will not contribute to some kind of a fascist police state. If your merchants can’t tell who’s a townie and who isn’t, then you issue IDs to the townies—the ones without them are mine.”
“Dr. Harris, I hoped we could come to some simple solution that would not produce a…” Ike paused, drew a breath, and plunged on.
“I understand that you do issue cards to your students so that they can access the books in your libraries. I assume you have a problem with books and access—I don’t know. But since you don’t seem to have any objection to issuing some form of ID, it seemed reasonable to me to suggest its scope be expanded. In every school in the country, every governmental agency, business, everywhere, people are issued IDs.”
“Nonsense, Sheriff. In the first place, the cards you refer to are to allow our computer to keep inventory in the library. It has nothing to do with thefts or lack of trust. Second, what every other institution does to its employees, students, and whomever, is of no interest to me. This is an institution of higher education. We try to teach independence, free thinking, and a healthy skepticism for the lemming-like behavior that characterizes our society as a whole.”
“Oh, I’m mistaken. I was led to believe that computers were going to be used to manage card access door locks on your buildings, dormitory rooms and—”
“You understood wrong.”
“I see. Look, Dr. Harris, I’ve come on a bad day. Why don’t I just arrange to talk about this with you some other time?”
“There is nothing more to talk about, Sheriff, now or any other time. In the future, you will discuss these matters with my chief of security, Captain Parker, not me. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some phone calls to make.”
Ruth Harris picked up the phone, swiveled around so that her back was to Ike.
“Millie, I can’t make this idiot phone work. Can you…what? Oh sorry…well, as soon as you can.”
***
Loyal Parker waited in the outer office. He greeted Ike with a sm
irk.
“How are they hanging, Ikey?”
Ike ignored him and retraced his steps down the long corridor to the main entrance. He waved to Millie Tompkins at the reception desk. Millie had been enthroned at that desk for longer than anyone could remember. She had mastered the art of knitting the cables on the old-fashioned PBX into spaghetti. Now she was trying to master her third phone system. She squinted at the manual in front of her through half glasses, perched on the end of her nose. The headset wrapped around her like a fallen halo.
“Here it is. I can get you your New Jersey number now,” she said into the microphone. She waggled her fingers and smiled a goodbye at Ike.
He let himself out through the double doors into the sun and headed to his car. Once in its privacy, motor running, and air-conditioner on full, he allowed himself two good minutes of uninterrupted profanity.
***
Loyal Parker stood across the desk from Ruth Harris at the closest approximation of attention he could manage. He was not ex-military, so he did not manage very well, more like a Klingon than a Marine. There was an air of insolence about his manner that always irritated Ruth. Cops were, she decided, all alike—good, bad, successful, or, like this one, failed—they were all alike.
“Captain Parker,” she began, without looking at him, “the board has voted to remove the Dillon Collection from the Art Storage Compound in three weeks. I must tell you, with the collection gone, we can no longer justify retaining our large security staff. By Monday, I want you to provide me with the names of everyone in your department and rank order them as to effectiveness, one through whatever number there are. I will dismiss them in reverse order. I do not know how many that will be yet.
“Also, there will be a lot of strangers in and around the building for the next three weeks. All will have letters of identification. Instruct your men to ask to see them if there’s any question. Have you got that?”
“Yes, sir, Ma’am,” he replied.
“Good. That’s all.”
Chapter Four
He heard the telephone ringing. Anyone else would have rushed to the door, fumbled for keys, dashed to the phone, and more often than not, been greeted by a dial tone. But Vito was a deliberate man whose continued survival depended on caution, careful planning, and a habit of trusting no one. He let the phone ring as he inspected the door for any traces that would indicate someone might have attempted to open it in his absence. Satisfied, he opened the door and pushed it in while moving to his right so that he was out of the line of sight of anyone who might be inside waiting for him. At the same time, he glanced at the mirror hung inside the foyer to give him a clear view of most of the living room.
He stepped into the apartment and went to the phone. As he had with the door, he checked its polished black surface to see that the thumbprint he placed on it after he polished the hand set was undisturbed. Then he picked up the phone.
“Yes.”
“This is Artscape,” the voice on the other end said. “We have a problem. You will have to do the job early.”
“How early?”
“In the next two weeks.”
“Impossible. What happened?”
“They’re moving the collection to New York in three weeks. One week will be packing and inventory. We’ve only got two weeks.”
“I am sorry about that, but our contract says July the fourth. If we go now, the risks change.”
“We have no choice. It has to be now.”
“How did this happen? You told me you were in charge, that you could do anything you wanted with those pictures. You could get my people in to check the alarms, the number and size of the pictures—all of it.”
“I couldn’t do anything. The votes weren’t there.”
“What votes? What is this? Are you in charge or not?”
“Look, it doesn’t matter. The board wanted to bring the collection to New York and before anyone knew it, they voted to move the collection. Bang. Just like that.”
“Bang? You didn’t tell me anything about votes or boards. We picked July because nobody would be around and the risks would be small. The contract price assumed those risks as part of the pricing. You understand then, that if I do this—”
“If you do this…we have a contract. You’ve got to do it.”
“We have a contract. I always honor my contracts. Mine says July four. I will, if you insist, break in on that date, and remove everything I find. Then your bosses can see what sort of ransom they can extract from Dillon with it. That is my contract. Are you are suggesting a new one?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Vito waited. Finally, the voice said, “What do you want?”
“The same, but because the risks are greater and because I will not have time to put together the team and backup I need, you will have to come up with a whole lot more cash. Up front.”
Vito Donati loved moments like these. His client could do nothing—no time to find someone else, even if it were possible. He had them over a barrel. Vito made a mental note to step up his protection after this job. He knew these people well enough to know that the squeeze he was putting on them now would result in an attempt on him later. But that was the nature of the business—all in a day’s work.
“Here’s the deal. First, none of your people will be part of this. I don’t have the time to train them, and after what happened at the library two months ago, I don’t want to be within a hundred miles of them. Second, the price is now ten million plus expenses, one-half up front, the remainder on delivery. And three, your people will pick up the ransom, and then deliver the goods. Agreed?”
Vito waited again while his caller thought, calculating the effect this new deal would have on the men in Damascus or Yemen or wherever they lurked at the moment. They would not be happy, certainly not with Donati. But they had no other viable choices.
“We pay the second half when we have the ransom, not on delivery. I’ll go along with the rest.”
Vito smiled. It had been easier than he had expected. He liked working with ideological people. They were so obsessed with their causes they did not take time to drive a good bargain.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll go next Thursday.” He hung up, picked up the phone, and dialed area code 704 and the number. The phone rang fifteen times before an angry Red Burnham answered.
“Whatcha want?”
“The plan’s changed. We go next Thursday. Get the trucks and trailers to the Shenandoah Truck Park by Monday and check into the Dogwood Motel west of Picketsville. They are expecting someone named Michaels or Dolan. You are Dolan. Got it?”
“I got it, but what’s the rush?”
“I’ll explain later. It is a sweeter deal so be happy. You get bumped to fifty thousand for a week’s work.”
Vito hung up. The change in plans made some things more difficult, but he could manage. And since the business with Giacomo, he felt squeezed and unsafe in his part of New Jersey. Spending two weeks out of town could be very convenient, not to mention necessary. In two weeks his problems would blow over. Martelli promised he would see to that. It just needed a word to a few people, maybe the application of some muscle, and money. He could fix it.
But right now, he needed his man, the locksmith. With more time, he could play this man like a fish, reel him in, let him run, and boat him. But he did not have the time. He would have to go in hard and offer lots of money, maybe even lean on his man through his kids. And he would have to be lucky. Grafton drank. He might be too broken up. Either way he would be no good, even if he decided to do the job.
Vito left the apartment, but not before he had reestablished his checkpoints and replaced the hair on the doorsill. He would not return for several weeks. By then this new phone would be tapped, too, and he would have to make other arrangements.
&nbs
p; He walked through the doors and signaled for Angelo to bring the car up. The black Cadillac whispered to the curb. Vito got in, gave Angelo an address, and settled himself back into the cushions to think.
***
The drive back to town had not afforded Ike any relief. He threw the door to the sheriff’s office open with such force, it bounced against the booking counter and upset a coffee cup filled with pencils. A startled Essie Falcao sat at the dispatch desk, phone in her left hand, her right covering the mouthpiece.
Ike glared at her and then at Whaite Billingsly, who busied himself picking up the pencils.
“Do I look like a fascist?” Ike yelled to no one in particular. “Am I some kind of rube cop who enjoys pushing people around? I go out there, nice as pie, a pussycat—that’s what I was. I go out there and suggest—suggest—a simple solution to a problem and that woman calls me a…says I want to start a police state.”
“Ike?” Essie said, and then ducked as Ike turned and continued.
“Let me tell you something, Essie. I never, ever got into the town and gown crap that most of the people hereabouts did. I never took the Callend girls or faculty for granted or as something special, different, or anything, but now.…”
“Ike?”
“I’m going to lean on that arrogant, self-righteous, over-educated b…whatever, until she starts wishing she was back in Connecticut, or wherever she came from, getting her rear-end kicked at a faculty meeting.”
“Ike?”
“I’m going to watch her car and—”
“Ike.”
“What, Essie. What the hell is it?”
“Ike, it’s your father on the phone.”
“Tell him I’m not here.”
“He said to tell you that if you said you weren’t here, that he’s across the street in the barbershop and he saw you come in and—”
Ike’s fist hit the counter, the pencils jumped. If he had been a character in an animated cartoon, smoke would have come out of his ears. When the color in his face ebbed from maroon to just red, he said, “I’ll take it in my office.”
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