Good Behavior
Page 23
“So it looks,” Mologna growled, leanin back away from his subordinates, “as though we got all the meres there were.”
“Looks that way, Chief Inspector,” said a lieutenant, talkin to a spot about a foot and a half to Mologna’s right so the camera could catch his profile. “There isn’t anybody in there now except the legitimate people signed in at the record book in the lobby.”
“Except for the Matlock twins,” said the other lieutenant, whose team had made that discovery.
“Except for them,” the first lieutenant agreed, leanin to his left to block the other lieutenant from the cameras.
“And it also looks,” Mologna went on, “as though whoever else was in on this ruckus, they took the rest of the stuff out that private elevator into the garden over there and made good their getaway before we arrived on the scene.”
It was too bad, damnit. If the men under Mologna’s command—even the spurious command of a display inspector—had come up with the rest of that loot or whoever had actually masterminded the burglary, it would have gone a long way toward rehabilitatin Mologna back toward the top cop status that was rightfully his. Somewhere, he knew, there was somebody who’d put this whole plan together, somebody who knew just what the hell had been goin on here in this tower, and what a feather in Mologna’s cap it would have been if he could have got his hands on that someone. I’d squeeze him till he sang “Dixie,” Mologna thought.
But it was not to be.
The captain said, “Chief Inspector, I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever made the telephone tip that brought us here was another member of the gang. A falling out among thieves, you know.”
“The same idea had occurred to me,” Mologna lied, noddin thoughtfully. That would be the ringleader, for sure, the one Mologna would love to have a little conversation with.
The first lieutenant said, “Chief Inspector, Building Security wants to know if they can take charge of the place. Are we finished here?”
The mastermind is long gone, probably out of the city entirely by now. Mologna said, “There’s nothin left to—Wait, hold on. Move out of the way there.”
They all moved to the side, away from the doorway, and out came the singin nuns, blinkin into the TV lights. Poor unworldly creatures, they seemed startled by all the attention. “Here, you fellas,” Mologna called to the TV crews, “let these little ladies pass. Get them lights and cameras out of their faces. They’re not used to all this carryin on. You,” he told the obnoxious lieutenant with the profile, “escort these ladies to their bus.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant complained, and moved away with the nuns, some of whom weren’t such little ladies at all. Well, the pretty ones didn’t go into a convent, did they? Except sometimes they did.
Mologna caught sight of Sister Mary Forcible, the head nun who’d identified herself on the way in. “Sister Mary,” he said, gesturin to her, “you want some free publicity for that record of yours?”
Stage fright kept the little nun silent, with a glassy and terrified grin. Then Mrs. Taylor came along, smilin, self-confident, sayin, “Chief Inspector, that’s so nice of you, but the Sisters are silent except when they’re singing. But you get us some publicity when the record comes out, and we’ll remember you in our prayers.” She laughed, liltinly, very like that judo instructor of yore, and turned to Sister Mary Forcible, sayin, “Won’t we, Sister?”
The nun nodded, spastically. She was still scared, poor thing, confused by the lights and the cameras and the big burly policemen all over the place. A big difference from all them drugged-out rock groups, Mologna thought, and said, “You go on along, Sister Mary,” and watched beamin as Sister Mary and Mrs. Taylor—I’ll remember you in my prayers, Mrs. Taylor—hurried across the sidewalk to join her friends in the bus. Turnin back to his team, displayin for the TV cameras both the forcefulness and the loneliness of command, Mologna said, “Well, boys, we ain’t doin shit here, we might as well just—”
Bang! That was a hell of a big crack, like a rifle shot, and policemen and buildin security people all over the place quickly crouched down and reached fast for their sidearms. Mologna looked at them all, looked at the thick belch of dirty gray smoke comin out of the nuns’ bus’s tailpipe, and laughed at them all. “That was a backfire, boys,” he called. “Take it easy.” Shakin his head, he displayed the amused calm of command. “Scared of a bunch of nuns,” he said.
50
(letter from Elaine Ritter to Rafael Avilez, Guerrera Popular Independence Party, c/o United Nations, NY—hand-delivered)
Dear Senor Avilez,
In the next few days, you will be receiving a large number of packages in the mail, all containing valuable objects such as jewelry. My father, Frank Ritter, has found it impossible after all to assist your revolution directly, as he had intended, because of the complications of international law and the arrest of the army he had meant to send you, but he still feels quite strongly in the justice of your cause, and has chosen a somewhat odd and indirect method of getting financial support to you. (You can understand that he can’t at this moment let his own name be connected with your efforts to overthrow the tyrant, General Pozos.)
The objects you will receive were “stolen” from companies in the Avalon State Bank Tower. My father, as you know, owns that building, and arranged the apparent “theft”; his insurance company is making good all the losses. Individually, none of these objects is so valuable that it could be easily traced; nevertheless, my father thinks it would be better if you were to arrange to sell them in small lots and elsewhere; in Los Angeles, for instance, or possibly London.
My father would not want to be thanked yet; not until the tyrant has been successfully overthrown. With the money from these objects, you should be able to buy arms and arrange for international support. My father and I are both very sorry we cannot be more directly involved, but hope this financial contribution will turn the tide.
Vive la revolution!
(letter from May Walker, calling herself May Dortmunder, to Otto Chepkoff, Tiptop A-1 Choice Foods, 273-14 Scunge Avenue, Brooklyn, NY 11666)
Dear Mr. Chepkoff:
Enclosed please find copies of invoices from your company to Bohack Supermarkets, Inc. You will notice that these are your actual invoice forms. You will also notice they clearly demonstrate a pattern of double-billing for shipments delivered. You will further notice they are all more than three months old, which means that no one will go looking for the originals in the Bohack Supermarket files—where the originals can be found, I guarantee it—unless someone suggests to the Bohack accounting department (anonymously, perhaps) that you might have been up to some hanky-panky.
John Dortmunder hopes not to hear from you any more on that other matter.
(letter from Sister Mary Grace to John Dortmunder, sent via one of the convenience addresses)
Dear Saint John and your saint friends,
By now you know I did divert some of that “loot,” writing a different address on the packages. But it was all in a good cause, I promise, to help the people of Guerrera who my father wanted to enslave. And it was only a little tiny portion, really, so please forgive me, and know that all of us in the Silent Sisterhood of Saint Filumena will remember you in our prayers always.
(enclosure from Mother Mary Forcible)
Dear John,
Thank you. We shall keep a closer watch on our little Sister Mary Grace from now on, and with God’s help we shall not have to call upon your peculiar but oh-so-valuable talents again. Praying for long life to the Pope, forgiveness of the souls in Purgatory, the conversion of Godless Russia, and that John Dortmunder shall never ever be caught, I remain,
Mother Mary Forcible
Silent Sisterhood of St. Filumena
51
Dortmunder came up out of the water onto the thinly populated beach. In a swimsuit, he looked like something in anatomy class. He paused, gave the green Caribbean a look, and walked across the white sand of Aruba to where Ma
y reclined with a copy of Newsweek on a beach towel featuring a large picture of Betty Boop. Dortmunder dropped, as though a sniper had got him, onto the other towel (Elmer Fudd, with a shotgun), and just lay there awhile, facedown, cheek on the warm cloth, eyes studying individual grains of sand.
“Hmmmm,” said May.
Dortmunder noticed that each grain of sand was alike. The sun on his shoulder blades was like honey. Some distance away, people were laughing, their voices muffled by the sun and the gentle rush of the sea.
“Guerrera,” said May.
Dortmunder’s eyelids grew heavy.
“You don’t want to burn,” May said.
This was true. Dortmunder rolled over and sat up. Now the whole world looked green, so he put on dark sunglasses, which made him look like a person with a horse he wanted to tell you about.
“This country Guerrera,” May said, “it’s in the Newsweek here.”
“This is Aruba,” Dortmunder said.
“Guerrera’s the country where Sister Mary Grace made the contribution for the revolution,” May reminded him.
“Contribution,” Dortmunder said. “Huh.” Two months, and that still rankled a little.
“Well, they had their revolution,” May said.
“Good for them.”
“‘General Anastasio Pozos, from his well-guarded estate near Miami,’” May read from the magazine, “‘assured loyal Guerrerans that he would soon return to oust the Communist-inspired revolutionaries.’”
“Uh huh,” Dortmunder said.
“‘The United States has recognized the new government in Guerrera. A State Department spokesperson today—’ I guess that would be Tuesday, or Monday, or some time. Anyway, ‘—spokesman today said the United States was hopeful of a new era of stability in the region.’ So that’s nice.”
“Uh huh,” Dortmunder said.
“It’s nice to know the money went in a good cause.”
“I’m a good cause,” Dortmunder said.
“John, we did very well out of that experience,” May told him, and gestured widely with the magazine. “Look at the vacation we’re taking. And there’s still thousands and thousands of dollars left. Years of taking it easy. John, do you know what we have?”
“Sunburn?”
“Leisure time! Sociologists all say it is extremely important to have leisure time, to expand ourselves. When we get back to the city, we can go to museums, theaters, gallery openings, we can get caught up on our reading …”
“Uh huh,” Dortmunder said.
May cast a suspicious glance at Dortmunder, but couldn’t read his face because of those big dark sunglasses. “John,” she said, “you won’t be going out to the track, will you?”
“Maybe once,” Dortmunder said. “Maybe twice.”
May considered delivering a lecture, then calculated its probable effect, then decided not to. She said, “It’s almost lunchtime, isn’t it?”
“Just a second,” Dortmunder said, and bent down and cocked his ear to listen to his stomach. It obligingly made a small gurgle sound. “Yes,” he said.
“I like that lobster tail,” May said. “I know I have it every day, but I like it. What about you?”
Dortmunder lay back on Elmer Fudd, with his hands under his head. Through the dark glasses he looked at the blue sky. The lines of his face shifted themselves around, making accommodation for a smile. “I think I’ll have caviar,” he said.
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copyright © 1985 by Donald E. Westlake
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