Transgressions Vol. 3: Merely Hate/Walking the Line/Walking Around Money

by Ed McBain

  Next, a car backed out of the garage, also with no lights on, and moving very slowly. Not only that, Roger himself came trotting out of the garage right after the car, so who was driving?

  Turned out, nobody. Fascinated, they watched Roger push his car around in a great loop to park it on their side of the street, about two houses away.

  “He, too, knows something’s up,” Kelp said.

  Dortmunder said, “But he doesn’t know what.”

  “He’s gonna follow her.”

  “So we,” Dortmunder said, “follow him.”

  “I got a better idea,” Kelp said. “Have we got that bag in the back?”

  “In the trunk? Yeah.”

  On an outing like this, they always traveled with that bag. Small, it was packed with extra materials that, who knew, might come in handy. Tools of various kinds, ID of various kinds, weapons of various kinds, and handcuffs of just one kind.

  “What do you need from it?” Dortmunder asked.

  “The cuffs. I’ll ride in the back of the peeping tom’s car, take him out if there’s a problem, borrow it myself if she doesn’t come out to be followed. You stash this car in town, tell Kirby I’ll meet up with you guys at the plant.”

  So that’s what they did, Dortmunder learning some more along the way, beginning with the fact that the driver’s seat had even less legroom than the passenger seat. He stashed the compact in the Sycamore House parking lot, but stayed with it, and was there when Querk arrived, parked his Honda, and went off to set things up over at the printery.

  A little later, he was also about to leave when Janet Twilley drove in, shut down, but didn’t get out of her car. That was interesting. Not wanting to call attention to himself, he removed the bulb from the compact’s interior light so that everything remained dark when he eased out of the car and out of the parking lot to go over to the Hess station and wait for Querk.

  One thing about the phone booth outside the Hess station; it had legroom. Dortmunder leaned his back against the phone, folded his arms, and watched the traffic light change. After a while he saw Querk cross the street and walk north, and then here he came in the Honda south.

  After the job at the plant and the departure of Querk to return the generator truck, there’d been nothing left to do but gather up Janet Twilley, still at her post in her Chrysler Cirrus, and use her keys to gain entrance to Seven Leagues. As for her husband, he could stay where he was, trussed up on the floor of his own car down by Luigi’s. Good place for him.

  And now it was simply a matter of waiting for Querk. And here he is.

  20

  Querk stared, pole-axed with shock. Janet was gagged and tied to her office chair, wide-eyed and trembling. Even her bruise was pale. Kelp, still with that sunny smile, sat near her in the client’s chair. And Dortmunder stood near Querk; not too near, but close enough so that, if Querk decided to spin around and pull the door open and run, it wouldn’t happen.

  Stammering, the tremble in his hands back and worse than ever, Querk said, “What? What happened?”

  “We came to settle up,” Dortmunder said, while Kelp got to his feet, walked back to the unused desk, took the client’s chair from it, and brought it back to stand facing himself and Janet. “Take a load off,” he offered.

  Dortmunder said, “Andy, turn the desk light on, will you? It’s too bright in here.”

  Kelp did, and Dortmunder switched off the overheads that Querk had switched on. It became much dimmer in the long room, the light softer, though not what Querk thought of as cozy. Watching all this, he tried desperately to think, without much success. What was going on? What were they going to do? He said, “What’s wrong? Fellas? I thought everything was okay.”

  “Not exactly okay,” Dortmunder said, as he perched on the corner of Janet’s desk.

  Kelp said, “Come on, Kirby, take a chair. We’ll tell you all about it.”

  So Querk sat in the chair Kelp had brought for him, and folded his shaking hands in his lap. He could feel Janet’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look directly at her. He was supposed to make things better for her. Tied up in a chair by two heisters from New York wasn’t better.

  Kelp said, “You know, Kirby, the thing was, at first we believed there really was a Rodrigo.” He still seemed cheerful, not angry or upset, but Querk didn’t believe any of it.

  “You got us there, for a while,” Dortmunder agreed. He sounded sullen, and that Querk could believe.

  “What we figured,” Kelp said, “why would you go through this whole scheme unless you had a payout coming? So that’s why we believed in Rodrigo. Until, of course, we heard about Janet Just as a by the by.”

  “Just dropped in the conversation,” Dortmunder said.

  “And Harry Matlock said you were a better follower than a leader,” Kelp said, “so we began to wonder, who exactly were you following? So when we came up here last week, I stopped in to see Janet.”

  What? Querk now did stare directly at Janet, and she was frantically nodding, eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. “She—” Querk had to clear his throat. “She didn’t tell me.”

  “She didn’t know,” Kelp said. “See, I was a customer, I was interested in going somewhere in South America, I wasn’t sure where, and we talked about, oh …” He looked at Janet, amiable, inquiring. “About fifteen minutes, right?” Looking at Querk again, he said, “And the funny thing, never once did she mention that tour going to Guerrera. In fact, she never even mentioned Guerrera, the whole country.”

  “Probably,” Querk said, even though he knew it was hopeless, “the tour was full by then.”

  “Which gets to how easy the extra two tickets were,” Kelp said. “First she can wangle one ticket, but then two tickets is easy, no sweat, you don’t even have to check back with her. But I’m getting ahead of my story.”

  “I thought you were buying it,” Querk said.

  Kelp’s grin got even wider. “Yeah, I know. Anyway, when I was here that time, I noticed the shiner on Janet, and you didn’t seem the type—”

  “We both thought that,” Dortmunder said.

  “Thank you,” Querk said.

  “So we checked out her house,” Kelp said, “and that’s some winner she decided to marry.”

  “I guess he didn’t seem that bad at first,” Querk said.

  “Maybe,” Kelp said. “Anyway, here’s this bossy woman—”

  Janet gave him a glare, which Kelp ignored.

  “—with a shiner and a bad husband. And here’s you, likes to be bossed around. So we decided, what it was, you didn’t have any Rodrigo, because how is this Janet here in upstate New York gonna make that kinda connection. Also, this is not a really successful travel agency here, which you can see by the fact that the other desk isn’t used, so if she ever had an assistant or a partner the business couldn’t support that person. So maybe, just maybe, the idea is, you’ll run these half million dollars’ worth of siapas, and you and Janet will drive to Guerrera, down through Mexico and all that, maxing out your credit cards along the way. And when you get there, you find a nice place to stay, you start living on the siapas. You put ’em in a few banks down there, you can even come back up to the States sometimes and spend them like money. Of course, there wouldn’t be any for us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Querk said.

  Dortmunder nodded. “You certainly are.”

  “You needed two guys,” Kelp said. “You couldn’t go with local amateurs, so you had to reach out for pros, and what you got was us.”

  “I underestimated you,” Querk said.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Kelp advised him. “That’s what we specialize in. So here you are, you’ve kissed us off, and Anne Marie and me are gonna feel really stupid tomorrow night at JFK with those imitation tickets—”

  “I’m sorry,” Querk said again.

  “We know,” Dortmunder said. He didn’t sound sympathetic.

  “But, you know,” Kelp said, “this is better for you, beca
use Roger knew something was up. You know, the paranoid is sometimes right, and Roger was right. So he was following Janet tonight, and if it hadn’t been for us, Roger would be making a whole lot of trouble for you people right now.”

  Querk was rather afraid of Roger Twilley. “Roger?” he said. “Where is he?”

  “Tied up in his car, down at Luigi’s.”

  Dortmunder said, “You owe us for that one.”

  “Well,” Kelp said, “he owes us for the whole score.”

  “That’s true,” Dortmunder said.

  Rising, Kelp said, “I’ll go get our wheels, you explain it.”

  Kelp was the pleasant one. Why couldn’t Dortmunder go get their car? But, no; Kelp nodded at Querk and left the shop, and it was Dortmunder who said, “This is what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna leave you one box of the siapas, that’s a hundred grand you can take down to Guerrera, get you started. In six months, you come up to New York, you buy at least one more box from us, half price. Fifty grand for a hundred grand of siapas. You can buy them all then, or you can buy a box every six months.”

  Querk said, “Where am I gonna get that money?”

  “You’re gonna steal it,” Dortmunder told him. “That’s what you do, remember? You gave up on reform.”

  Querk hung his head. The thought of a Guerreran jail moved irresistably through his mind.

  Meanwhile, Dortmunder said, “If you don’t show up in six months, the four boxes go to the cops with an anonymous letter with your names and a description of the scheme and where you’re hiding out, and the probable numbers on your siapas. And then you’ve got nothing.”

  “Jeez,” Querk said.

  “Look at it this way,” Dortmunder suggested. “You lied to us, you abused our trust, but we aren’t getting even, we aren’t hurting you. Because all we want is what’s ours. So, one way or another, you keep your side of the bargain, and we keep ours.” Looking past Querk at the window, he said, “Here’s the goddam compact. I hope we can fit these boxes in there. Come on, Querk, help me carry the loot.”

  “All right.” Rising, Querk said, “What do we do about Roger?”

  “Nothing,” Dortmunder said. “Luigi’s cook’ll find him in the morning, let him decide what to do. Come on, grab a box.”

  So Querk did, the two of them shlepping the boxes one at a time, Kelp busily moving crap around inside the car. They managed to cram three of the boxes into the trunk and one on its side on the alleged back seat, with their luggage on top.

  At the end, feeling humble, Querk said to them both, on the sidewalk, “I wanna thank you guys. You could of made things a lot tougher for me.”

  “Well,” Dortmunder said, “I wouldn’t say you were getting off scot free.” He nodded at Seven Leagues. “Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to take off that gag.”

  WALTER MOSLEY

  Walter Mosley has forged a successful mystery career in the tradition of authors like Chester Himes and Carroll John Daly, but he added the complex issue of race relations and an in-depth look at the lethal heart of a major city that few authors can even come close to. He is the author of twenty books and has been translated into twenty-one languages. His popular mysteries featuring Easy Rawlins and his friend Raymond “Mouse” Alexander began with Devil in a Blue Dress, which was made into the film of the same name starring Denzel Washington and Jennifer Beals. Others in the series were A Red Death, White Butterfly, Black Betty, A Little Yellow Dog, and Bad Boy Brawley Brown; a prequel to the Rawlins mysteries, Gone Fishin’, and a series of short stories collected in Six Easy Pieces. His other character, ex-con Socrates Fortlow, lives in Los Angeles, infusing his episodic tales with ethical and political considerations. Excerpts from his collection Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned: The Socrates Fortlow Stories have been published in Esquire, GQ, USA Weekend, Buzz, and Mary Higgins Clark Mystery Magazine. One of these new stories was an O. Henry Award winner for 1996 and is featured in Prixe Stories 1996: The O. Henry Awards, edited by William Abraham. In 1996 he was named the first Artist-in-Residence at the Africana Studies Institute, New York University. Since that residency, he has continued to work with the department, creating an innovative lecture series entitled “Black Genius” which brings diverse speakers from art, politics, and academe to discuss practical solutions to contemporary issues. Designed as a “public classroom” these lectures have included speakers ranging from Spike Lee to Angela Davis. In February 1999, a collection of these lectures was published with the title Black Genius, with a Mosley introduction and essay. His most recent novels include The Wave and Fortunate Son.

  WALKING THE LINE

  Walter Mosley

  1

  I saw the first ad on a Tuesday in the Wall Street Journal.

  REQUIRED: SCRIBE

  A. LAWLESS IN THE TESSLA BUILDING

  The next notice appeared on Thursday in the classified section of the daily New York Times.

  Originally published in the hardcover edition of Transgressions under the title “Archibald Lawless, Anarchist at Large: Walking the Line.”

  AAL LTD. SEEKS SCRIBE

  APPLY AT OFFICES IN TESSLA BUILDING

  Then, the next week, on the back page of the Village Voice and in the classified section of the Amsterdam News.

  SCRIBE SOUGHT KL-5-8713

  The last ads gave no address but I knew that it had to be put there by A. Lawless at AAL Ltd. in the Tessla Building. I called and got an answering machine.

  “If you are applying for the position leave your name and number,” a throaty woman’s voice said. “And please let us know where you heard about the position.”

  Then came the tone.

  “Felix Orlean,” I said. I gave my phone number and added, “I saw your ad in the Times, the Journal, the Amsterdan News, and the Village Voice.”

  Much later that night, hours after I’d gone to sleep, the phone rang giving me a sudden fright. I was sure that my mother or father had gotten sick down home. I grabbed the phone and whined, “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Mr. Orlean?” He said or-leen not or-le-ahn as I pronounce my name.

  “Yes? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, son,” he sad in a deep gravelly voice that reminded me of Wallace Beery from the old films. “Why would you think something’s wrong?”

  “What time is it?”

  “I just went through the tape,” he said. “You were the only one who saw all four ads. Do you read all those New York papers?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The Washington Post too. And the International Herald Tribune when I can get it.”

  I turned on the light next to my bed to see the clock but was blinded by the glare.

  “Are you a student?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “At Columbia.” If I had been more awake I wouldn’t have been so open.

  “Come to the office this morning,” he said. “I’ll be in by five but you don’t have to get there till ten to six.”

  “Huh?”

  He hung up and my eyesight cleared enough to see that it was three forty-five.

  I wondered what kind of man did his work at that time. And what would possess him to call a potential employee hours before the sun came up? Was he crazy? Must be, I thought. Of course I had no intention of going to his office at six A.M. or at any other time. I turned out the light and pulled the covers up to my chin but sleep did not return.

  I had been intrigued for days about the job description of scribe. I had thought it was just a fancy way to say secretary who takes dictation. But after the call I wasn’t so sure. Who was A. Lawless? Was it that cool woman’s voice on the answering machine? No. It had to be the raspy late-night caller.

  What kind of job could it be?

  “It’s too bad yo’ daddy and them named you Felix,” Aunt Alberta, the Ninth Ward fence, said to me once. And when I asked her why she said, “’Cause that’s a cartoon cat and we all know what curiosity do for a cat.”

  I loved my Aunt Alberta.
She’s the one who encouraged me when I wanted to come up to New York to study journalism. My parents had always planned on me becoming a lawyer like my father, and his father. Even my great-grandfather had studied law, although he wasn’t able to get a license to practice in Louisiana. In those days colored lawyers, even extremely light ones, were rare down south.

  My father had harangued me for a week to stop my foolishness and make a decision about which law school to attend. I finally told him that Alberta thought it was a good idea for me to try journalism.

  “And how would you know what Alberta thinks?” he asked. My father is a big man but I’m just small, taking after the men on my mother’s side.

  “I asked her,” I said shaking a little under the shadow of JP Orlean.

  “You what?”

  “I went down to the county jail and saw her, poppa.” I closed my eyes involuntarily, expecting to be knocked on my can.

  I had been hit by my father before. He was a violent man. Stern but fair, my mother used to say. But I never saw what was fair about whipping a child with a strap until red welts rose up all over his body.

  “I thought I told you that Alberta Hadity is no longer to be considered family,” my father said in a voice as quiet as the breeze.

  And that was my chance. After twenty-one years of obeying my father, or lying to him, the gate was open. All I had to do was stay quiet. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and he would see it as insubordination.

  I looked down at his brown shoes. Blutcher’s we called them down south. They’re known as wing tips in New York. Chub Wilkie, I knew, had shined those shoes that morning. He shined my father’s shoes every week day morning. JP used to say that Chub Wilkie was the finest man in the law building where he practiced. But he never invited Mr. Wilkie to dinner as he did the law partners at Hermann, Bledsoe, and Orlean.