Watch Your Back! d-13 Page 24

  53

  BY THE TIME they got back to Arnie's place, he was a nervous wreck in a completely different way. At first, when he'd rushed from Fareweather's garage with Dortmunder and Tiny, Arnie had been convinced Fareweather was no more than six feet behind him, probably still in his jammies, coming on like the avenging angel, whistling up cops right and left. When Dortmunder, constantly looking back because Arnie was too scared to, assured him over and over that no one matching Preston Fareweather's description was anywhere on the sidewalk back there, nor were there any cops, nor was there anything that looked remotely like pursuit of any kind, it didn't matter. Arnie, jiggling and jabbering like a marionette with electrified springs, just kept rushing forward, ahead of Dortmunder and Tiny, barely ahead of the imaginary hounds.

  Then he was too scared to take a taxi, because the cabbie would write on his trip sheet what neighborhood he'd picked Arnie up in and would be able to testify against him at the inevitable trial before the inevitable incarceration of poor Arnie Albright, who should never, ever have been in that place in the first place, and where could he go now that the law was waiting for him at home?

  "They're not waiting for you at home, Arnie," Dortmunder told him. "You'll go home, if somebody ever comes around, you say, that wasn't me, I don't know what the guy's talking about, search my place if you want."

  "Ooohh."

  "All right, you'll clean out a couple things. I'll come to your place with you, I know I'm partly responsible for you being—"

  "Partly!"

  "Well, Preston Fareweather has to take some of the burden, too, you know. Come on, Arnie, I'll come with you."

  "I won't," Tiny said. "Good-bye." And he walked off down Madison, headed for lunch with J. C.

  "Here we go, Arnie," Dortmunder said, "here's a nice cab—"

  "No cabs!"

  So it wound up, Arnie did walk through Central Park that day, though not in the cool of the morning but in the absolute heat and glare of the midday sun, like something in Lawrence of Arabia. Arnie didn't so much walk across the park, though, as hop from tree shade to tree shade and, where there were no trees, scuttle on like something you might see when you switch on the kitchen light.

  Eventually they did traverse the park, and some of the West Side as well, and reached Annie's building, in front of which there were no official presences. Arnie scrambled up into the vestibule, followed by Dortmunder, but then, instead of unlocking the door he rang his own bell.

  Dortmunder said, "Arnie? You're not home, we know that."

  "But is somebody else?" Arnie said darkly, and stared at the intercom until it became obvious even to him that it wasn't going to say anything. Only then did he unlock the door and lead the way up to his apartment, where he looked around, grabbed his head with both hands in tragic despair, and cried, "How do I clean this place for the cops? You think I got receipts?"

  "I'll wait with you, Arnie," Dortmunder said. "There isn't gonna be a problem, because if there was gonna be a problem, by now there'd be a problem, with how long it took us to walk across town."

  "You're the one wanted to walk."

  "Going that way, not coming this way. You got a radio?"

  Arnie looked at him in disbelief. "You want music?"

  "I want the news," Dortmunder said.

  "Oh. Sure. Right. Lemme bring it out."

  Arnie went away to the bedroom and came back with a white plastic radio originally given as a bonus for opening a bank account in 1947. He plugged it in and turned it to the local news station. "You give us twenty-two minutes," they threaten, "we'll give you the world," and then they give you mostly sports. They may not know this, but sports is not the world.

  After hearing some scores, and some manager firings, and some commercials, however, they did actually get some news, and it began, "A Manhattan penthouse was robbed this morning of over six million dollars' worth of rare art. Julie Hapwood has this late-breaking story."

  "A luxurious Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment in Manhattan overlooking Central Park was the scene this morning of a daring daylight robbery of over nine million dollars in rare art. The owner of the apartment, financier Preston Fareweather, fifty-seven, who had just returned from abroad last night, apparently slept through the entire robbery, as did an associate, Alan Pinkleton, forty-four, who was a guest in the apartment. Quick thinking on the part of two members of the building's security guard detail, José Carreras, twenty-seven, and José Otsego, twenty-four, who grew suspicious of a truck they spotted near the building and called police, put authorities early on the trail of the daring bandits. Police hope to catch the gang before they can dispose of their loot. This is Julie Hapwood, continuing to stay on this breaking story."

  "You give us twenty-two minutes, we'll give you the world," and then they got more sports.

  Twenty minutes later, while Dortmunder was trying to decide whether to eat the omelet Arnie had made in his dubious kitchen, the radio said, "Arrests have been made in the daring daylight penthouse robbery on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan this morning. Julie Hapwood is here with this late-breaking story."

  Arnie quick looked at himself to see if he'd been arrested, while Dortmunder leaned closer to the radio and farther from the omelet.

  "Just moments ago, police on Eleventh Avenue in Manhattan intercepted the white Ford truck seen fleeing the scene of this morning's daring daylight robbery at the Imperiatum, the deluxe high-rise apartment building at East Sixty-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Early reports are that arrests have been made and the loot has been recovered. Mayoral assistant Zozo Von Cleve, thirty-six, announced, 'This is the kind of immediate instant-response activity we have come to expect from our New York Police Department, rightly known as New York's Finest. This is Julie Hapwood, continuing to stay on this breaking story."

  "I don't think I have an appetite," Dortmunder said, pushing the omelet away.

  "We're doomed," Arnie announced, and the phone rang. Arnie stared at it. "The cops!"

  "Cops don't phone, Arnie," Dortmunder pointed out.

  "Cops make house calls."

  Still, Arnie didn't want to answer it, so finally Dortmunder did, and it was Kelp, saying, "John? I thought I dialed Arnie."

  "Andy? I thought they arrested you."

  "Not us, wait'll you hear. Where are you?"

  "I'm at Arnie's, you called Arnie's. I answered because he's having a little nervous breakdown over here. You wanna come over? Where's Stan?"

  "Next to me on the sidewalk. We'll come over."

  "Further developments in the late-breaking story of the daring daylight robbery at the Fifth Avenue penthouse of financier Preston Fareweather, fifty-seven. It now appears there may be some Mafia involvement."

  Dortmunder and Arnie stared at each other. Dortmunder said, "Mafia?"

  "Julie Hapwood has this late-breaking story."

  "The six men arrested in the daring daylight robbery on Fifth Avenue's posh Gold Coast in Manhattan today all, according to police, have ties to organized crime. Several of the men have convictions in New Jersey for extortion, gambling, arson, and assault. Police are looking for any link between financier Preston Fareweather and known mob leaders in New Jersey. Mayoral assistant Zozo Von Cleve, thirty-six, announced, 'It is unlikely this was merely a random burglary, if mob figures are connected with it. No one thinks Mr. Fareweather, one of New York City's finer citizens, had any link to the crime, but his associates are undergoing scrutiny at this time. This is Julie Hapwood, continuing to stay on this breaking story."

  "The O.J.," Dortmunder said, and the doorbell rang.

  "It's the cops!"

  "Arnie, it's Andy and Stan. Let them in."

  But Arnie had to call down to them through the intercom, and insist they both identify themselves and swear they weren't accompanied by any other person of any kind, before he'd let them in. Then they came upstairs, and Kelp said, "You won't believe this."

  "We just heard it on the radio," Dortmunder told him. "It was
the mob guys from New Jersey."

  "Dammit," Kelp said, "you spoiled my story."

  "But that was it," Dortmunder said. "Somehow they got onto us, they followed us around—"

  "I never knew a thing," Kelp said.

  "None of us did. This was their idea of payback for the O.J., only it didn't work out like they wanted."

  Stan said, "Half a block later, it would have been me getting pulled over. I'd be washing ink off my fingertips along about now. I don't need anything closer."

  Kelp said, "Is it too early for a beer?"

  "No," everybody said, and made Arnie go out and buy some.

  It was while drinking beer they decided Tiny should be brought into the loop. Arnie was still afraid the telephone wanted to bite him, so Dortmunder made the call, and it was the kid, Judson, who answered. "Oh, hi, Mr. Dortmunder," he said. "They aren't back from lunch yet. I'm back quicker than I thought, so I'm just taking care of things here, taking care of the mail, watching things here."

  He sounds guilty, Dortmunder thought. What's he got to be guilty about? "Tell Tiny," he said, "we got developments, and we're all at this number," and he read it off the phone.

  "I will," Judson promised. "I wrote it down, I've got it, I'll tell Mr. Tiny the second he comes in, don't you worry about that."

  "I'm not worried," Dortmunder said, and hung up, and said, "That kid's a little strange."

  "We got something," Kelp said, and pointed at the radio.

  "— connected to the crime. Julie Hapwood has this late-breaking story."

  "Michael Anthony Carbine, twenty-six, son of reputed New Jersey mob boss Ottavian Siciliano Carbine, fifty-one, has been taken in for questioning by officers of Manhattan's nineteenth precinct, on the posh East Side. Carbine was discovered in Central Park, just opposite the Imperiatum, the deluxe high-rise apartment building where this morning's daring daylight robbery of over fifteen million dollars in artworks took place. The six men arrested earlier this afternoon in Manhattan in possession of the looted artworks are said to be known associates of Mr. Carbine and his father. Detective Inspector Sean O'Flynn, head of the NYPD's Organized Crime Squad, said an agreement between the New York and New Jersey mobs not to poach on one another's territory appeared to have been breached, which could mean a mob war may well be on its way. This is Julie Hapwood, continuing to stay on this breaking story."

  When Tiny called, Dortmunder had to answer the phone again, and Tiny said, "We don't have the stuff."

  "No, we don't," Dortmunder agreed, "but there keep being developments. We're all over here catching this late-breaking story on the radio."

  "I remember radio," Tiny said. "I'll be right over."

  So when the doorbell rang again a quarter hour later, Dortmunder got to his feet and said, "Stay there, Arnie, I'll let him in. I don't wanna hear any more interrogations."

  "Probably," Arnie said, though with some doubt in his voice, "the cops reeled in enough for today."

  While Dortmunder buzzed Tiny in, Kelp said, "Seven known mob guys from New Jersey, and all the swag? If they want more than that, they're very greedy."

  "I think they are," Stan said.

  Dortmunder opened the apartment door, and Tiny had brought the kid Judson with him. "I brought the kid with me," he pointed out as they entered.

  "So I see," Dortmunder said.

  "Hello," Judson said, and smiled at everybody.

  "He was gonna get a piece of the profit," Tiny explained, "so he can get a piece of the sorrow and woe instead."

  "Just so the other team was driving the truck when the game was called," Stan said. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm ahead."

  "That's you," Tiny said, and said to Dortmunder, "This is because you wanted to be a hero and save the O.J."

  "I'm afraid it is," Dortmunder admitted.

  "Do we know yet how much you owe me?"

  Dortmunder offered a sickly smile, and Kelp said, "Julie Hapwood says they're doing an inventory now at the Fifty-seventh Street police garage, and Fareweather's at his place making a list of what he thinks is missing."

  Tiny frowned at him. "Who the hell is Julie Hapwood?"

  "The woman on the radio's been telling us all this stuff."

  Tiny looked at the radio, which was in the process of giving them twenty-two minutes of sports. "So let's see what else she has to say," he said.

  But that was it for Julie Hapwood. All at once, without even a wave good-bye, the late-breaking story seemed to have broken. The news now broke in from other fronts, of less neighborhood interest.

  So at five they switched to television, to see what the local news broadcasts might have to say. At first, almost nothing, but Arnie kept switching back and forth among the stations, and all at once he stopped, pointed the remote at the set, and said, "That's him!"

  A rich guy, you could tell. He wasn't fat, he was portly, and only rich guys are portly. He was being interviewed by a blonde television reporter in the living room Dortmunder and the others knew so well, with some very obvious blank spaces on the walls behind him as he said, "One does feel assaulted, Gwen. One had not expected Cro-Magnons from New Jersey to beleaguer one in the supposed safety of one's home."

  "That's a lotta 'ones, " Tiny said.

  The reporter asked, "Do you have a sense yet, Mr. Fareweather, of what they took?"

  "The cream of the crop, Gwen. I must confess, one would not have expected that degree of taste and sophistication from fellows best known for breaking their enemies' knees. At least one of that cohort had an excellent eye."

  "There you go," Arnie said. He was grinning from ear to ear.

  "They were so good," Fareweather went on, "they even got the Brueghel."

  Arnie, Dortmunder, Kelp and the girl reporter all said, "Brueghel?"

  Gesturing to something off-camera to his right, Fareweather said, "It was the only thing they took from the hall. Everything else was from this area here. And it's true, most of the items in the hall are of perhaps a bit lesser quality, but I always kept the Brueghel there to protect it from too much sunlight."

  "And nevertheless they found it," the reporter said.

  "Yes, they did, Gwen. And I certainly hope the police find it among the things they are looking at right now in that truck."

  Arnie said, "What Brueghel?"

  The girl reporter said, "What value would you place on that Brueghel, Mr. Fareweather?"

  "Oh, lord knows," Fareweather said. "I paid just under a mil for it, seven or eight years ago."

  Tiny said, "Off the set, Arnie, we gotta talk."

  Arnie killed the TV by remote control and said, "I didn't red-dot nothing in the hall. I didn't even look in the hall."

  "Dortmunder and me," Tiny said, "we didn't take nothing unless it had a red dot on it. Right?"

  "That's right," Dortmunder said.

  Kelp said, "Stan and me were downstairs, so I don't know. What did this Brueghel look like?"

  "Kelp," Tiny said, sounding just a bit dangerous, "none of us took it, so none of us knows what the hell it looks like."

  "Well," Kelp said, reasonably, "somebody took it."

  "Judson," Dortmunder said.

  Everybody looked at Dortmunder, and then everybody looked at Judson, who was blushing and stammering and fidgeting on that kitchen chair with his arms jerking around — a definite butterfly, pinned in place. Everybody continued to look at him, and finally he produced words, of a sort: "Why would you — What would I — How could — Mr. Dortmunder, why would you—?"

  "Judson," Tiny said. He said it softly, gently, but Judson clammed up like a locked safe, and his face went from beet red to shroud white, just like that.

  Dortmunder said, "Had to be. He went there, wanted to hang out with us, we were already gone, he went in and up, looked around, decided to take a little something."

  Kelp said, "Judson, what made you take that?"

  Judson looked around at them all, tongue-tied.

  Arnie, in an informational way, said, "Kid, you'r
e one of the most incompetent liars I've ever seen."

  Judson sighed. He could be seen to accept the idea at last that denial was going to be of no use. "I identified with it," he said.

  Everybody reacted to that one. Stan said, "You identified with it?"

  Dortmunder said, "What's it a picture of, Judson?"

  "Two young guys stealing a pig."

  Tiny said, "That's what goes for just under a mil? Two guys stealing a pig?"

  "It's nice," Judson said. "You can see they're having fun."

  "More than we are," Tiny said.

  Dortmunder said, "Judson, where is this picture now?"

  "In my desk in J. C.'s office."

  Tiny said, "I tell you what, kid. You were gonna get a piece of what we got, but we no longer got what we got, so now we are gonna get a piece of what you got."

  "That seems fair," Kelp said.

  Again Judson sighed. Then he said, "Maybe I can take a picture of it."

  "Good idea," Dortmunder agreed.

  Tiny said to Arnie, "Your guy paid a million for it. You'll deal with the insurance company, you'll get ten per cent, that means around fifteen grand for each of us, which isn't what I had in mind, but these things happen, and, Dortmunder, I forgive you, and I think we all agree it was a good decision to let the kid stick around."

  "Thank you," Judson said.

  "Still and all," Tiny said, "all that stuff in there, and we wind up with one picture."

  Dortmunder thought of, but decided not to mention, the trinkets still burning holes in his own pockets. Some people know how to keep a secret.

  54

  THE INTERVIEW WITH Preston Fareweather had been taped forty minutes before it ran, and at the end of it, as the sound man and cameraman were packing and assembling all their plentifulness of gear, Preston said to the fair Gwen, "That was quite enjoyable. You make the thing just about painless."

  "Well, that's the job," she said.

  "When you finish your assigned tasks at your station," he said, "why not pop back here, we could have a lovely dinner a due."

  "Oh, I don't think so," she said.

  "I would rather take you to one of the better restaurants in the neighborhood," he said, smiling upon her, "but I'm afraid little legal problems, process servers and all that, are keeping me housebound at least until I can get a new car. But those restaurants know me, I think I'm probably considered a good tipper, they'll be happy to send over a little something from the menu." Chuckling, he said, "Not exactly your Chinese takeout. What do you say? A little penthouse adventure."