Why Me? (14 page)

They threatened to leave New York.

The word got around, whispered but clear. New York might think it had lost this and that in the past—the New York Giants left for the Jersey swamps, American Airlines left for Dallas, dozens of corporate headquarters left for Connecticut, for a while even the Stock Exchange threatened to leave—but if you want
real
trouble, imagine New York if the Mafia got up and left. Think of all those mob-infiltrated businesses—with the gangsters gone, who would operate them? The same clowns who'd run them into the ground in the first place, bailing themselves out with the black-money loans that had made the mob infiltration possible, that's who. Think of all those restaurants, linen services, finance companies, automobile dealerships, private garbage collectors, supermarkets, truck lines, and janitorial companies without the discipline, expertise, and financial depth of mob control. Think of what New York would be like with its businesses run by their nominal owners.

Beyond that, think how many policemen, politicians, newspapermen, union officials, city inspectors, attorneys, accountants, and public relations men are on the direct mob payroll. Would the City of New York like to lose that large an employer, disrupt the workforce to that great an extent?

At first the threat wasn't believed, as it hadn't been when the Stock Exchange used to talk the same way. Where would the mob move? the smart guys asked. And the answer was, anywhere they liked. The offers came in, unofficial but very tempting: Boston would be delighted to switch over from its present unreliable mix of Irish and black mobs. Miami would be overjoyed to give its Cubans the boot. Philadelphia, with nobody in charge for hundreds of years, was so desperate by now they offered to pay all moving expenses, and Baltimore was prepared to turn over four solid miles of waterfront, no questions asked. But it wasn't until Wilmington, Delaware (the “anybody-can-be-a-corporation” state), opened negotiations for the transfer of the Metropolitan Opera that New York City officials realized this was serious. “Anthony,” they told Cappelletti, “you've done such a fine job on Organized Crime that we want you to take on a
really
tough assignment. Burglary Detail.” Unorganized crime, in other words.

Cappelletti had known the truth, of course, but what could he do about it? He considered quitting the force, but a few tentative inquiries showed him that in all of America, only San Francisco's police department would consider hiring him, and then only to head their Flying Saucer Detail. No other police force, fire department, or any other uniformed organization in the country would touch him with fire tongs. As for a job anywhere in mob-infiltrated private industry, that was obviously hopeless. So Cappelletti grimly accepted the change of assignment (and the sop of promotion) and took out his annoyance on every small-time, unorganized, uninfluential burglar and peterman and second-story artist who came his way, with such great effect that within a couple of years he was head of the entire Detail, where he could quietly wait out his pension and brood upon injustice.

This was obviously not Chief Inspector Francis Xavier Mologna's sort of guy; they didn't hang out together much. It was, therefore, with a rather forced and false joviality that Mologna watched Cappelletti thump across his office and take a seat, glowering like a man falsely accused of being the one who farted. “So how are you, Tony?” Mologna asked.

“I could be better,” Cappelletti told him. “I could use more people in Burglary.”

Mologna, disappointed, said, “Is that what you're here to talk about?”

“No,” Cappelletti said. “Not this time. This time I'm here on the Byzantine Fire thing.”

“You found it,” Mologna suggested.

“How would I do that?” Cappelletti was a very literal sort of person.

“It was a pleasantry,” Mologna told him. “What have you got for me, Tony?”

“A stoolie,” Cappelletti said. “He belongs to a man of mine, named Abel.”

“The stoolie? Or your man?”

“My man is Abel,” Cappelletti said. “The stoolie is called Klopzik. Benjamin Arthur Klopzik.”

“Okay.”

Cappelletti nodded his heavy head. Black hair stood in his ears, his nostrils; lines of discontent were on his cheeks. “Klopzik tells us,” he said, “the street people are unhappy about the blitz.”

Mologna smiled a carnivore's smile. “Good,” he said.

“They're so unhappy,” Cappelletti went on, “they're organizing.”

Mologna's smile turned quizzical. “Revolution? From the underclass?”

“No,” said Cappelletti. “They're helping us look.”

Mologna didn't get it for a few seconds, and then when he did get it, he didn't want it. “The
crooks
?” he demanded. “The punks, the riffraff, they're goin to
help
us? Help
us
?”

“They want the heat off,” Cappelletti said. “They figure, once we've got the ruby back, we'll ease up.”

“They're right.”

“I know that. They know it. So they're getting together, they're looking through their own people, they're gonna find the ruby. And the word I got, they're so teed off about this thing, they're not only gonna give us the ruby, they'll give us the guy that's got it.”

Mologna stared. “Tony,” he said, “I will tell you the Virgin Mary's own truth. If any other man but you came into this office and told me such a thing, I'd call him a liar and a dope addict. But I know you, Tony, I know your great flaw has always been your unimpeachable reliability, and therefore I believe you. It's a mark of the respect and admiration with which I have always beheld you, Tony. And now I want hundreds and hundreds of details.”

“Klopzik came to Abel last night,” Cappelletti said, “wanting to know what clues we had in the Byzantine Fire theft. Abel asked him some questions back, and they came to a meeting of the minds, and Klopzik said the headquarters of this group—”

“Headquarters! And I suppose they've got aerial reconnaissance as well.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Cappelletti said, unmoved. “It was in the back room of a bar up on Amsterdam. So we raided it and brought in eleven men, every one of them with a sheet as long as both your arms, and once our interrogators suggested cooperation might be possible, damn if all eleven didn't tell the same story as Klopzik. So we gave them our
nihil obstat
and our
imprimatur
and put them back on the street.”

One nice thing about the cops—no matter how diverse their ethnic backgrounds, they could always talk Catholic at one another. “Just so you didn't give them a plenary indulgence,” Mologna said, and chuckled.

Cappelletti wasn't very lightfooted when it came to humor. Dropping the religious parallels, he said, “We got a string on them, we know where they are.”

“And they're siftin the underworld, are they?”

Cappelletti nodded. “That's just what they're doing.”

Mologna chuckled again. After his first indignation at the idea, he found himself increasingly amused by it. Leon had been right after all—this time he was enjoying Tony Cappelletti's presence. “Can you imagine our perpetrator,” he said, “tryin out his fake alibi on
those
boyos?”

Even Cappelletti smiled at that. “I'm very hopeful, Francis,” he said.

“It's lovely,” agreed Mologna. “But, Tony, this has got to stay within the Department. None of our FBIers or state troopers or all them other malarkeys get to hear a word of it.”

“Of course not.” Since Cappelletti looked indignant all the time, it was hard for him to express it when he really was indignant.

“And bring me this Klopzik,” Mologna said. “Quietly and secretly and quickly. We should get to know our new partners.”

24

Dortmunder awoke to the distant sound of a ringing phone and found his left hand in his mouth. “Ptak!” he said, expelling it, then sat up, made a face around his bad-tasting mouth, and listened to the murmur of May's voice in the living room. After a minute the lady herself appeared in the doorway, saying, “Andy Kelp on the phone.”

“As if I didn't have trouble enough,” Dortmunder said. But he got out of bed and plodded into the living room in his underwear and spoke into the phone: “Yeah?”

“Listen, John,” Kelp said, “I got good news.”

“Tell me quick.”

“I'm not using the answering machine any more.”

“Oh, yeah? How come?”

“Well …” An uncharacteristic hesitancy came into Kelp's voice. “The fact of the matter is, I was burgled.”

“
You
were?”

“You remember, my message on the machine said I wasn't home. What I figure, somebody called and heard me say I wasn't home, so he came right over and boosted some things.”

Dortmunder tried not to smile. “That's too bad,” he said.

“Including the answering machine,” Kelp said.

Dortmunder closed his eyes. He put his hand very tight over his mouth, and practically no sound at all came through.

“I could get another one,” Kelp went on, “you know, from my access, like I got the first one, but I figure—”

Another voice, high-pitched and very loud, suddenly yelled, “Your father's a fairy! Your father's a fairy!”

Dortmunder jerked away from the screaming phone, no longer distracted at all by the desire to laugh. Cautiously nearing the instrument again, he heard what seemed now to be three or four shrill childish voices, giving out with some sort of nursery rhyme or something, with words that sounded like, “Hasn't got a
lump
fish. Didn't do his
dump
dish. Make her get her
plump
wish—” Through which Kelp's voice could be heard yelling, “You kids get off that phone! You get away from there or I'll come up and
getcha
!”

The nursery rhyme ended in giggles and cackles, stopping abruptly with a loud
click
. Dortmunder, enured by now, said into the phone, “You're gone, right?”

“No, no, John!” Kelp sounded out of breath. “Don't hang up, I'm still here.”

“I don't really want to know what that was,” Dortmunder said, “but I guess you'll tell me.”

“It's my roof phone,” Kelp said.

“Your
roof
phone? You live in an apartment house!”

“Yeah, well, I like to go up on the roof,” Kelp said, “when the sun's shining, catch a few rays on the bod. And I don't want to—”

“Miss any calls,” Dortmunder said.

“That's right. So I ran a line up, a jack, I got a phone I can bring up there and plug it in. But I guess I musta forgot to bring it back down last night.”

“I guess you—”

Click
: “
You've
got stinky
un
-derwear,
ding-
gles in your
pu
bic hair—”

“Enough,” said Dortmunder, and hung up and went away to the bathroom to brush the taste of his hand out of his mouth. And he was finishing breakfast half an hour later when the front doorbell rang, May answered, and Andy Kelp himself came into the kitchen, a wiry, bright-eyed, sharp-nosed fellow carrying a telephone. He seemed as cheerful as ever. “Whadaya say, John?”

“Have some coffee,” Dortmunder told him. “Have a beer.”

Kelp showed him the phone. “Your new kitchen phone,” he said.

“No,” said Dortmunder.

“Save you steps, save you time, save you energy.” Kelp looked around the room. “Right there by the refrigerator,” he decided.

“I don't want it, Andy.”

“You'll never know how you got along without it,” Kelp assured him. “I'll have it in place in fifteen minutes. You give it a trial period, a week, couple of weeks, then if you still don't like it I'll be happy—”

Kelp went on talking as Dortmunder got to his feet, walked around the kitchen table, and took the phone out of his hands. Then Kelp stopped talking and looked on openmouthed as Dortmunder carried the phone to the kitchen window and dropped it into the airshaft.

“Hey!” said Kelp.

“I told you—” (distant crash) “—I don't want it. Have some coffee.”

“Aw, John,” Kelp said, coming over to look out the window. “That wasn't nice.”

“You got access, right? A whole warehouse. So what I'm doing, I'm making a point. You prefer beer?”

“It's too early in the day,” Kelp said, giving up on the phone. Turning away from the window, regaining his cheerful manner, he said, “I'll take the coffee.”

“Fine.”

Dortmunder was putting water on to boil when Kelp said, “D'jou hear the latest about that ruby?”

Dortmunder's stomach instantly became paved with concrete. Watching the pot to see if it would boil, he cleared his throat and said, “Ruby?”

“The Byzantine Fire. You know.”

“Sure,” Dortmunder said. He put the spoon in the instant coffee jar, but it kept hitting against the sides and knocking all the coffee off—tink-tink-tink-tink—before he could get it out. In an effort to be devious, he said, “They found it?”

“Not yet,” Kelp said, “but they will. Very quick now.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dortmunder emptied the instant coffee jar into the cup and spooned all but one measure back; it was the only way he could do it. “How come is that?”

“Cause we're helping,” Kelp said.

Dortmunder poured boiling water on the counter, on the floor, and into the cup. “We're helping?
We're
helping? Who's ‘we're'?”

“Us,” Kelp explained. “Everybody. All the guys around.”

Cream and sugar would be beyond Dortmunder's capacity, and even Kelp might notice something was wrong if Dortmunder poured a quart of milk on the floor. “Do your own mixings,” he said, and sat down at the kitchen table in front of his own coffee cup, which he didn't feel calm enough to pick up. “What guys around?” he asked.