Good Behavior (29 page)

One of the nuns, a wiry little old woman with a look of holy command, came over to beam upon Mologna and show him a driver's license and a library card both givin her name as Sister Mary Forcible. She seemed too bashful to speak. “Oh, that's all right, Sister,” Mologna told her, pattin her bony claw. “I couldn't doubt you for an instant. I'm an old parochial school boy myself, you know.”

Sister Mary Forcible smiled and put her ID away, and off they all went into the buildin, sweet and harmless, about to give the grace of music to a dirty and unhappy world. A lesson to us all, Mologna thought, and went back to his car and his memories of the judo instructor.

48

“Tiny,” Dortmunder said, “think about it. You don't want to be in jail.”

“I don't want to be in this nun suit either,” Tiny snarled, and turned to point a threatening finger at Wilbur Howey, warning him, “And one more stupid line from you about getting in the habit, and what
you'll
be is black and white and red all over.”

“Say,” Wilbur answered, shying away from that finger, “can't you take a joke?”

“No.”

Some joke. Sister Mary Forcible, having accepted Dortmunder's contention that his efforts on Sister Mary Grace's behalf did make it legitimate to call upon the convent for help, had gathered together fifteen of her fellow nuns and uptown they'd come, bringing a bunch of spare habits in large and extra-large, as well as a cassette of an a cappella recording of the Vienna Boys' Choir singing Christmas favorites: “The Little Drummer Boy,” “Agnus Dei,” “Silver Bells.” This tape was now cued up in the cassette player atop the piano in the suite's back room. The nuns were crowded everywhere in both rooms, some of them seated all unknowing on cartons of
Scandinavian Marriage Secrets
, every copy of which had been carefully stashed out of sight before their arrival. Sheet music that had been sent to Super Star Music by hopeful amateurs wanting the addition of lyrics had been distributed to everyone as props for the alleged recording session, and those of the nuns who could read music were studying these submissions with great dubiousness. And the Dortmunder gang was down in black and white.

Very strange. When nothing shows but your face, enclosed by the white oval of a wimple and the featureless black of a nun's costume, you wouldn't expect much by way of individual character to show through, but it did, it did. Sister Mary Grace, for instance, back in her own chosen garb, looked completed and radiant, while Tiny, whose face mostly consisted of knuckles anyway, was barely plausible as the kind of false nun who, in the Middle Ages, poisoned and robbed unwary travelers. Stan Murch looked like a pilgrim in
The Canterbury Tales
, probably the one with ideas for alternate routes to Canterbury, and Wilbur Howey had the look of someone whose parents had turned her over to the nunnery fifty years ago because she was a little too dangerously peculiar for life in the outside world. Kelp was surely someone whose sister was the pretty one, while Dortmunder looked mostly like a missionary nun who was already among the cannibals and headhunters before realizing she'd lost her faith.

But whatever they looked like, and however they felt about it, this was their only chance and every one of them knew it. They'd all shaved in the men's room down the hall, and fortunately none of them were wearing high heels. And now all they had to do was wait for the sweep to go by. In the meantime, J.C. had trained Dortmunder in the use of the cassette player and had explained to the nuns, both real and make-believe, how to look like a chorus. The three small microphones which were all she had here had been placed prominently around the front room. And Andy Kelp stood in the open hall doorway, looking away to the right toward the elevators, waiting for the red down-pointing arrow to light, announcing that the sweep had finally reached the seventh floor.

For over an hour they'd been ready to give their performance. How long could it take a squad of cops to search an empty building, even one seventy-six stories high? Dortmunder didn't want his people overtrained and careless when the moment finally came.

He hadn't mentioned robbery in his phone conversation with the convent, feeling it was better to let sleeping moral issues lie. After all, he wasn't asking the nuns to participate in any burglaries or to help move or stash the loot. He had gone at their request to rescue their stolen Sister, he had done so with the help of these other people here, and now the Silent Sisterhood was merely being asked to rescue the rescuers. Simple. Clean. Virtually honest.

“Here they come!” Kelp hissed this announcement, looking excitedly back at the room, and there was a great rustling of skirts as everybody reacted. “Any second,” Kelp said, still looking out and down the hallway, “any second now.”

“Then close the goddamn door!” Dortmunder told him. “The door, I mean. Close the door.”

So Kelp closed the door, on the outside of which was taped a hand-written notice: QUIET—DO NOT ENTER OR KNOCK—RECORDING SESSION IN PROGRESS. Lifting his skirts with both hands, Kelp scurried across the room to his place. Dortmunder, in the back room, hit the
play
button on the cassette player, and the clear sweet tones of the boys' choir filled both rooms with Bach's “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.” The nuns and pseudo-nuns held their sheet music up near their faces—
very
near their faces, in some instances—and, as J.C. had rehearsed them, they lip-synced along with the tape. And the police, as Dortmunder had anticipated, ignored the sign on the door and the sound of singing from within and pounded on the glass for entry.

As Dortmunder peeked around the edge of the inner room doorway, keeping one hand on the cassette player while he watched, J.C. crossed the room, put an angry expression on her face, opened the door just far enough for the law to see all those singing nuns behind her, and whispered the prepared line: “Sssshhh! Can't you read?”

Dortmunder counted four cops. They looked tired, sweaty, dusty. They had started on the seventy-sixth floor and this was the seventh, and they hadn't found a goddamn thing. By now, they surely didn't really expect to find anything, but they and the other squads in the sweep had to go through the motions anyway, and had to go through them thoroughly, just in case. Dortmunder could see it all in their faces, even from back here, and could see the one cop wearily nod and say something quietly to J.C, no doubt apologizing, no doubt explaining he was only doing his job, no doubt insisting he had no choice but to interrupt the recording session for just a minute or two.

The boys' choir was coming near the end of the pre-arranged line. Dortmunder's fingertip, touching the
stop
button, had started to sweat. How could a fingertip sweat? What if he missed when the instant came, and his finger slid off, and everybody out there stopped mouthing words while the goddamn boys' choir went right on singing? If it weren't for that goddamn vow of silence, they wouldn't all have to go through this rigmarole, they could just—

“Then we might as well stop,” J.C. said loudly, sounding very irritated. She turned and made a down-chopping arm movement, and Dortmunder closed his eyes and pushed. Everything stopped. He opened his eyes, and the nuns were all shuffling around, looking at one another, rattling their sheet music, avoiding direct eye contact with the cops. Dortmunder slipped through the doorway and joined them as the cops walked in, their leader saying, “Yes, ma'am, we heard all about you people from Chief Inspector Mologna.”

Mologna! Dortmunder almost jumped out of his habit at the name. He'd had a run-in with Chief Inspector Mologna himself awhile ago and had barely got out of it with a whole skin. He, John Dortmunder, was in a way kind of sorta almost responsible for some public trouble that had come to Chief Inspector Mologna around that time. As though Mologna were right there in the room with him now—awful thought—Dortmunder could hear the man's voice, threatening him that time on the telephone: “When I get my hands on you, you'll fall downstairs for a month.”

Ugh.

Meantime, the leader of this squad of cops was still talking to J.C, saying, “We do got to take a quick look through here, just in case there's somebody hiding in the place and you don't even know about it.”

“In
here?
” J.C. said scornfully, waving a hand to indicate the small, cramped, crowded quarters.

“We'll be very quick, ma'am,” the cop promised.

This was the tough part, standing here amid the nuns, hoping their presence would keep the cops from believing they had to search inside every box and carton and drawer for loot from the burglaries. Tiny and Stan had both argued that they should leave before the sweep reached this floor, do a quick make-believe recording session and then slide out of the building with the legitimate nuns, but that would leave the loot still in these offices, and if this space were empty the cops would have no reason to hurry and be sloppy and take things for granted.

Still, this was the tough part, and Dortmunder was glad the cops were buying the whole nun-chorus story. They said they'd be quick in their search, and as it turned out they were. While the other three stood just inside the door, looking around, one of them, eyes modestly down, tugging respectfully at the bill of his uniform cap, worked his way through the nuns to the door to the inner room, looked around in there, re-emerged, and told his friends, “Nobody. You couldn't hide a peanut in here.”

“Okay, fine,” the leader said, and gave J.C. a kind of half salute, touching his cap. “I'm sorry about the interruption, ma'am,” he said. “Hope you get a number-one hit here.”

“Thank you,” J.C. said, though coldly.

The cops filed back out again, but then the leader stopped and looked back at the nuns—Dortmunder shrunk down inside himself, so that the only thing left in the outer world was his nose—and then at J.C. He said, “One thing.”

The tension in the room could have provided electric power for Cleveland for a week. J.C. said, “Yes?”

“You gonna do a video?”

“Well, uhh …” J.C. dithered, then shrugged and said, “We're, uh, thinking about it.”

“That's what you gotta do these days,” the cop told her. “If you want to reach the kids, you know? You gotta do a video.”

“Good idea,” J.C. said.

“Good luck,” the cop said, and went out, and closed the door.

The sigh that went up from all the assembled nuns was almost audible; on the very edge of a vow-breaker. But framed within their wimples, all those faces were flushed and sparkling and having
fun
; this was a lot different from the usual Sunday down at the convent.

Dortmunder hurried back to the inner room and pushed
play
and the boys' choir took up again where they'd been so rudely interrupted. And Tiny said, “Video. I'd like a video of
that
clown, falling out an airplane.”

Sister Mary Forcible was near Tiny. She tapped his forearm, and when he looked down at her she smiled at him and shook her finger disapprovingly, then quickly took a pen out of her habit and scrawled a couple of words on the back of her sheet music. She showed this note to Tiny.

He studied it, then spoke slowly: “Christian cha-
rit
-y.” He nodded, leaning over the nun like a landslide about to happen. “I tell you what, Sister,” he rumbled, “he should fall out an airplane over water, okay? Warm, soft water, so he could land in it.” They smiled at each other and Tiny turned away, heading for the inner room. Passing Dortmunder, he muttered, “Shark-infested water.”

49

Displayin himself in the main front entrance to the Avalon State Bank Tower while TV lights enhanced the wanin rays of the late afternoon sun and TV cameras recorded every immortal moment, Chief Inspector Francis X. Mologna listened to the depressin news from his boys in blue. The sweep had swept through, right on down the buildin from top to bottom, and had produced nothin.

Well, not entirely nothin. An illegal horse parlor had been exposed on thirty-seven and a Virgin Islands pro-independence terrorist group's bomb factory had been turned up on nine and two prison escapees from Massachusetts, the professional arsonist Matlock twins, had been found livin in a chiropodist's office on fifty-two, but none of the valuables stolen from the importers on twenty-six had been located. Also, a surprisin amount of sexual hanky-panky between people married to people other than the people they were hanky-pankyin with had been discovered, but no more mercenary soldiers had appeared, nor had any burglars. The men who had done the sweep had made their reports to their immediate commanders, and these three commanders, bein two lieutenants and a captain, were now passin the reports on to the chief inspector, leanin too close to be sure they got into the TV pictures.

“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.