Why Me? (2 page)

At first Dortmunder assumed the reason he couldn't understand what they were saying was because of their simultaneous transmissions, but then they sorted that out for themselves and began to speak one at a time, and Dortmunder
still
couldn't understand what they were talking about. So it must be some foreign language, though Dortmunder had no idea what. It was all Greek to him.

The two most recent arrivals were doing most of the talking, in quick excited staccato bursts, while the other man—a bit older, slower, more patient—made soothing calm responses. All of this in the dark, since no one had bothered to turn on any lights, for which Dortmunder was thankful. On the other hand, what were these people doing here, talking their foreign language in the dark of a closed jewelry store well after midnight?

Then Dortmunder heard the
plok-chunk
of a safe door being opened, and a very annoyed expression crossed his face.
Were
these burglars? He wished he could rise up above the counter level to see what they were doing over there, but he couldn't chance it. They were between him and the vague illumination from the street, so at best they'd be lumpy silhouettes while he might be identifiably a gray face in motion. So he stayed where he was, and listened, and waited.

Chock-whirrrrrr
. That was surely the safe door being shut again, and the dial spun. Does a burglar reshut a safe when he's finished with it? Does a burglar spin the dial, to reassure himself that the safe is locked? Shaking his head, hunkering down as comfortably as possible behind the counter, Dortmunder continued to listen, and to wait.

Another flurry of foreign language followed, and then the sound of the door opening, and the voices receded. Dortmunder lifted his head slightly. The voices abruptly dropped to the faintest murmur as the door was slammed shut. A key rattled in the lock.

Dortmunder eased upward, stretching his neck, so that first to appear above the glass counter was his dry, thin hair-colored hair, like dead beach grass in January; then came his narrow forehead, creased with a million old worries; then his pale and pessimistic eyes, looking left and right and straight ahead, like some grim gag-item from a novelty shop.

They were going away. The three men were visible out there, crossing the sidewalk to their respective cars, the older man still slow and methodical, the others still brisk. Those two got into their car first, started the engine with a roar, and had raced away before the older man even got behind the wheel.

Dortmunder moved upward another inch and a half, revealing gaunt cheekbones and a narrow, long crooked nose, the bottom of which he rested on the cool glass of the countertop.

The older man got into his car. A period of time went by. “Maybe,” Dortmunder muttered against the wooden sliding door on the back of the display case, “his doctor told him to slow down.”

A match flared in the car. It dipped down, then flared up; dipped down, flared up; dipped down, flared up; dipped down. Went out.

A second match flared.

“A pipe smoker,” Dortmunder grumbled. “I might of known. We'll be here till sun-up.”

Flare-dip; flare-dip; flare-dip. Flare, out.

Pause.

The car engine started, without a roar. After another little interval, the headlights went on. Time passed, and abruptly the car whipped backward two or three feet, then jolted to a stop.

“He put it in the wrong gear,” Dortmunder commented. He was beginning to hate that old fart.

The car moved forward. In no hurry at all, it angled away from the curb, joined the stream of no traffic, and disappeared from view.

Bones cracking, Dortmunder unlimbered himself and shook his head. Even a straightforward jewelry store burglary couldn't be simple: mysterious intruders, foreign languages, pipe smokers.

Oh, well, it was over now. Moving forward through the store, Dortmunder brought out his pencil flash, shone it around in brief spurts of light, and found under the cash register the small safe those people had opened and closed. And now Dortmunder smiled, because at least this part of the job was working out. It had seemed to him that any merchant who had bought
that
burglar alarm might very well have bought
this
safe—or one generally like it—and here it was. Another old friend, like the alarm system. Seating himself cross-legged tailor-fashion on the floor in front of this old friend, spreading his tools out around himself, Dortmunder went to work.

It took fifteen minutes, about par for this kind of can. Then the safe door swung open, and Dortmunder beamed his flash in on the trays and compartments. Some nice diamond bracelets, a few okay sets of earrings, an assortment of jeweled brooches, and a varied array of rings. A tray of engagement rings, with diamonds small enough to fall through a cotton sheet; Dortmunder left those behind, but much of the rest went into his various pockets.

And here in this drawer was a little box, which when open proved to be black velvet lined, and to contain only one item; a ring set with a suspiciously large red stone. Now why would any jeweler put a fake stone like this in his safe? On the other hand, could it possibly be real and yet have found its way to this small-time neighborhood shop?

Dortmunder considered leaving the thing, but then decided he might just as well take it along. The fence would tell him if it was at all valuable.

Stowing the swag and his tools into the various pockets of his jacket, Dortmunder got to his feet and spent a minute longer in the place, shopping. What would be nice for May? Here was a ladies' digital watch, with a simulated platinum band; you pressed this button here on the side, and on the TV-screen-shaped black face numbers appeared, telling you the exact time down to hundredths of a second. Very useful for May, who happened to be a supermarket cashier. And what made it a
ladies'
watch, the numbers were pink.

Dortmunder pocketed the watch, took one last look around, saw nothing else of interest, and left. He did not bother to close the safe.

4

Georgios Skoukakis hummed a little tune as he drove his maroon Buick Riviera northeastward across Queens toward Belmont Race Track and Floral Park and his own tidy little home near Lake Success. He had to smile when he thought how excited those two men had been, so nervous and keyed up. Here were they, experienced guerrillas, soldiers, fighters in Cyprus, young men barely in their thirties, healthy, professional and well-armed. And on the other hand here was himself, Georgios Skoukakis, 52, naturalized American citizen, jeweler, small merchant, no history of violence or guerrilla activity, never even in the Army, and who was it stayed calm? Who was it had to say, “Easy, easy, gentlemen, haste makes waste”? Who was it behaved naturally, normally, calmly, holding the Byzantine Fire in the palm of his hand as though it were an everyday event, placing it in the safe in his shop as though it were nothing more than a fairly expensive watch brought in for repair? Who was it but Georgios Skoukakis himself, smiling a comfortable smile as he drove through quiet Queens streets, puffing his second-favorite pipe, humming a little self-congratulatory tune.

Unlike most countries, which are merely two nations—North and South Korea, East and West Germany, Christian and Moslem Lebanon, white and black South Africa, Israel and Palestine, the two Cypruses, the two Irelands—the United States is several hundred nations, all coexisting like parallel universes or multilayered plywood on the same messily drawn rectangle which is America. There's the Boston Ireland, the Miami Beach Israel, the northern California Italy, the southern Florida Cuba, the Minnesota Sweden, the Yorkville Germany, the Chinas in every large city, the East Los Angeles Mexico, the Brooklyn Puerto Rico, a whole lot of Africas, and the Pittsburgh Poland, to name a few.

The natives of these countries carry their dual allegiances very lightly for the most part, hardly ever worrying about potential conflict, and always equally prepared to serve whichever of their nations has need of them. Thus the IRA in the original Ireland is financed and armed by the Irish in the American Ireland. Thus the furtherance of Puerto Rican independence is abetted by the blowing up of New York bars. And thus, a Greek-born naturalized American jeweler is available for assistance in the Greco-Turkish squabble over Cyprus.

Georgios Skoukakis, in addition to the usual watch mending and engagement-ring peddling of the jeweler's trade, had a sideline which had now become useful to his other nation. From time to time he still visited the old country, and he always combined business with pleasure by transporting jewelry in both directions—all perfectly legal, since prior to the first such trip several years ago he had applied for and obtained all the necessary permissions and licenses. Over the years he had helped to finance many a pleasant vacation by transporting digital watches to Salonika and returning with old gold.

Tomorrow, another such trip would take place. The bags were packed, the reservations made, everything was ready. He and Irene would arise in the morning, drive to Kennedy Airport (with a pause at the shop, just a few blocks out of the way), then leave the car in the long-term parking lot, take the free bus to the terminals, and smoothly board the Olympic Airways morning flight for Athens. And on this trip, in among the charm bracelets and earrings yawned over by the bored Customs inspectors, would be a mixed assortment of somewhat garish costume jewelry, featuring large fake stones.

The boldness of this plan was its strongest asset. The least likely route for the Byzantine Fire, of course, would be a round trip directly back to the same airport from which it had been stolen. Even so, very few individuals would be able to clear a large red-stoned ring through the Customs officials of
any
airport in America tomorrow morning; Georgios Skoukakis was perhaps uniquely qualified for the task. How fortunate that he also happened to be such a calm and reliable and steady man.

Turning onto Marcum Lane, Georgios Skoukakis was a bit surprised to notice light in the living room windows of his house, but then he smiled to himself, realizing that Irene too was probably feeling tense tonight, unable to sleep, and was waiting up for his return. Which was fine; it would be pleasant to talk with her, tell her about the excitable young men.

He didn't bother to put the car in the garage, leaving it in the driveway for the morning. Crossing the lawn, he paused to light his pipe—puff, puff, puff. His hands were absolutely steady.

Irene must have seen him through the window, for as he crossed the porch she opened the front door. Her tense and strained expression told him he'd been right; she was quite upset, much more nervous about this adventure than she'd earlier let on.

“Everything's fine, Irene,” he assured her, as he stepped into the house, turned, paused, blinked, and the bottom fell out of his throat. He stared through the archway into the living room at two tall slender men in topcoats and dark suits who were getting to their feet from the flower-pattern armchairs and walking this way. The younger one had a moustache. The older one was holding out his wallet, showing identification, saying, “FBI, Mr. Skoukakis. Agent Zachary.”

“I confess,” Georgios Skoukakis cried. “I did it!”

5

May was sitting in the living room, squinting through cigarette smoke and doing the quiz in the latest
Cosmopolitan
. Dortmunder shut the door and she squinted across the room at him, saying, “How'd it go?”

“Okay. Nothing special. How was the movie?”

“Nice. It was about a hardware store in Missouri in 1890. Beautiful shots. Terrific period feeling.”

Dortmunder didn't share May's enthusiasm for movies; his question had been merely polite. He said, “The owner came in while I was in the store.”

“No! What happened?”

“I guess he was the owner. Him and two other guys. Came in for a minute, fooled around, left. Didn't even turn the lights on.”

“That's weird.” She watched him empty bracelets and rings out of his pockets onto the coffee table. “Some nice stuff.”

“I got you something.” He handed her the watch. “You press the button on the side.”

She did so: “Nice. Very nice. Thank you, John.”

“Sure.”

She pressed the button again. “It says ten after six.”

“Yeah?”

“How do I set the time?”

“I don't know,” Dortmunder said. “I didn't see any instructions. It was the display model.”

“I'll figure it out,” she said. She twiddled the button, then pressed it again. Clouds of cigarette smoke enveloped her head from the eighth-of-an-inch butt in the corner of her mouth. She put the watch down, took another crumpled cigarette from the pocket of her gray cardigan, and lit it from the ember she removed from her lower lip.

Dortmunder said, “You want anything?”

“No, thanks, I'm set.”

Dortmunder went away to the kitchen and came back with a bourbon and water and a small white plastic bag. “Figure out the watch?”

“I'll look at it later.” She had been frowning at the quiz again, and now she said, “Would you say I am
very
dependent,
somewhat
dependent,
slightly
dependent, or
not at all
dependent?”

“That depends.” On one knee, he scooped the loot from the coffee table into the plastic bag. “I'll take this stuff over to Arnie in the morning.”

“Andy Kelp called.”

“He's got some kind of machine on his phone.”

“He says please call him in the morning.”

“I don't know if I want to keep talking to a machine forever.” He tied shut the top of the plastic bag, put it on the coffee table, picked up the watch and pressed the button. Pink LED digits said 6:10:42:08. He twiddled the button, pressed it again: 6:10:42:08. “Hm,” he said.

May said, “I'll put
slightly
dependent.”

Dortmunder yawned. Putting the watch down, he said, “I'll look at it in the morning.”