Why Me? (25 page)

“You'll give me the ring? For what, immunity?”

The mirthless voice said, “You can't give me immunity, nobody can.”

“I hate to say it, pal,” Mologna told him, “but you're right.” And yet, the strange thing was, he felt within himself a desire to help this poor son of a bitch. Some echo in that world-weary voice reached out to him, called out to their common humanity. Maybe it was just because he was depressed after that stinking editorial, but he knew in his heart he was closer to this fourth-rate burglar, in some cockamamie way, than to anybody else involved in the whole case. He pictured FBI Agent Zachary in an interrogation with this clown, and despite himself, his heart just reached out. “So what do you want?” he said.

“What I want,” said the voice, “is another burglar.”

“I don't follow.”

“You're the cops,” the voice explained. “You can make up a name, make up a guy, some guy that doesn't exist. Frank Smith, say. Then you announce you got the burglar and his name is Frank Smith and you got the ring back and it's all over. Then nobody's mad at
me
any more.”

“Nice try, Dortmunder,” Mologna said.

“I'm not Dortmunder.”

“The problem is,” Mologna went on, “where is this Frank Smith? If we set up a make-believe guy, we've got nobody to show the press. If we set up a real guy, maybe the frame doesn't stick.”

“Maybe Frank Smith commits suicide in the House of Detention,” the voice suggested. “Such things have been known to happen.”

“Too many people involved,” Mologna said. “I'm sorry, but there's no way we could work it.” He laid out the parameters of the problem: “It would have to be a real guy, with a record, somebody known to the courts and to the underworld. But at the same time, it would have to be a guy nobody's ever goin to find, he'll never come back with an alibi or a— Holy Jesus!”

In sudden hope, the voice said, “Yeah? Yeah?”

“Craig Fitzgibbons,” Mologna said, an almost religious awe trembling in his voice.

“Who the hell is that?”

“A guy who will never come around to call us liars, Dortmunder.”

“I'm not Dortmunder.”

“Sure, sure. I can do your setup for you, that's all. I sit here astonished at myself. Now, what about the
quo
?”

“The what?”

“The Byzantine Fire,” Mologna explained.

“Oh, that. You get it back,” the voice said, “as soon as you make the announcement.”

“What announcement?”

“Police breakthrough. Proof positive the thief with the Byzantine Fire is this fella Craig Whoever. Arrest expected any minute.”

“All right. Then what?”

“I get the ring back to you, my own way. Indirect like.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“And if you don't?”

“Another police breakthrough. Proof positive it
isn't
Craig Thingummy.”

“Okay,” Mologna said, nodding. Leon came in and made the world's most expressive shrug of incredulity, representing in himself all of the thousands and thousands of employees of the New York Bell Telephone Company. Mologna nodded, waving him away, not caring any more. “I'm in a good mood today,” he told the phone. “You've got yourself a deal, Dortmunder.”

“Call me Craig,” said Dortmunder.

44

Every half hour Dortmunder phoned May, who was staying home from work so she could listen to an all-news radio station (“You give us twenty-two minutes, we'll give you the world,” they threatened). Dortmunder would have preferred to be his own listening post, but down here in the telephone company conduit, far beneath the mighty metropolis, there was no such thing as radio reception. As for TV, forget it.

“There's trouble in Southeast Asia,” May told him at ten-thirty.

“Uh-huh,” Dortmunder said.

“There's trouble in the Middle East,” she said at eleven o'clock.

“That figures,” he said.

“There's trouble in the Cuban part of Miami,” she announced at eleven-thirty.

“Well, there's trouble everywhere,” Dortmunder pointed out. “There's even a little right here.”

“They have positively identified the thief who stole the Byzantine Fire,” she said at noon. “It was just a bulletin, interrupted the trouble in baseball.”

Dortmunder's throat was dry. “Hold it,” he said, and swigged some beer. “Now tell me,” he said.

“Benjamin Arthur Klopzik.”

Dortmunder stared across the conduit at Kelp, as though it was
his
fault. (Kelp stared back, expectant, alert.) Into the phone, Dortmunder said, “
Who
?”

“Benjamin Arthur Klopzik,” May repeated. “They said it twice, and I wrote it down.”

“Not Craig Anybody?”

“Who?”

“Benjamin—” Then he got it. “Benjy!”

Kelp could stand no more. “Tell me, John,” he said, leaning forward. “Tell me, tell me.”

“Thanks, May,” Dortmunder said. It took him a second to realize the unfamiliar, uncomfortable feeling in his cheeks was caused by a smile. “I hate to sound really optimistic, May,” he said, “but I have this feeling. I just think maybe it might be almost possible that pretty soon I'll be able to come up out of here.”

“I'll take the steaks out of the freezer,” May said.

Dortmunder hung up and just sat there for a minute, nodding thoughtfully to himself. “That Mologna,” he said. “He's pretty smart.”

“Wha'd he do? John?” Kelp was bouncing up and down in his eagerness and frustration, slopping beer out of the can onto his knees. “
Tell
me, John!”

“Benjy,” Dortmunder said. “The little guy the cops wired.”

“What about him?”

“He's the guy Mologna says boosted the ring.”

“Benjy Klopzik?” Kelp was astonished. “That little jerk couldn't steal a paper bag in a supermarket.”

“Nevertheless,” Dortmunder said. “Everybody's after him now, right? Because of being wired.”

“They want him almost as bad as they want you,” Kelp agreed.

“So the cops announce
he's
the guy lifted the ruby ring. He won't come back and say no, it wasn't me. So that's the end of it.”

“But where is he?”

“Who cares?” Dortmunder said. “The Middle East, maybe. The Cuban part of Miami, maybe. Maybe the cops killed him and buried him under Headquarters. Wherever he is, Mologna's pretty damn sure nobody's gonna find him. And that's good enough for me.” Reaching for the phone, grinning from ear to ear, Dortmunder said, “That's
plenty
good enough for me.”

45

Life is unfair, as Tony Costello well knew. He was on the very brink of losing his job as police-beat reporter on the six o'clock news, and it was all because nobody knew he was Irish. It was bad enough that “Costello,” though Irish, sounded Italian; but then his mother had had to go and compound the problem by naming him
Anthony
. Sure there were lots of micks named Anthony, but you go ahead and combine “Anthony” with “Costello” and you might just as well forget the wearin' o' the green altogether.

Plus, Tony Costello's additional misfortune was that he was a black Irishman, with thick black hair all over his head, and a lumpy prominent nose, and a short and chunky body. Oh, he was doomed right enough, that he was.

If only it were possible to bring it out into the open, to
talk
about it, go up to some of these dumb micks—Chief Inspector Francis X. Mologna, for instance,
there
was a tub of dolphin shit for you—and say to these fellas, “God damn it to hell and back,
I'm Irish
!” But he couldn't do that—the prejudice, the old boys' club, the whole Irish Mafia that runs the Police Department and always has would have to be acknowledged that way, which of course was out of the question—and as a result all the best scoops, the inside dope, the advance words-to-the-wise all went to that son of a bitch
Scotsman
, that Jack Mackenzie, because the dumb micks all thought
he
was Irish.

“Looks like spring today!” said a pretty girl in the elevator at noon on Saturday, but Tony Costello didn't give a shit. His days as police-beat reporter were numbered, the numbers were getting smaller, and there was nothing he could do about it. A month, six weeks, two months at the outside, and he'd be shipped bag and baggage to Duluth or some damn place, some network affiliate where the police beat was automobile accidents and Veterans' Day parades. Maybe it looked like spring today, maybe last night's drenching rain had been winter's valedictory, maybe this morning's soft breezes and watery sun heralded the new season of hope, but if there was no hope in Tony Costello's heart—and there was none—what could it matter to him? So he snubbed the pretty girl in the elevator, who spent the rest of the day looking rather bewildered, and he stamped down the corridor past all the other busy-busy network employees into his own cubicle, where he asked Dolores, the secretary he shared (for as long as he was still here) with five other reporters, “Any messages?”

“Sorry, Tony.”

“Sure,” Costello said. “Sure not. No messages. Who would call Tony Costello?”

“Buck up, Tony,” Dolores said. She was slender, but motherly. “It's a beautiful day. Look out the window.”

“I may jump out the window,” Costello said, and his phone rang.

“Well, well,” Dolores said.

“Wrong number,” Costello suggested.

But Dolores answered it anyway: “Mister Costello's line.” Costello watched her listen, nod, raise her eyebrows; then she said, “If this is some sort of prank, Mister Costello's far too busy—”

“Huh,” said Costello.

Dolores was listening again. She seemed interested, then intrigued, then amused: “I think maybe you ought to talk to Mister Costello himself,” she said, and pressed the hold button.

“It's Judge Crater,” Costello suggested. “He was captured by Martians, he's spent all these years in a flying saucer.”

“Close,” Dolores said. “It's the man who burgled Skoukakis Credit Jewelers.”

“Skoukakis …” The name rang a bell, then exploded: “Holy shit, that's where the Byzantine Fire was grabbed!”

“Exactly.”

“He says—he says
he's
, uh, uh, Whatsisname?” (Not being on the inside track with the boys at Headquarters, Costello mostly got his police news from the radio and had heard Mologna's announcement in the car on the way downtown. Oh, it was an uphill fight for Tony Costello every inch of the way.)

“Benjamin Arthur Klopzik,” Dolores reminded him. “And what he says is, he robbed the place. To prove his point, he described the store.”

“Accurately?”

“How would I know? I've never been there. Anyway, he wants to talk to you about the Byzantine Fire.”

“Maybe to set up a return.” A rare smile lightly touched Costello's features, making him look a bit less like an Irish bog (or an Italian swamp). “Through me,” he said, in wonderment. “Is that possible? Through
me
!”

“Talk to the man.”

“Yes. Yes, I will.” Seating himself at his desk, switching on the tape that would record the call, he lifted his phone and said, “Tony Costello here.”

The voice was low in volume and with a faint echo, as though the speaker were in a tunnel or something. “I'm the guy,” it said, “that robbed Skoukakis Credit Jewelers.”

“So I understand. Klop, uhh …”

“Klopzik,” said the voice. “Benjamin Arthur—I mean, Benjy Klopzik.”

“And you have the Byzantine Fire.”

“No, I don't.”

Costello sighed; hope dashed, yet again. “Okay,” he said. “Nice talking to you.”

“Wait a minute,” Klopzik said. “I know where it is.”

Costello hesitated. This had all the characteristics of a prank or crank phone call, except for one thing: Klopzik's voice. It was a gruff voice, with a weariness, a many-battles-lost quality that reminded Costello of himself. This voice would not pull pranks, would not do dumb stunts for fun. Therefore Costello stayed on the line, saying, “Where is it?”

But then Klopzik had to go and say, “It's still in the jewelry store.”

“So long,” Costello said.

“God damn it.” Klopzik's voice sounded really annoyed. “What's the matter with you? Where you going? Don't you want the goddam story?”

Which stung Costello: “If there
is
a story,” he said, “naturally I want it.”

“Then stop saying good-bye. The reason I picked you, I seen you on the TV and I don't think you're in the cops' pocket like that guy Mackenzie. You know the one I mean?”

Costello's heart warmed to this stranger: “I do indeed,” he said.

“If I give this to Mackenzie he'll give it very quiet to the cops, and they'll do it very quiet, and I'll still be in a jam.”

“I don't follow.”

“Everybody's on my tail,” Klopzik explained. “They're looking for the guy hit the jewelry store because they think I got the ruby, too. But I don't. So what I want, I want a lot of publicity when you get the ruby, so everybody knows I never had it, so they'll get off my back.”

“I am beginning,” Costello said, “to believe you, Mr. Klopzik. Tell me more.”

“I broke in there that night,” Klopzik said. “Must of been just after they put the ruby there. I didn't see them or anything, I'm not a witness. I just went in, I opened the safe, I took what I wanted, I saw this big red stone on a gold-looking ring, I figured it had to be fake. So I left it.”

“Wait a minute,” Costello said. “Are you telling me the Byzantine Fire has been in that jewelry shop the whole time?” He was peripherally aware of Dolores staring at him, openmouthed.