"Sure it is," Dortmunder said. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"Then you'll bring it here. I have the money."
"In cash?"
Chauncey grimaced. Nobody uses cash any more, unless buying a newspaper, so Chauncey hadn't thought at all about the actual physical transfer of funds from himself to Dortmunder. But of course he couldn't very well offer the man a check, could he? And even if he could, Dortmunder certainly couldn't accept it. Nor was Dortmunder likely to be on Diners Club or Master Charge.
"Chauncey?"
"I'm thinking," Chauncey told him. "Wait there, Dortmunder, I'll have to call you back." But when he tried, half an hour later, the line was busy, and this was why:
"I'm telling you, Dortmunder, it isn't finished."
"And I'm telling you, Porculey, the goddam man is in New York and he wants his goddam picture back."
"You can't give it to him unfinished."
"I have to turn it over, period."
"You told me I had till May."
"He's here now, and he wants his painting."
"It isn't ready."
(And so on, for several minutes, more and more of the same, while Chauncey kept dialing Dortmunder's number and getting the same infuriating busy signal, until Dortmunder finally asked the following question:)
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long to get it done?"
"To do it right. Two weeks. Two weeks minimum."
"Not to do it right. Come on, Porculey, help me on this."
There was a brief pause. The faint slobby sound in Dortmunder's ear was Porculey sucking on his lower lip, as an aid to thought. Finally Porculey sighed, another distasteful sound, arid said, "Friday. It won't be perfect, but–"
"This is Tuesday."
"I know what day it is, Dortmunder."
"Three days?"
"I have to bake it, antique it, it has to dry. Do you want it to smell of fresh paint?"
"Three days," Dortmunder insisted. "You can't make it shorter."
"Shorter? Dortmunder, d-d-d-d-do you ree-ree-ree–"
"Okay, okay. I'll take your word for it."
"I mean, after all."
"I believe you," Dortmunder said.
"Friday."
"Friday night."
"Aw, come on."
"Friday night."
"Eight o'clock."
"Ten o'clock."
"Eight-thirty."
"Avoid the rush-hour traffic, Dortmunder. Ten o'clock."
"The rush hour doesn't go that late. Nine o'clock."
"Make it nine-thirty."
"Nine," Dortmunder said, and slammed the phone down, and it rang at him.
It was of course Chauncey, dialing yet again, ready to bite the receiver in half if he got a busy signal one more time, and being so astonished when he got the ring sound instead that at first he didn't say anything at all when Dortmunder said, "Hello?" Then, when Dortmunder said it again – "Hello?" – even though Chauncey recognized the voice and knew it was the person he was trying to call, his surprise made him say, "Dortmunder?"
"Chauncey."
"You've been on the phone."
"It's a friend's birthday," Dortmunder said. Chauncey was again surprised, this time pleasantly. Sentimental comradeship in the criminal classes; how charming. "That's nice," he said.
"About the money," Dortmunder said. Apparently sentiment didn't leave much of an afterglow with the man.
"Yes." Chauncey cleared his throat and said, "It turns out cash is a difficult thing to acquire, at least without creating questions."
Dortmunder, sounding exasperated, said, "Chauncey, after all this, are you saying you don't have the money?"
Chauncey was too concerned with his own problems to wonder what after all this referred to. "Not at all," he said. "I have the money, but I don't yet have the cash."
"Money and cash are the same thing," said Dortmunder, who apparently lived in a much simpler world.
"Well, not exactly," Chauncey told him. "The thing is, it'll take me a while to get the cash together. I'm sorry, I hadn't really thought about the problem before."
"Meaning you'll have it when?"
"This isn't a stall, Dortmunder, I do have the money."
"When do I get it?"
"Not till Friday, I'm afraid."
"This is Tuesday."
"I realize that. I apologize, and I've started on it, but the fact is I can't take that much cash from any one source. I'll need several business days to do it. I've made a beginning, and by Friday I'll have it all."
"Make it Friday night."
"Fine. You remember the passage from my back yard to the next street?"
"Sure."
"You come there Friday at midnight, and I'll let you in."
"Good." Then Dortmunder said, "I won't be alone."
"You won't? Why not?"
"We're talking about a lot of cash," Dortmunder reminded him. "The rest of my string'll be with me."
Chauncey wasn't sure he liked that idea, his house filling up with crooks. "How many?"
"The driver stays outside. Me and three others come in."
"Four of you? Dortmunder, don't misunderstand me, I trust you but how can I be sure of these other people?"
"I vouch for them," Dortmunder told him. "You can trust them completely."
Chapter 11
Friday night. Leo Zane, in his own car, his only permanent possession, a black Mercury Cougar with a special stirrup-like accelerator so he could drive without too much pain in his right foot, was following Dortmunder and an unidentified man in a bright red Volkswagen Rabbit through the rain-splashed streets of Manhattan. The windshield wipers splashed back and forth, the cold damp spread through the metal frame of the car, and Zane peered steadily at the Rabbit taillights out ahead.
Presumably, Dortmunder was on his way to the meeting with Chauncey at midnight, half an hour from now, but in that case why was the Rabbit aiming itself so completely downtown? Appropriately enough, the Rabbit was heading for that warren of streets south of 14th and over by the Hudson River known as the West Village. The westernmost part of Greenwich Village, this area is almost nothing but trucking companies and warehouses, because of the proximity of the docks and the Holland Tunnel.
The Rabbit traveled south on Washington Street, ever deeper into this maze, the streets lined with parked trucks, no pedestrians out in the rain except the occasionally lonely gay hoping to meet a new friend; in the gay world this neighborhood was known as The Trucks, and with no local residents to complain, a certain vibrant street life often took place here after dark. But not on a chilly wet night like this; the few solitary strollers slogging along with their hands in their jacket pockets looked more like homeless cats than liberated swingers.
At last the Rabbit turned off Washington Street, but in the rainy dark Zane couldn't make out exactly what street he was following it onto. Was it somewhere near Charles Lane, or Weehawken Street? Or farther south around Morton or Leroy Streets? For all he knew, in this poor visibility, with his eyes so exclusively on the taillights of the Rabbit ahead of him, they were south of Canal Street by now, down around Desbrosses or Vestry Streets.
And not every trucker or shipper or warehouse, apparently, was completely closed for the weekend; ahead of Zane, a large tractor-trailer was backing and filling, taking up most of the width of the street, facing from left to right, trying to back into position somewhere on the left. A great bulky monster of a man, in a rain-slick poncho and knit cap, was standing in the middle of the street, directing the tractor-trailer in its movements, and he'd flagged down the Rabbit, stopping it so the big truck could keep juggling itself left and right across the cobblestones.