“I got the job,” I said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“They paid me half in advance.”
“Go on.”
“The Washington cops figure that it was an inside job and the inside man’s already been killed. His wife hung herself. They were both heroin addicts. Or so the Washington cops say.”
“Jesus!” Myron Greene said.
“It gets better,” I said. “You’ll like the next part.”
“Just tell what happened.”
“Well, I got a call from a woman who said she’s representing the thieves. Somebody’s supposed to call me here in New York either today or tomorrow. Then there was Conception Mbwato, a representative of Komporeen which, he says, is the rightful owner of the shield. He offered me fifty thousand to hand the shield over to him, once I get it back. I turned him down — reluctantly, I might add — and he promised to steal it — either from me or from whoever’s got it now. And I asked Frances Wingo to have a drink, but she refused.”
“You’d better mail me the check,” Myron Greene said, “and I’ll have Spivack deposit it for you.”
“If they have any stamps,” I said.
“Who?”
“The cigar stand.”
“You’re dissembling again,” Myron Greene said. “You always do that when you’re nervous.”
“I’ll take something for it. The cigar stand might have something along with the stamps.”
“What do you do now?”
“I wait for the phone to ring.”
“What did the Washington police say?”
“That I make too much money.”
“Do they think that whoever stole it were professionals?”
“I don’t think I even asked,” I said. “It seemed obvious that they were. They killed the guard which means two things to me. One, they’re either professionals or gifted amateurs, and two, you didn’t ask for enough money.”
“It’s not too late for that in view of subsequent developments,” Myron Greene said. “I can probably work something out.”
“Do that.”
“What are your plans now?”
“As I said, I wait for the phone to ring. Then I might try to find out if anybody knows anything. The thieves know who I am. That means that they might know somebody whom I know. And since they’re the types who go around shooting people in the back of the head, perhaps I should find out.”
Myron Greene wheezed for a moment. “It might not be a bad idea,” he said finally. “As long as it doesn’t disrupt the negotiations.”
“If I find out that they’re the kind who don’t leave any witnesses around at all, there won’t be any negotiations.”
“You have to remember that you’ve already committed yourself.”
“Not to get killed,” I said.
“Of course not. I didn’t mean that.”
“You mean you need $2,500?”
“No, damn it, I don’t need $2,500 and if you think my fee is too high, I’ll forget about it.”
“Calm down, Myron. Remember what excitement does to your asthma.”
“Screw my asthma, St. Ives.” Myron Greene never called me St. Ives unless he was upset.
“What’s bothering you?” I said.
“I received a call this morning from Washington.”
“From Frances Wingo?”
“No. From the State Department.”
“What do they want?”
“They, or rather an assistant under-secretary for African Affairs, a Mr. Littman Cox, wants Jandola to get that shield back. This Mr. Cox — I think he said he was an assistant undersecretary, whatever that is — wanted to know if the State Department could be of any assistance.”
“How?” I said.
“That’s what I asked him. He said that he could bring in the FBI.”
“What did you tell him, Myron?” I said.
“Don’t get that tone in your voice, St. Ives,” he said. “I told him that it would be totally unnecessary and that we preferred to work alone and that if he wanted to be of assistance to us, he could make sure that the FBI stayed out of the case until the transaction was completed.”
I decided that Myron Greene liked having the State Department call him. Even more, he liked turning them down and getting himself into what he considered to be the thick of things and referring to us and we. “What else did the assistant under-secretary of State for African Affairs have to say after you said no?”
“Well, to be frank, he seemed upset. He kept telling me that I was in no position to assess the international significance of the shield and that its return was of what he called — I even wrote it down here — ‘paramount salience to the future relations between Jandola and the United States.’ He sounded like a prick.”
“All that means is that State is cozying up to the British and doesn’t want either France or Germany to start giving aid to Komporeen.”
“How do you know that?” Myron Greene said.
“Conception Mbwato told me.”
“I see,” Myron Greene said, and from the tone of his voice I could tell that he didn’t see at all, but the story was too long to tell. “Anyway,” he said, “I turned him down and told him that if he brought the FBI in, we would back out.”
“What did he say when you said that?”
“He wanted to know about your professional competence and integrity.”
“You assured him that they are of the highest order, of course.”
“Of course. I also pressed him about the use of the FBI; he promised me that they would not be called in. You know something?”
“What?”
“Perhaps I should have gone into the diplomatic service instead of law — especially if Cox is typical of what State has working for it.”
“You could have made a great contribution,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.
“I might’ve at that,” Myron Greene said. “Keep me informed, Philip.”
“Every step of the way.”
When he hung up I called down to the desk and asked Eddie, the day bellhop, to bring me up a steak sandwich and a glass of milk.
“Steak’s not too good today,” he said.
“How’s the liverwurst?”
“Better.”
“Make it a liverwurst.”
While I waited for him, I endorsed the check, put it in an envelope, and addressed it to Myron Greene. When Eddie arrived with the sandwich, I paid him, gave him two dollars to put on a horse I’d picked on the plane, and a letter to mail.
“They’re out of six-cent stamps at the cigar stand again,” he said. “But I got some.”
“How much?”
“Dime each?”
“I’ll buy one,” I said, and handed him a dime. It’s what I’ve always liked about New York. Neighborly.
I ate the sandwich and spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for the phone to ring and reading a paperback novel that I’d picked up in the Washington airport. It was about a CIA man who wandered around Red China for a couple of years doing good works like poisoning the water supply.
By six o’clock the phone hadn’t rung so I waited until six-fifteen and then dialed a number. A man’s voice said, “A to Z Garage.”
“Parisi there?”
“Who?”
“Parisi,” I said slowly, pronouncing each syllable with care. “Johnny Parisi.”
“Nobody here by that name.”
“Just tell him it’s Philip St. Ives.”
“St. what?”
“Ives,” I said. “You want me to spell it?”
“Lemme see.”
I waited a while and then Parisi came on the phone with, “Hello, Lucky.”
“I like your new secretary.”
“You mean Joey. He’s something, isn’t he?”
“Something’s as good a description as any.”