“There’s no way to get through that electric fence,” Ace said. “But we could go over it, have the pilot land in a field far away from the houses, we go over, grab Hall, stick him in the plane, fly back out again.”
“Ace,” Mac said, “if you make that suggestion to those two guys, they won’t have anything else to do with us. And we’re not getting anywhere on our own—”
“I am!”
“No, you’re not.” Mac spread his hands. “Follow this with me,” he said. “You’re over at Teterboro airport, you’ve got a airplane charter operation, these two upper-class guys come in, say we wanna charter a plane.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Ace said.
“The guy says, ‘And what’s the flight plan, sir?’ And these two upper-class guys, they say, ‘Oh, we just wanna fly over to Pennsylvania at night and land in a darkened field there, and then the plane waits there a little while, and then we’ll come back with this other passenger in a burlap sack,’ and by that time the charter guy’s already reaching for the phone.”
“They say they’re going to Atlantic City,” Ace said. “Once we’re all in the sky, we tell the pilot, ‘There’s this change of plans.’”
“They have radios in the planes,” Mac said. Pointing a finger at Ace, he said, “And don’t tell me you’re gonna point a gun at this pilot, you’re gonna hijack this plane. The whole scheme you shouldn’t tell our Harvard friends, but hijacking you shouldn’t even tell me.”
Buddy, who still hadn’t taken sides, sighed and got to his feet and said, “More beer.”
“You’re right,” Mac told him.
Buddy went over to the refrigerator, which still worked almost as well as when it had been made, sometime in the Korean War, and brought out three more cans of beer. Meanwhile, Ace had gone back to looking anguished and agonized and even more seasick. “There’s gotta be a way,” he said. “You just cannot get through that electric fence, so how else you gonna do it but go over it?”
“Maybe you wanna charter a catapult,” Mac suggested.
“Jeesis, Mac,” Ace said. “You don’t have to insult me. I’m trying to come up with an idea here.”
“Yeah, I know you are,” Mac said. “You’re right, I shouldn’t be a wise guy. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay, then.” Ace folded his arms. “So you come up with an idea,” he said.
“I’ve been trying to,” Mac assured him. “So far, nada.”
Buddy, who maybe by now wasn’t going to have to choose sides, delivered the beers, settled back into his very low armchair, and said, “You know what I keep thinking about?”
They both gave him their full attention. Mac said, “No, Buddy. What?”
“That green Subaru station wagon,” Buddy said.
They both considered that. Mac said, “You mean, the one that the guy drives it looks like an action toy.”
“Like the hero of a video game,” Buddy agreed. “Only shorter.”
Ace said, “Shorter? How do you know he’s shorter? You only seen him sitting down, inside his car.”
“All that chin of his,” Buddy said, “it’s the same level as the top of the steering wheel.”
Mac said, “All right, he’s probably short. So what? What about him?”
“He’s in and out of there all the time,” Buddy said. “It’s almost every day he’s in and out, just him and all that station wagon.”
“Hmm,” Mac said.
Ace said, “Whadaya think he does? I mean, that he goes in and out all the time.”
“Maybe we should follow him,” Buddy said. “Not goin in, we couldn’t do that, I mean comin out. Find out who he is. Find out if he’d like some undercover passengers some day.”
“Buddy,” Mac said, “you just might have an idea there.”
“And this one,” Ace said, “we don’t need to share with Harvard.”
“Ace,” Mac said, “now you’re right.”
Buddy said, “You guys both think they’re Harvard? They seemed more like Dartmouth to me.”
15
WHEN THE PHONE RANG, Dortmunder was in the can, reading an illustrated book about classic cars. Apparently, some of these cars really were very valuable, but on the other hand, it seemed to Dortmunder, the people who valued these cars were maybe a little strange.
“John?”
“Yar?”
“It’s Andy. Shall I tell him you’ll call him back?”
“No, I’ll be right there,” Dortmunder said, and was. Holding his place in the book with the first finger of his left hand, he took the phone in his right, said, “Thanks, May,” then said, “Yar.”
“Chester gave me the list,” Kelp said.
List. For a second, Dortmunder couldn’t figure out what Kelp was talking about. A list of classic cars? He said, “List?”
“Remember? You asked him for a list of the other things Hall collects, so we could find out what’s useful to bring along as cargo.”
“Oh, right.”
“So he gave me the list, that you were gonna take to Arnie Albright.”
Dortmunder’s heart sank. “Oh, right,” he said, in tones of deepest gloom, because Arnie Albright, the fence with whom it was occasionally necessary for Dortmunder to deal, was a fellow with a distinct personality problem. His personality problem, in short, was his personality. He’d said so himself, one time: “It’s my personality. Don’t tell me different, Dortmunder, I happen to know. I rub people the wrong way. Don’t argue with me.”
This was the person, or the personality, that somebody was going to have to show Chester’s list, and then stick around in order to discuss it.
Wait a minute; was there an out? “Chester gave you the list,” Dortmunder said. “So why don’t you take it on over to Arnie.”
“John, he’s your friend.”
“Oh, no,” Dortmunder said. “Nobody is Arnie’s friend. I’m his acquaintance, and so are you.”
“You’re more of an acquaintance than I am,” Kelp said. “Listen, you want me to drop the list off at your place, or would you rather pick it up over here?”
“Why me? You’ve got the list.”
“It was your idea.”
Dortmunder sighed. In his agitation, he now realized, his finger had slid out of the book and he’d lost his place. Would he ever get back to the right spot, in among all those cars? He said, “I tell you what. I’ll come over there—”
“Good, that’ll work.”
“And we’ll go see Arnie together.”
“John, it’s just a piece of paper, it doesn’t weigh that much.”
“Andy, that’s the only way it’s gonna happen.”
Now it was Kelp’s turn to sigh. “Misery loves company, huh?”
“I don’t think so,” Dortmunder said. “Arnie Albright is misery. He doesn’t love company.”
•
So it was that, a little later that day, Dortmunder and Kelp both approached the apartment house on West Eighty-ninth Street, between Broadway and West End Avenue, where Arnie Albright lurked. Chester’s list was now in Dortmunder’s pocket, Kelp having insisted on making the transfer before he’d leave home, to remove himself, however slightly, from the center of the conversation to come.
There was a shopfront on the ground floor of Arnie’s building, currently selling cell phones and yoga meditation tapes, with a tiny vestibule beside it. Entering the vestibule, Dortmunder said, “He always yells my name out. Through the intercom. You can hear him in New Jersey. I hate it.”
“Put your hand over the grid,” Kelp suggested.
Surprised and grateful, Dortmunder said, “I never thought of that.” Feeling slightly better about the situation, he pushed the button next to Albright, then pressed his palm against the metal grid where the squawking yelling voice would come out. They waited thirty seconds, and then a moderate voice said something that was muffled by Dortmunder’s hand. Hurriedly removing the hand, he said, “What?”