“I thought you’d want to.”
“No,” Dortmunder said, and filled his mouth with enough Cheerios to keep him incommunicado for a week.
So it was May who told Andy about the FedEx Pak and the sentimental value gift ring from the semi-unknown uncle, and about it fitting John’s finger (at least she didn’t make a point about his allegedly needing some extra luck, he was grateful for that much), and about how when he went out to the Island last night a householder stole it from him.
Dortmunder had been hunched forward, grimly chewing, staring into the bowl of Cheerios, through the whole recital, and when he looked up now, damn if Andy wasn’t grinning. “Mm,” Dortmunder said.
Andy said, “John, is that what happened? The guy boosted the ring right off your finger?”
Dortmunder shrugged, and chewed Cheerios.
Andy laughed. What a rotten thing to do. “I’m sorry, John,” he said, “but you gotta see the humor in it.”
Wrong. Dortmunder chewed Cheerios.
“I mean, it’s what you call your biter bit, you see? You’re the biter, and you got bit.”
Gently, May said, “Andy, I don’t think John’s quite ready to appreciate the humor.”
“Oh? Oh, okay.” Andy shrugged and said, “Let me know when you’re ready, John, because it’s really pretty funny. I hate to say it, but the guy’s kinda got style.”
“Nn mm nn,” Dortmunder said, which meant, “And my ring.”
“But if you don’t want to talk about it yet,” Andy said, “I can understand that. He made you look foolish, humiliated you, made fun of you—”
“Andy,” May said, “I think John is going to stab you with his spoon.”
“But,” Andy said, shifting gears without losing a bit of momentum, “the reason I came over, there’s a little possibility I heard about you might be interested in, having to do with a shipment of emeralds out of Colombia, smuggled, you know, that this ballet troupe is supposed to have, and they’re coming to bam, and I figure—”
May said, “Andy? Coming to bam what?”
“No no,” Andy said, “they’re coming to BAM, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, over in Brooklyn, a lot of shows go there that aren’t quite right for Broadway because they don’t use smoke machines, but they’re too big for off Broadway, so this ballet troupe—”
Andy went on like that for a while, describing American culture, the history of ballet in the New World, and the prominence of emeralds in the Colombian economy, until at last Dortmunder rinsed down his Cheerio cud with a lot of coffee and said, “No.”
Andy looked at him. “No what?”
“No emeralds,” Dortmunder said, “no ballet, no bam, no wham, no thank you, ma’am.”
Andy spread his hands. “Why not?”
“Because I’m busy.”
“Yeah? Doing what?”
“Getting my ring back.”
May and Andy both looked at him. May said, “John, the ring is gone.”
“Until I get it back.”
Andy said, “John? You’re going after this billionaire, this Max guy?”
“Fairbanks. Yes.” Dortmunder lifted another mountain of Cheerios toward his mouth.
“Wait!” Andy said. “Don’t eat yet, John, bear with me.”
Dortmunder reluctantly returned the mountain to the bowl. “And.”
“And billionaires got guards, security, all these people, you can’t just waltz in and say hello.”
“I did last night.”
“From what May tells me,” Andy said, “that’s because last night the guy was doing a little something off the reservation. Had some kinda girl with him, didn’t he?”
“I’m just saying.”
“But most of the time, John, he’ll be on the reservation, you know? I mean, even if you knew where the reservation was. I mean, how do you even find this guy?”
“I’ll find him.”
“How?”
“Somehow.”
“All right, look,” Andy said. “This emerald business can hold a few days, they’re still coming up out of South America, dancing in Cancún right now, wherever. If you want, I would work with you on this ring thing and—”
“Never mind.”
“No, John, I want to help. We’ll take a swipe at the ring, see what happens, then we’ll talk emeralds.”
Dortmunder put his spoon down. “I don’t care about emeralds,” he said. “The guy took the damn ring, and I want it back, and I’m not gonna think about anything else until I get it back, and I didn’t know the guy was an Indian, but that’s okay, if he lives on a reservation I’ll find the reservation and—”
“That’s just a saying, John.”
“And so is this,” Dortmunder said. “I’m gonna find the guy, and I’m gonna get the ring. Okay?”
“Fine by me,” Andy said. “And I’ll help.”
“Sure,” Dortmunder said, taking a stab at sarcasm. “You got Max Fairbanks’s address?”
“I’ll call Wally,” Andy said.
Dortmunder blinked, his attempt at sarcasm dead in the dust. “What?”
“You remember Wally,” Andy said, “my little computer friend.”
Dortmunder gave him a look of deepest suspicion. “You aren’t trying to sell me a computer again, are you?”
“No, I gave up on you, John,” Andy admitted, “but the thing about Wally is, he can access just about any computer anywhere in the world, go scampering around in there like a bunny rabbit, find out anything you want. You need to know where a billionaire called Max Fairbanks is? Wally will tell you.”
May smiled, saying, “I always liked Wally.”
“He moved upstate,” Andy said. He looked alertly at Dortmunder. “Well, John? Do I give him a call?”
Dortmunder sighed. The Cheerios in the bowl were soggy. “You might as well,” he said.
“See, John,” Andy said, happy as could be, taking somebody’s cellular phone out of his pocket, “already I’m a help.”
12
It was raining over Maximilian’s Used Cars. Actually, it was raining over this entire area, the convergence of Brooklyn and Queens with the Nassau County line, the spot where New York City at last gives up the effort to go on being New York City and drops away into Long Island instead, but the impression was that rain was being delivered specifically to Maximilian’s Used Cars, and that all the rest was spillage.
Dortmunder, in a raincoat that absorbed water and a hat that absorbed water and shoes that absorbed water, had walked many blocks from the subway, and by now he looked mostly like a pile of clothing left out for the Good Will. He should have taken a cab—he was rich these days, after all—but although it had been cloudy when he’d left home (thus the raincoat) it hadn’t actually been raining in Manhattan when he left, and probably still wasn’t raining there. Only on Maximilian’s, this steady windless watering-can-type rain out of a smudged cloud cover positioned just about seven feet above Dortmunder’s drooping hat.
One thing you could say for the rain; it made the cars look nice. All those !!! CREAMPUFFS !!! and !!! ULTRASPECIALS !!! and !!! STEALS !!! shiny and gleaming, their rust spots turned to beauty marks, their many dents become speed styling. Rain did for these heaps and clunkers what arsenic used to do for over-the-hill French courtesans; gave them that feverish glow of false youth and beauty.
Plodding through these four-wheeled lies, Dortmunder looked like the driver of all of them. As he approached the office, out through its chrome metal screen door bounded a young guy in blazer and chinos, white shirt, gaudy tie and loafers, big smile and big hair. He absolutely ignored the rain, it did not exist, as he leaped like a faun through the gravel and puddles to announce, “Good morning, sir! Here for wheels, are we? You’ve come to the right place! I see you in a four-door sedan, am I right, sir? Something with integrity under the hood, and yet just a dash of—”