"And people on the street," Dortmunder said thoughtfully, "they're pretty teed off right now at whoever has this thing."
"You."
"I can't believe it." Dortmunder slipped the ring onto the third finger of his left hand, stretched the hand out at arm's length, and squinted at it. "Jeez, it's gaudy," he said.
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Do with it." That question hadn't occurred to him. He tugged the ring, to remove it from his finger. "I don't know," he said.
"You can't fence it."
"You can't fence anything, everybody's shook up by all this cop business." He kept tugging at the ring.
"You can't keep it, John."
"I don't want to keep it." He twisted the ring this way and that.
"What's the matter?"
"It won't—"
"You can't get it off?"
"My knuckle, it won't—"
"I'll get soap." She stood as the doorbell rang. "Maybe that's Andy Kelp," she said.
"Why would it be Andy Kelp?"
"He called, asked you to call back, said he might drop by."
"Asked me to call back, huh?" Dortmunder muttered something under his breath, and the doorbell rang again.
May went out to the vestibule to answer the door while Dortmunder, just to be on the safe side, scooped the rest of the swag back into the plastic bag. From the vestibule came May's loud voice: "Yes, officers? What can I do for you?"
Dortmunder tuuuuggggggged at the ring. No good.
"Ms. May Bellamy?"
"Maybe," said May.
Dortmunder got to his feet, opened the window, dropped the plastic bag into the anonymous darkness.
"We're looking for a Mr. John Dortmunder."
"Oh. Well, um…"
Dortmunder turned the ring around so the ruby was on the inside, next to his palm. Only the gold band showed on the back of his hand.
May and two large policemen walked into the room. Looking very worried, May said, "John, these officers—"
"John Dortmunder?"
"Yes," said Dortmunder.
"Come along with us, John."
Dortmunder closed his left hand into a loose fist. The Byzantine Fire was cold against his fingers. "See you later," he told May, and kissed her on the cheek away from the cigarette, and picked up his coat, and went away with the policemen.
19
When the door to the back room at the O. J. Bar and Grill on Amsterdam Avenue opened again, about an hour after Dortmunder had left, Tiny Bulcher was just finishing a story: " — so I washed off the ax and put it back at the Girl Scout camp." Both Ralph Winslow and Jim O'Hara looked toward the door with tremulous hope in their eyes, but it was only Rollo, looking at Tiny and saying, "There's a sweet-vermouth-straight-up out here, I think he's looking for you."
"Little fella? Looks like a drowned rat?"
"That's the one."
"Kick his ass and send him in here," Tiny said. Rollo nodded and shut the door behind himself. Tiny said, "That's my pal, with that cop's address." He thudded his right fist into his left palm. "Let the good times roll," he said. Winslow and O'Hara watched his hands.
The door opened just a bit, and a narrow, pointy-nosed, gray-skinned face peered uncertainly around the edge. The little beady eyes were blinking, and from the bloodless, down-curving mouth came a raspy whining voice: "You gonna be mad, Tiny?"
"Yes," said Tiny.
"It wasn't my fault, Tiny." The little eyes flickered at Winslow and O'Hara, found no help there, and blinked at Tiny some more. "Honest, it wasn't."
Tiny brooded at the little nervous face in the doorway. At last he said, "Benjy, you remember the time that fella told me nobody could kiss their own elbow, and then I showed him how he could?"
Winslow and O'Hara looked at one another.
"Yeah, Tiny," said the little face. Below the sharp chin a gnarled Adam's apple kept appearing and disappearing, like a pump in an oilfield.
"If I have to get up from here, Benjy," Tiny said, "and come after you, you're gonna kiss your elbow."
"Oh, you don't have to get up, Tiny," Benjy said, and he sort of spurted into the room, closing the door behind himself and revealing himself to be a skinny little stick figure of a man, all in gray, with a few strands of dead hair pasted to his narrow gray scalp. In his trembling hand he carried a glass in which the maroon vermouth made rippling wavelets. He took the chair Dortmunder had once occupied, directly across the table from Tiny.
"Comere, Benjy," Tiny said, and whumped his palm onto the chairseat beside himself.
"Okay, Tiny." Benjy sidled around the table, flashing Winslow and O'Hara quick despairing smiles, like semaphores for help from a desert island. Slipping into the chair next to Tiny, he put his glass on the table and vermouth slopped onto the felt—not its first stain.
Tiny rested his hand on the back of Benjy's neck, in a gesture that almost looked friendly. "This is Benjy Klopzik," he told the others. "A pal of mine up till now."
"I'm still your pal, Tiny."
Tiny shook Benjy's neck gently, and the little man's head flopped from side to side. "Shut up for the introductions, Benjy," he said, and pointed at the other two, who now were blinking almost as much as Benjy. "That's Ralph Winslow, and that's Jim O'Hara. O'Hara just got outa the can."
"How are ya?" Benjy said, with a ghastly smile.
O'Hara responded with an exercise-yard nod: small, focused, almost invisible. Winslow, in a macabre parody of his former heartiness, raised his glass, in which the tinkling ice cubes had long since melted, and said, "Nice to know you. We've all just been talking here, telling stories. Tiny's been telling us very interesting stories."
"Oh, yeah?" Benjy licked gray lips with a gray tongue. "I'd like to hear some a them, Tiny."
"I'd like to hear your story, Benjy." Tiny gave him another gentle shake. "You didn't get that address, did you?"
"I got arrested!"
Tiny observed the little man, who blinked back at him in desperate sincerity. Mildly, like far-off thunder, Tiny said, "Tell me about it."
"I hung around outside the precinct, just like you told me," Benjy said, "and all night the cops keep comin in with people. It's like a revolvin door. And then this cop comes over to me, and he goes, 'You look like you wanna join us. Come on in. So they took me in and shook me down and asked me a lotta dumb questions about this big jewel—I mean," he said, appealing to Winslow and O'Hara, "do I look like a guy with a big jewel on his person?"
Winslow and O'Hara both shook their heads. Tiny shook Benjy's head. "Benjy, Benjy, Benjy," he said, more in sorrow than in anger, "I give you a simple job to do."
"Listen, I seen the guy," Benjy said. "The redheaded cop you told me about. I'll get him tomorrow, sure thing." Trying for a palsy smile, he added, "And you were sure right about him, Tiny. He kicked me in the knee."
Tiny looked interested. "Oh, yeah?"
"Then he told the other cops his tour was over, and he split. And before they let me go, he was gone."
Winslow, cranking up his heartiness, said, "Could have happened to anybody. Tough luck, Benjy."
"I'll get him tomorrow, Tiny," Benjy promised.
"It's that ruby," O'Hara said. "Nobody can do nothing. I finally hit the street and nobody can do thing one."
Tiny, almost reluctantly, released Benjy's neck—Benjy blinked like sixty in appreciation—and placed both tree-trunk forearms on the table. "That's right," he said, his voice ominous, like nearby thunder. "There's too much agitation. It's making me irritable."
Winslow said, "You'd think the law would have found the damn stone by now."
"The law," Tiny said, in disgust. "You wanna count on the law?"
"We oughta do it ourselves," Benjy piped up, then immediately looked embarrassed and terrified at having spoken. He gulped down vermouth.