"Ah," said Dortmunder. "And any time I happen to dial Andy Kelp's phone number, his phone won't ring, but yours will, way over there by the Queensboro Bridge."
"Gee, I guess that's right."
"He probably won't hear that phone of yours when it rings, will he? Not even if you open your windows."
"Oh, no, he couldn't possibly."
"That's what I figured," Dortmunder said. Very very gently, he hung up.
10
Chief Inspector Francis Xavier Mologna (pronounced Maloney) of the New York City Police Department and Agent Malcolm Zachary of the Federal Bureau of Investigation loved one another imperfectly. They were of course on the same side in the war between the forces of order and the forces of disorder, and they would of course cooperate fully with one another whenever that war might find them both engaged on the same field of battle, and they did of course deeply admire one another's branch of service in this war as well as respect one another individually as long-term professionals. Apart from which, each thought the other was an asshole.
"The man's an asshole," Mologna told Leon, his nigger faggot secretary, when the latter entered the former's office to announce the arrival of the aforesaid.
"A reigning asshole," Leon agreed. "But he's in my office and he'd rather be in yours, and I too would rather he was in yours."
"A rainin asshole? Is that one of your disgustin faggot perversions?"
"Yes," said Leon. "Shall I send him in?"
"If he's still there," Mologna said hopefully.
He was still there. In fact, at that very instant, in the outer office, Agent Zachary was saying, "The man's an asshole, Bob," to his partner, Freedly.
"But still we have to cooperate with him, Mac," Freedly said.
"I know that. I just want to go on record with you, off the record, that the man's an asshole."
"Agreed."
Leon opened the connecting door, smiled coquettishly at the two FBI men, and said, "Inspector Mologna will see you now."
At his desk Mologna grumbled, "I'll never be able to see that asshole," then smiled and heaved to his feet and presented his hand and his beer belly and his beaming face in the direction of Zachary and Freedly as they entered. Hands were shaken as Leon exited, shutting the door.
Zachary gestured at the windows behind Mologna's desk. "Magnificent view."
It was. "Yes, it is," Mologna said.
"Brooklyn Bridge, isn't it?"
It was. "Yes, it is," Mologna said.
So much for small talk. Zachary took one of the brown leather chairs facing the desk (Freedly took the other) and said, "So far as we can tell, the Greeks don't have it."
"Of course they don't," Mologna said, dropping back into his padded high-back swivel chair. "I said so this mornin. Hold on just a minute." And he pressed a button on his intercom, then looked at the door.
Which opened. Leon said, "You want me?"
"You might as well take notes."
"I'll get my little pad."
Zachary and Freedly exchanged a glance. There was something funny about that secretary.
Leon entered, shut the door, sashayed to his little chair in the corner, prettily crossed his legs, perched his notebook on the upper knee, poised his pen, and looked expectantly at everybody.
"As I was sayin," Mologna said (Leon did quick squiggly shorthand), "I said this mornin—"
Zachary said, "You'll copy to me, won't you?"
"— the—What?"
Zachary nodded at Leon. "The notes of the meeting."
"Certainly. Leon? Copy for the FBI."
"Oh, absolutely," Leon said.
Leon and Mologna exchanged a glance.
Zachary and Freedly exchanged a glance.
Mologna said, "As I was sayin, I said this mornin this ruby ring wasn't taken by any of your foreign political types. It's—"
"That appears," Zachary said, "to be true at least in the case of the Greek Cypriot underground. We have good penetration in most of their organizations, and the word to us is, they don't have it."
"That's what I've been sayin."
"Which leaves the Turks and the Russians."
"And the Armenians," Freedly added.
"Thank you, Bob, you're absolutely right."
"It also leaves," Mologna said, "a nice homegrown burglar, ancestry as yet undetermined."
"Of course," Zachary said, "there is always that possibility. At the Bureau—and I've discussed this now with sog—and our feeling—"
Mologna said, "Sog?"
"Seat of Government," Zachary explained. "That's what we call the main Bureau headquarters in Washington."
"Seat of Government," Mologna echoed. He and Leon exchanged a glance.
"Abbreviated, S, O, G, pronounced sog. And our feeling is, the likelihood still remains upmost for a politically motivated removal."
"Theft."
"Technically, of course, it is a theft."
"With a thief," Mologna said.
"Frankly," Zachary said, "I hope—and I'm sure the Bureau hopes—you turn out to be right."
"All the fellas down there at sog."
Zachary frowned a bit. Was Mologna being sardonic? It didn't seem possible, from a man with such a bad Long Island accent and such a big, big stomach. "That's right," he said. "And it would be much simpler and easier if in fact it is merely a domestic burglar. One of our problems otherwise is diplomatic immunity."
"Diplomatic immunity?" Mologna shook his head, his expression determined. "This isn't some parkin ticket, man. There's no immunity from grand larceny."
Zachary and Freedly exchanged a glance. Zachary explained, "Most of these organizations—terrorist groups, nationalist cells, rebel conclaves—have linkages to one or another standing government. Which gives them access to diplomatic pouches. Baggage leaving any of the various UN missions or the foreign consulates and embassies here in New York and in Washington, it all goes through unchecked and unsearched. That's the diplomatic immunity I'm talking about. Anything at all can go in or out of this country in a diplomatic pouch and no one the wiser."
"We're very lucky," Freedly added, "that the original group involved in the raid at the airport had already been disavowed by the Greek government, forcing them to find an alternate method for smuggling the ring out of the country."
"And you're also lucky," Mologna told him, "that what we're lookin for this time is just some local hooligan."
"We'd prefer to be that fortunate," Zachary agreed. "Do you have any hard evidence at the moment to support your theory?"
"Hard evidence? That bit of wire bypassin the alarm box, how's that for evidence? The door bein jimmied that—"
"Yes, yes," Zachary said, raising a hand to stem the flow. "I remember all that from the meeting this morning. I meant since then."
Mologna and Leon exchanged a glance. Mologna said, "It's been at best two hours since that meetin. We're good, Mr. Zachary, but nobody's that good."
Zachary and Freedly exchanged a glance. Zachary said, "But you have taken steps."
"Of course I've taken steps. We're talkin to our informants, we're arrestin every known criminal in the five boroughs, we're puttin pressure on the entire underworld." Mologna nodded in self-satisfaction. "It won't take long. We'll get results."
"How soon, do you suppose? If you're right, that is."
"If I'm right?" Mologna and Leon exchanged a glance. "Two days, three days. I'll keep you informed of progress."
"Thank you. Meantime, we'll pursue the alternate theory that the ring's disappearance has a political basis, and of course we'll be delighted to keep you informed of our progress."
Mologna and Leon exchanged a glance. Mologna said, "Progress. On the international front."