Griswold leaned closer: "Sir?"
This time the mumble made words, barely audible: "Ski masks."
"Ski masks? Ah, skiing! You and your friend there indulge?"
"Yeah," the man said.
"Well, that's fine. Come right over this way." Leading the way deeper into the store, past splints and shoulder pads and groin cups, Griswold said, "You must have seen our ad in the paper."
"We just happened by," the man said, still talking into his hand, as though he had a tiny microphone in there.
"Is that so? Then this is your lucky day, if I may say so."
The man looked at him. "Yeah?"
"We're in the middle of our end-of-season ski sale." Griswold beamed happily at his customer. "Fantastic savings, right on down the line."
"Oh, yeah?"
The other customer was still back by the door, looking out, and thus was out of earshot, so Griswold concentrated on the bird in hand. "That's right, sir," he said. "Now, here, for instance, are these magnificent Head skis. Now, you know how much these little beauties would normally set you back."
"Ski masks," the man muttered, not even looking at the beautiful skis.
"All set for skis?" Griswold reluctantly let the beauties lean again against the wall. "How about boots? Poles? You see hanging on the wall there, sir—"
"Masks."
"Oh, of course, sir, that's right here in this display case. Take your time. We also have more in the back I could bring out if you—"
"Those two," the man said, pointing.
"These? Of course, sir. May I ask, what color is your primary ski outfit?"
The man frowned at him: "You gonna sell me these masks?"
"Certainly, sir, certainly." Whipping out his sales book, remaining ineffably cheerful and polite, Griswold said, "Cash or charge, sir?"
"Cash."
"Yes, sir. Let me just get a box for these—"
"Paper bag."
"Are you certain, sir?"
"Yes."
"Very well." Writing out the sales slip, Griswold said, "I take it, this time of year, you're heading up Canada way. Ah, the Laurentians, they're wonderful. Best skiing in North America."
"Yeah," the man said.
"Can't beat the Alps, though."
"Naw," the man said.
"You get a lot of glare that far north. Could I interest you and your friend in goggles? Guaranteed Polaroid—"
"Just the masks," the man said, and handed Griswold two twenty-dollar bills.
"That's fine, then," Griswold said, went away, came back with the change and a paper bag, and as he turned over the customer's purchases made one last pitch: "Cold up there, sir. Now, our guaranteed Finnish Army parkas will keep your vital signs intact down to fifty-seven degrees below, or return with—"
"No," the ex-customer said. Stuffing the bag full of masks inside his coat, he turned away, shoulders hunched, and joined his partner at the front door. They exchanged a glance, then left. Griswold, watching through the glass, saw them pause in the doorway and look both ways before turning their coat collars up, tucking their chins down in, shoving their hands deep in their pockets and skulking away, keeping close to the building front. Odd ducks, Griswold thought. Not your ordinary outdoor-enthusiast types.
Half an hour later, stepping back to admire a just-completed pyramid of tennis ball cans surmounted by an elasticized elbow band, Griswold suddenly frowned, pondered, turned his head, and gazed inquiringly toward the front door. But of course they were gone by then.
40
It was raining. Eleven p.m. Dortmunder emerged from the side-street manhole into a gusty, chilly rain, slid the round cover back into place, and took refuge in the nearest storefront doorway. There were no pedestrians. A lone car squished by. Wind currents eddied in the storefront, flicking tiny cold raindrops in his face.
It was nearly five minutes before a Lincoln Continental with MD plates pulled to a stop at the curb out there. Dortmunder crossed the sidewalk, entered the dry warmth of the car, and Kelp said, "Sorry I took so long. Tough to find a car on a night like this."
"You could of found a car," Dortmunder told him, as Kelp eased the Lincoln forward to the nearest traffic light. "You just had to hold out for an MD."
"I trust doctors," Kelp said. "They're ease-loving people, they know all about pain and discomfort. When they buy a car, they want the best and they can afford the best. You say what you want, I'll stick with doctors."
"All right," Dortmunder said. Now that the chill was leaving his bones, now that he was beginning to dry, he was less annoyed.
The traffic light turned green. Kelp said, "Where is this movie?"
"Down in the Village."
"Okay." Kelp turned right, drove downtown to Greenwich Village, turned left on 8th Street, and parked just shy of the theater, whose marquee advertised "American Premiere—A Sound of Distant Drums." That was the movie May had told Dortmunder she intended to see tonight, telling him about it last night, making small talk while Dortmunder's hand had soaked in the Palmolive Liquid. A call to the theater from their ghost telephone earlier this evening had told them the last show would break at eleven-forty.
And so it did. Beginning at eleven-forty and a half, a trickle of culturally enriched patrons emerged from the theater, grimacing at the rain, making complaining noises at one another, hurrying away through the wind-blown squall.
May was among the last to come out. She stood for a moment under the marquee, hesitating, looking this way and that. Kelp said, "What's she up to?"
"She knows what she's doing," Dortmunder said. "She'll just walk around a while, so we see has she a tail."
"Of course she has a tail," Kelp said. "Probably half a dozen. Some pal of Tiny's. The cops. The Terrorists' Cooperative."
"You're very cheery," Dortmunder said.
Outside there, two nondescript men also stood under the marquee, apparently indecisive as to what to do now that the world of the cinema had been replaced by the world of rain. But then May finally moved on, heading down the block away from Kelp and Dortmunder, and after a minute both dawdling men strolled off in that direction as well, having nothing to do with one another, or with May, or with anything.
"Two," Kelp said.
"I see them."
"If they only knew."
"Don't talk."
"What she's carrying, I mean."
"I know what you meant."
Kelp waited till May and her two new friends were all out of sight in the spritzing darkness, then started the Lincoln and oozed away from the curb. In midblock they passed the two men, who were having some difficulty remaining unaware of one another, and a bit farther on they passed May, walking along like a person with nothing to think about but movies.
Astonishingly, the light at the corner was green. Kelp zipped around to the right, pulled in at the curb, left the engine running but turned out the lights. Dortmunder twisted around, looking back through the water-smeared side windows at the corner, his hand reaching back for the rear door handle.
May appeared, walking purposefully but not hurriedly. She turned right, continued to walk, and the instant the corner building cut her off from the view of the following men she made a brisk dash for the car. Dortmunder shoved open the rear door, May hopped in, and Kelp accelerated, turning the next corner before switching on the headlights.
"What a night!" May said, when Kelp eased enough on the throttle so she could peel herself off the seatback. "I knew this was you when I saw the MD plates."
Kelp tossed Dortmunder a quick triumphant grin: "See? It's my trademark." Looking in the rearview mirror he said, "Nobody behind us."
May was studying Dortmunder like a mother hen. "How are you, John?"
"Fine."