Why Me? (3 page)

“I mean,” May said, “nobody's
not at all
dependent.”

6

Malcolm Zachary loved being an FBI man. It gave a certain meaningful tension to everything he did. When he got out of a car and slammed the door, he didn't do it like just anybody, he did it like an FBI man: step, swing, slam, a fluid motion, flex of muscle, solid and determined, graceful in a manly sort of way. Malcolm Zachary got out of cars like an FBI man, drank coffee like an FBI man, sat quietly listening like an FBI man. It was terrific; it gave him a heightened self-awareness of the most delicious sort, like suddenly seeing yourself on closed-circuit television in a store window. It went with him through life, everywhere, in everything he did. He brushed his teeth like an FBI man—shoulders squared, elbow up high and sawing left and right,
chick-chick, chick-chick
. He made love like an FBI man—ankles together, elbows bearing the weight,
hum
-pah,
hum
-pah.

He also, Malcolm Zachary, questioned a suspect like an FBI man, which in the present circumstance was perhaps unfortunate. While Zachary couldn't remember any suspect ever collapsing quite so rapidly as Georgios Skoukakis, it was unfortunately true that he could also not remember any suspect ever clamming up again quite so fast. One statement—“FBI, Mr. Skoukakis. Agent Zachary”—and the suspect had opened up like a landing craft: “I confess! I did it!” But then came the first question—“We'll want the names of your associates”—and the landing craft immediately snapped reshut and rusted into place.

Having an awareness of other people that was less heightened than his awareness of himself, Zachary had no idea what had gone wrong. He didn't know how fragile and false had been that self-deception in Georgios Skoukakis' brain which he, Zachary, had destroyed by his mere presence. On the other hand he had no clue to the roiled tumble of emotions coursing through the poor man immediately after his blurted confession: the humiliation, the self-contempt, regret, horror, despair, the knowledge that he had now destroyed everything forever, with no hope of ever ever
ever
repairing the damage he had done.

“We'll want the names of your associates.”

Bang! Instant redemption. Georgios Skoukakis had destroyed
himself
forever, but valor was still possible. He would not betray his associates. Zachary could have put bamboo shards under Skoukakis' fingernails, burning coals between his toes—he wouldn't, of course, that not being the FBI way, but just as a hypothetical—and Georgios Skoukakis would not betray his associates. Very seldom is it given to a man, having failed, to atone for his failure quite so rapidly as in the case of Georgios Skoukakis.

Of none of which was Zachary aware. He knew only that Skoukakis had cracked at the first tap of the shell. So now Zachary was standing here, ballpoint pen in right hand, notebook in left hand (exactly like an FBI man), waiting for the answer to his first question and not yet aware that the answer was not going to come. He prodded a bit: “Well?”

“Never,” said Georgios Skoukakis.

Zachary frowned at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never.”

Zachary's partner, a younger man with a moustache named Freedly— Well, no. The
man
was named Freedly.

Zachary's partner, a younger man named Freedly with a moustache—

Zachary's partner, a moustached younger man named Freedly—

Freedly said, “Have you got the ring on you?”

“Just a minute, Bob,” Zachary said. “Let's get the answer to this other question first.”

“He won't answer that question, Mac,” Freedly said. “Well, Mr. Skoukakis? Is it on you?”

“No,” said Skoukakis.

Zachary said, “What do you mean, he won't answer it?”

The suspect's wife, Irene Skoukakis, said something short, fast, and probably vicious in a foreign language, no doubt Greek.

“None of that,” Zachary told her.

Skoukakis looked terribly ashamed of himself. “I'm sorry, Irene,” he said. “I just wasn't man enough.”

This time the wife spoke one word in English.

“None of that either,” Zachary told her.

Freedly said, “Where is it, Mr. Skoukakis?”

Skoukakis sighed. “In my shop,” he said.

“I would like,” Zachary said, “to return to the interrogation. I asked a question.”

“He won't answer it,” Freedly said. “Let's go get the ring.”

Zachary frowned like an FBI man. “What?”

“It's in his shop,” Freedly said. “That's the point, isn't it? He won't give us any names, Mac, so let's forget that and go get the ring. Come along, Mr. Skoukakis.”

Zachary didn't dislike Freedly—it would not have been possible for him to dislike a fellow FBI man—but there were moments when his liking for Freedly became less than perfect. Freedly didn't always behave like a proper FBI man, which left Zachary at times out in limbo someplace, being an FBI man all on his own while Freedly was just sort of
doing
things. Like now—fifteen or twenty minutes of interrogation bypassed completely, and they were merely going to get the ring. Zachary said, “What about the wife?”

“She isn't going anywhere,” Freedly said. “Are you, Mrs. Skoukakis?”

Irene Skoukakis was a bit old to smolder, but she managed. “I shall get a divorce,” she said. “But first I shall be unfaithful with a Turk.”

Her husband moaned.

“Let's go,” Freedly said.

Okay, okay; Zachary turned the pages, skipped ahead, found his place, and said, like an FBI man, “Right. Let's go get that ring. Come along, Skoukakis.”

“Good night, Irene.”

Zachary and Freedly and the suspect went outside, and the wife slammed the door very hard after them. Their agency car, an avocado Pontiac, was across the street under a maple tree. They started in that direction and Skoukakis said, “Do you want to follow me?”

Zachary didn't understand the question. Apparently Freedly did, though, because he grinned at Skoukakis and said, “Oh, no, Mr. Skoukakis. You'll ride
with
us.”

“Oh, yes,” Skoukakis said. “Of course. I wasn't thinking.”

“Naturally you'll ride with us,” Zachary said, having caught up. “What are you trying to pull?”

“Nothing,” Skoukakis said.

Freedly drove, Zachary and Skoukakis riding in back, Skoukakis giving directions to his store. Freedly radioed in while they were stopped at a red light, saying, “We picked up Skoukakis. He says the object is at his shop. We're on the way there with him.”

“Wrapping it up fast,” said the radio, in a loud, distorted, but cheerful voice. “That's the way to do it.”

“You bet,” Freedly said. He stopped talking on the radio and drove the car forward.

Skoukakis said, “Excuse me.”

“You were on our list,” Freedly told him.

“Ah,” Skoukakis said.

Zachary frowned. “What?”

“I didn't know you had a list,” Skoukakis said.

“We've got lots of lists,” Freedly told him. “The hit squad was Greek. It seemed political rather than criminal. They'd want to get it out of the country, and you were one of the likelier possibilities.”

“The FBI has its methods,” Zachary said. He'd caught up again.

At the shop, Skoukakis unlocked the door and went in first, switching on the lights and then stopping dead. “Move along,” Zachary said.

Skoukakis cried out in Greek. He ran forward. Zachary made a grab for him but missed, and Skoukakis stopped again.

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” Freedly said. “Say it isn't so.”

Zachary said, “What?”

Skoukakis turned toward them a dead-white face and gestured at his open safe. “I've been robbed!”

“Shit,” said Freedly, and went out to the car to call in.

Zachary said, “What?”

7

Dortmunder's breakfast was: sweetened grapefruit juice (at which he made a face), two fried eggs over
hard
, white bread toasted with apricot preserves, instant coffee with a lot of milk and sugar. He had finished everything but the second piece of toast and the third cup of coffee when May came into the kitchen, wearing her coat. “Don't forget to call Andy Kelp,” she said.

Dortmunder was fiddling with the digital watch. “Mm,” he said, and pressed the button on the side; the pink numbers said 6:10:42:08. “Mm,” he said.

“You'll be home for dinner?”

“Yeah. I'll take that stuff over to Arnie this morning. Maybe we'll eat out.”

“That'd be nice,” she said, and left the kitchen.

Dortmunder drank some coffee, turned the watch around and around in his hands, poked it a bit, and pressed the button on the side. 6:10:42:08.

The front door closed.

Dortmunder chewed toast and considered the watch. When you weren't pressing the button on the side, the rectangular black face was blank; it looked like Dick Tracy's wrist TV. Dortmunder held the watch near his mouth. “Hello, Tess?” he said. “This is Tracy.”

The phone rang.

Dortmunder removed the remaining toast from his mouth by drinking the remaining coffee, patted his lips with a paper napkin, and walked into the living room. He picked up the phone on the fifth ring. “Yeah,” he said.

“What took so long?”

“Hello, Andy.”

“You were in the kitchen, I bet.” The real Andy Kelp sounded just as cheery as the machine Andy Kelp.

“You got a machine on your phone,” Dortmunder accused him.

“You want an extension for your kitchen?”

“What do you want with a machine on your phone?”

“It'd save you steps. I could install it myself, you wouldn't pay any monthly fee.”

“I don't need an extension,” Dortmunder said firmly, “and you don't need a machine.”

“It's very useful,” Kelp said. “If there's people I don't want to talk to, I don't talk to them.”

“I already do that,” Dortmunder said, and the phone went
guk-ick, guk-ick, guk-ick
. “Now what?” Dortmunder said.

“Hold on,” Kelp told him. “Somebody's calling me.”

“Somebody's calling you? You're calling me.” But Dortmunder was speaking into a dead phone. “Hello?” he said. “Andy?” Then he shook his head in disgust, hung up, and went back to the kitchen to make another cup of coffee. The water was just boiling when the phone rang. He turned off the flame, walked back to the living room, and answered on the fourth ring. “Yeah,” he said.

“Wha'd you hang up for?”

“I didn't hang up. You hung up.”

“I told you hold on. That was just my call-waiting signal.”

“Don't tell me about these things.”

“It's terrific,” Kelp said. “Say we're talking like this—”

“Yeah.”

“And somebody else wants to call me. Instead of a busy signal, the phone rings. That's the click-click you heard.”

“It wasn't click-click, it was
guk-ick
.”

“Well, whatever. The point is, I've got this button on the phone here, and I press it to put you on hold and answer this other call. Then I tell them I'll call them back, or whatever I do, and I press the button again, and we go on with our conversation, same as ever.”

“We could go on with our conversation same as ever
without
all that stuff.”

“But I'd miss that other call.”

“Andy,” Dortmunder said, “if you want to call me, and the line's busy, what do you do?”

“I hang up.”

“
Then
what do you do?”

“I call back.”

“So I didn't miss the call, did I?”

“But this is more efficient.”

“Fine,” said Dortmunder. Another argument saved.

“See what it is,” Kelp said, “I got access— You know what I mean?”

“Access. You can get into.”

“Right. It's a wholesaler for telephone equipment. Not the phone company; you know, one of those private companies.”

“Yeah.”

“Their warehouse fronts on the street behind me.”

“Ah,” said Dortmunder.

“I got
lots
of stuff.”

“Terrific.”

“I got— You know how I just dialed your number?”

“With your nose?”

“Heh, heh. That's pretty good. Listen, lemme tell you. I got these cards. I got this card with holes punched in it for
your
telephone number, and I put the card in a slot in this phone here, and the
card
dials the number.”

“More efficient,” Dortmunder said.

“You got it. I got phones now all— You know where I'm calling you from?”

“The closet?”

“The bathroom.”

Dortmunder closed his eyes. “Let's talk about something else,” he said.

“You know, I was home here when you called yesterday.” Kelp sounded a bit aggrieved.

“Not according to the machine.”

“I kept trying to tell you it was me.”

“You said you were the machine.”

“No,
afterward
. Did you do the thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Who with?”

“Single-o.”

Kelp chuckled, and said, “You didn't do the big jewel thing out to Kennedy, did you?”

Skoukakis Credit Jewelers was near Kennedy Airport. Dortmunder said, “How'd you know? Was it in the papers?”

“In the— John, are you—”
Guk-ick, guk-ick, guk-ick
. “Oop! Hold on.”

“No,” said Dortmunder, and hung up, and went back to the kitchen and turned the heat on under the kettle. He rinsed his breakfast dishes, and the water was just boiling when the phone rang. He went ahead and made coffee, added lots of milk and sugar, stirred, put the spoon in the sink, walked back to the living room, and picked up the phone on the fourteenth ring. “Yeah.”