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Authors: Donald Westlake
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said.
“I think he likes it,” Andy said.
“Well, I’m not gonna chase him around London and Africa, that’s for sure,” Dortmunder said. “I can wait till he comes back this way. Washington isn’t so far, where’s he stay in Washington? Got another house there?”
“An apartment,” Wally said, “in the Watergate.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Dortmunder said. “It’s some kinda place.”
Wally and Andy looked at one another. “He’s heard of it,” Andy said.
Wally said to Dortmunder, “It’s a great big building over by the Potomac River. It’s partly offices and partly hotel and partly apartments.”
“Apartments are harder,” Dortmunder said. “Doormen, probably. Neighbors. Could be live–in help there, a guy like that.”
Grinning, Andy said, “John? You planning a burglary at the Watergate?”
“I’m planning to get my ring back,” Dortmunder told him, “if that’s what you mean.”
Andy still had that little crooked grin. “No big deal,” he suggested. “Just a little third–rate burglary at the Watergate.”
Dortmunder shrugged. “Yeah? So? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Well,” Andy said, “you could lose the presidency.”
Dortmunder, who had no sense of history because he had no interest in history because he was usually more than adequately engaged by the problems of the present moment, didn’t get that at all. Ignoring it as just one of those things Andy would say, he turned to Wally. “So he’s gonna be there next Monday night? A week from today.”
“That’s the schedule,” Wally agreed.
“Thank you, Wally. Then so am I.”
Chapter 14
----
Already it had become a habit, a ritual, a pleasant little meaningless gesture. While he was in conversation or in thought, the fingers of Max’s left hand twiddled and turned the burglar’s ring on the third finger of his right hand. The cool touch to his fingertips, the feel of that flat shield–shape with the Tui symbol on it, the memory of that spur–of–the–moment mal geste, served to strengthen him, encourage him. How unfortunate that it was too good a joke to tell.
All day Monday, as he was chauffeured in a British–division TUI Rolls from meeting to meeting, he twirled the ring. Monday evening, as he attended Cameron Mackenzie’s latest, Nana: The Musical, with another aspiring entertainment journalist (this one, English, was named Daf), he twirled the ring. (He’d already seen the New York production of Nana, of course, but enjoyed the original London version even more, if only for how reflexively the British despise the French.) And Tuesday morning, in his suite at the Savoy, he fondled the ring as the managers of his British newspaper chain presented their latest rosy predictions — no matter what they did, he knew, no matter how many contests they launched, no matter how many football hooligans they espoused, no matter how many breasts or royals they exposed, they would still be read only by the same four hundred thousand mouthbreathers — when Miss Hartwright, his London secretary, deferentially entered to say, “B’pardon, Mr. Fairbanks, it’s Mr. Greenbaum.”
Greenbaum. Walter Greenbaum was Max’s personal attorney in New York City. He would not be phoning for a frivolous reason. “I’ll take it,” Max decided, and while the newspaper managers withdrew into their shells of politeness within their baggy suits he picked up the phone, pressed the green–lit button, and said, “Walter. Isn’t it early for you?” Because New York was, after all, five hours behind London; it would be barely six in the morning there.
“Very,” Walter Greenbaum’s voice said, surprisingly close.
“But it’s also very late. When can we talk?”
That sounded ominous. Max said, “Walter, I’m not sure. I’m due at the Ivory Exchange Bank in Nairobi tomorrow, I don’t think I’ll be back in the States till —”
“I’m here.”
Max blinked. “Here? You
“I think he likes it,” Andy said.
“Well, I’m not gonna chase him around London and Africa, that’s for sure,” Dortmunder said. “I can wait till he comes back this way. Washington isn’t so far, where’s he stay in Washington? Got another house there?”
“An apartment,” Wally said, “in the Watergate.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Dortmunder said. “It’s some kinda place.”
Wally and Andy looked at one another. “He’s heard of it,” Andy said.
Wally said to Dortmunder, “It’s a great big building over by the Potomac River. It’s partly offices and partly hotel and partly apartments.”
“Apartments are harder,” Dortmunder said. “Doormen, probably. Neighbors. Could be live–in help there, a guy like that.”
Grinning, Andy said, “John? You planning a burglary at the Watergate?”
“I’m planning to get my ring back,” Dortmunder told him, “if that’s what you mean.”
Andy still had that little crooked grin. “No big deal,” he suggested. “Just a little third–rate burglary at the Watergate.”
Dortmunder shrugged. “Yeah? So? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Well,” Andy said, “you could lose the presidency.”
Dortmunder, who had no sense of history because he had no interest in history because he was usually more than adequately engaged by the problems of the present moment, didn’t get that at all. Ignoring it as just one of those things Andy would say, he turned to Wally. “So he’s gonna be there next Monday night? A week from today.”
“That’s the schedule,” Wally agreed.
“Thank you, Wally. Then so am I.”
Chapter 14
----
Already it had become a habit, a ritual, a pleasant little meaningless gesture. While he was in conversation or in thought, the fingers of Max’s left hand twiddled and turned the burglar’s ring on the third finger of his right hand. The cool touch to his fingertips, the feel of that flat shield–shape with the Tui symbol on it, the memory of that spur–of–the–moment mal geste, served to strengthen him, encourage him. How unfortunate that it was too good a joke to tell.
All day Monday, as he was chauffeured in a British–division TUI Rolls from meeting to meeting, he twirled the ring. Monday evening, as he attended Cameron Mackenzie’s latest, Nana: The Musical, with another aspiring entertainment journalist (this one, English, was named Daf), he twirled the ring. (He’d already seen the New York production of Nana, of course, but enjoyed the original London version even more, if only for how reflexively the British despise the French.) And Tuesday morning, in his suite at the Savoy, he fondled the ring as the managers of his British newspaper chain presented their latest rosy predictions — no matter what they did, he knew, no matter how many contests they launched, no matter how many football hooligans they espoused, no matter how many breasts or royals they exposed, they would still be read only by the same four hundred thousand mouthbreathers — when Miss Hartwright, his London secretary, deferentially entered to say, “B’pardon, Mr. Fairbanks, it’s Mr. Greenbaum.”
Greenbaum. Walter Greenbaum was Max’s personal attorney in New York City. He would not be phoning for a frivolous reason. “I’ll take it,” Max decided, and while the newspaper managers withdrew into their shells of politeness within their baggy suits he picked up the phone, pressed the green–lit button, and said, “Walter. Isn’t it early for you?” Because New York was, after all, five hours behind London; it would be barely six in the morning there.
“Very,” Walter Greenbaum’s voice said, surprisingly close.
“But it’s also very late. When can we talk?”
That sounded ominous. Max said, “Walter, I’m not sure. I’m due at the Ivory Exchange Bank in Nairobi tomorrow, I don’t think I’ll be back in the States till —”
“I’m here.”
Max blinked. “Here? You
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