Authors: Donald Westlake
“So what?” Max demanded, taking the imaginary cigar from his mouth and waving it in his hand. “This happens to be a time I’m innocent! I don’t know those people! I sold them a car! That’s what I
do!
”
“Max, Max,” Stan said, “don’t use the word
innocent,
okay? I look out the window here, I see half a dozen cars I sold you, and I know where I got them. You want police attention, Max? For any reason at all?”
Max didn’t answer. He gazed at Stan wide–eyed. The imaginary cigar had gone out.
Stan said, “The FBI comes in here looking for evidence on crime number one, checking you out, going through the records, studying the paper. But there isn’t any evidence on crime number one, because you’re innocent, you aren’t involved. So do they go away? Do they just ignore all the evidence they pick up on crimes number two through twenty–eight? Or do they turn over this big thick report to the local cops?”
“You’re right,” Max said. He sounded stunned. Shaking his head, dropping the imaginary cigar in an imaginary ashtray, he said, “I’m not used to innocence, it clouded my judgment. You saved me, Stan,” he went on, his agitation pushing him up onto his feet. “I owe you on that. I owe you a big one.”
Stan looked interested. “You do?”
Max spread his hands. “Name it. I know you come here to sell me a vehicle, but that —”
“Well, kinda, yeah,” Stan said, shifting gears, moving straight into plan B. “A beauty, actually, better than —”
“But that can wait,” Max said firmly. “I can see you got something in mind. What is it?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, Max,” Stan said, “I was gonna ask your advice.”
“Ask.”
“You see, I need a car, and —”
“
You
need a car?”
“This is a special car,” Stan explained, “with special kinds of modifications on it. I was thinking, the guys in your body shop —”
“Can do anything,” Max finished. “So long as you don’t need a vehicle more than, say, two, three weeks, my boys can give you whatever you want.”
“This is short–term,” Stan promised.
“Everything I do here is short–term,” Max said. “That’s what the customers refuse to accept. Whadda they want for fifteen ninety–five? Would they buy a TV set as old as these cars?”
“A good point,” Stan said. “Maybe you should put it in the advertising.”
“There are fine points of business, Stanley,” Max told him, “you’ll never understand. Tell me about this car you need. Fix up the engine? High speed?”
“Well, no,” Stan said. “The fact is, one thing we need is the engine taken out.”
Max looked at him. “Is this humor?” he asked. “Harriet keeps telling me about this stuff, humor; is that what this is?”
“Absolutely not,” Stan told him, and took the specifications out of his pocket. “Now, the most important thing is, the dimension side–to–side between the tires has got to be four feet, eight and a half inches, from the middle of the tread to the middle of the tread. The front tires got to be that wide apart, and the back tires.”
“Sure,” Max said.
“Then,” Stan said, “no engine. And either a convertible, or we cut the top off the car.”
“Cut the top off the car,” Max said.
“Well, here’s the list,” Stan said, and gave it to him. “You want to see the creampuff I brought?”
“In a minute.” Max studied the list, nodding slowly. “My boys are gonna laugh and laugh,” he said.
“But can they do it?”
“They can do anything,” Max repeated. “When do you need it?”
“In a hurry,” Stan said.
“How did I know?” Max put the list in his pocket. “So let’s see this creampuff you brought me.”
“And in appreciation for what you and your boys are doing,” Stan said as they went through Harriet’s office and out the back to go look at the Aston Martin, “I’m gonna let you call your own price on this one. Max, I’m almost
giving
it away!”
Doug Berry reared up on his elbows, rested his wrist on Judy’s nose, and looked at his waterproof, shockproof, glow–in–the–dark watch/compass/calendar. “Five to three,” he said.
“Oh!” she cried, suddenly moving beneath him on the life jackets spread on the bottom of his Boston Whaler much more enthusiastically than at any point before this. “Damn! The lesson’s over! Let’s go!”
“Judy Judy Judy,” Doug said, holding on to her bare shoulders. “I didn’t know I was finished.”
“It doesn’t matter when
you’re
finished,” she told him. “I pay for the lessons. And I have a waxing appointment this afternoon. Off, big boy.”
“Wait a second!” Doug stared around; all he needed was half a minute, less, he was sure of it. “Your hair’s stuck!” he announced, leaning his weight back down on her, lowering his face beside hers as though to help. “Stuck in this buckle here, be careful, you’ll h–h–h–
hurt
yourself, I’ll just get it–it–it–it
loose,
and you’re all–l–l–l–l–l–l, oh, buhbuhbuhbuh, AH!”
When the shivering stopped, he raised himself onto his elbows again, grinned down into her skeptical eyes, and said, “There. It’s loose now.”
He rolled off her, and they both sat up in the sunlight, Doug looking off toward the distant shore of Long Island, out across the Great South Bay, as Judy said caustically, “Are you satisfied now?”
“If you are, Judy,” he told her, grinning, not giving a shit anymore. “You’re paying for the lessons.”
She was. Judy was the wife of an ophthalmologist in Syosset, and this was the third year she’d come to Doug for diving lessons. All
kinds
of diving lessons. Each May first she’d appear, regular as clockwork, and would help pay his rent and divert his hours three days a week until the fifteenth of July, when she and her husband would go off for their month on St. Croix.
She was a good–looking woman in her late thirties, Judy, whose hard body was severely kept in trim with aerobics, jogging, Nautilus machines, and pitiless diets. The ruthlessness showed in her face, though, in the sharpness of her nose and the coldness of her dark eyes and the thinness of her lips, so it was unlikely anyone other than the ophthalmologist — who had no choice — would have willingly hung out with her over an extended period
without
something more than her companionship to be gotten out of it. Who salted her restless tail the rest of the year Doug had no idea, but his annual two–and–a–half months of the pleasure of her company was just about all he’d be able to stand.
May was still a little early for most water traffic on the bay, especially in midweek, except for the ubiquitous clammers and the occasional ferries over to Fire Island. It was easy at this time of year to find an anchorage in the shallow water of the bay away from other boaters, dive a bit, screw a bit, and thus while away the two hours of each lesson. Doug would have been happy to give her extra time today for free, since he had nothing else at all on his plate this afternoon, but, as usual, Judy’s self–maintenance program came first. Leg waxing. Right.
Doug started the motor and steered the small boat toward Islip, soon making out his own shack and dock straight ahead. Judy wasn’t much given to small talk, particularly over the roar of a 235 horse Johnson outboard, so they rode in silence — not particularly companionable — all the way to shore, and were almost there when Doug spotted, beyond the shack, a silver Jaguar V12 in his parking area, next to Judy’s black Porsche.
A customer! And a rich one, at that, judging from the car. So Judy’s wax job was a blessing in disguise, after all, and Doug was feeling almost kindly toward the bitch as he tied up at his dock and offered his hand to help her ashore. “See you Wednesday,” he said, smiling his professional smile.
“Mm,” she said, already thinking of other things. Off she marched while Doug finished tying up and removed the spent tanks from the boat.
She was already gone, in a cloud of dust, when Doug walked around to the front of the shack and looked at the two customers he’d least expected ever to see again. And particularly driving a car like that Jag.
Oh; MD plates.
“
There
you are,” said Andy.
John pointed accusingly at the door. “Your note says back by three.”
“And here I am,” Doug said as he unlocked his shop door. Leading the way inside, he said, “You two decided not to make the dive?”
“Oh, we
made
it,” John said, sounding disgusted, while Andy shut the door.
Doug was astonished. “You did?” He’d taken it for granted these two, no matter how much expert professional training he’d given them, would never survive a real dive in the actual world under uncontrolled conditions. But they’d done it, by golly, and they’d lived through it.
And now what? Hoping they weren’t here to try to sell the equipment back, Doug said, “Everything worked out real good, huh?”
“Not entirely,” Andy said, with a grin and a shrug. “Unexpected little problems.”
“Turbidity,” John said, as though it were the filthiest word he knew. And maybe it was.
“Oh, turbidity,” Doug said, nodding, seeing the problem now, saying, “I’m a saltwater man, deep–water man, so I don’t run into that too much. But in a reservoir, sure, I suppose you would. Screwed things up, huh?”
“You sum up good,” John told him.
“If you came to me for advice,” Doug said, “I’m sorry, but I’m the wrong guy. Like I say, turbidi —”
“We already got advice,” Andy told him. “From a famous writer that’s an expert on these things. You know the big ship called the
Normandie?
”
“That’s not the point,” John interrupted. “The point is, we think we know how to do it right this time —”
“Go in from above,” Doug suggested. “I know that much. Take a boat out —”
“Can’t,” John said. “But we still got an idea. What we don’t got is air.”
“Ah,” Doug said. “I get it.”
“We figure,” Andy said, “you could fill our tanks just like you did last time.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Doug said, wondering how much extra he could charge.
Andy told him, “We’ll pay double, for two tanks.”
“You know,” Doug said slowly, thinking vaguely there might be something extra in this for him somewhere, “what you probably need is a pro along, somebody to deal with the problems right there, when they happen.”
“No, we don’t,” John said.
“Thanks a lot, Doug,” Andy said, grinning at him and shaking his head. “I appreciate the thought behind the offer. But we think we got it pretty well doped out this time.”
“We hope,” John said.
“We’re pretty confident,” Andy reminded his partner, and turned back to Doug to say, “So all we need is air.”
“Then that’s what you’ll get,” Doug said, but as he led the way out of the shop and around to the compressor under its shiny blue tarp on the dock behind the shack, he kept thinking, There’s got to be something in this for me. Something. For me.
Which is why the big sixteen–wheeler that Stan Murch airbraked to a coughing stop at the railway crossing on the old road west of Vilburgtown Reservoir at one A.M. on that cloudless but moonless night did not contain a handcar. What it contained instead, in addition to diving gear and a winch and other equipment, was a weird hybrid vehicle that had mostly been, before the surgical procedures began, a 1976 American Motors Hornet. A green Hornet, in fact; so not everything is gone.
Still a two–door small car with a minimal backseat and small separate trunk (not a hatchback), this Hornet was now without engine, transmission, radiator, radio, hood, hubcaps, bumpers, head– and taillights, spare tire, windshield wipers, dashboard and roof. It still contained its steering mechanism (not power steering), brakes (ditto), seats, windshield, windows and 1981 New York State inspection sticker. It also had new axles front and back, and new wheels, the very old tires of which had been reduced to half pressure, which made it slump lower than normally to the ground, as though its transfiguration had reduced it to gloom.
Also looking reduced to gloom was Dortmunder, who had ridden along in the truck cab with Stan, allegedly to give him directions, since this was Stan’s first trip up here to the north country, but actually just to rest and be by himself and brood about the fact that he was
going underwater
again; Stan, in any case, followed the beige Cadillac driven by Kelp and containing Tom and Tiny.
“
Ppphhhrr
–AHG!” said the airbrakes, and, “We’re here,” said Stan.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Dortmunder said.
“Which side do I want?”
Dortmunder looked around. Everything was different at night. “The left,” he decided.
“Good,” Stan said, “that’ll be easier. I’ll just back it up short of that guard rail, right?”
“That’s it,” Dortmunder said, and sighed, and climbed down out of the cab. This was one time when planning the job was a lot better than actually going out and doing it. A lot better. What haven’t I thought of? Dortmunder asked himself. Sssshhhhh, he answered.
Kelp had pulled into the side of the road beyond the crossing, and now he and the other two walked back to join Dortmunder, Kelp saying, “Nice and smooth, huh?”
“If traffic came along right now, it could really screw us up,” Dortmunder said hopefully.
“Nah,” Kelp told him. “Don’t worry, John. There’s no traffic along here this late.”
“That’s good,” Dortmunder said hopelessly.
“This hour of night, all these people around here are in bed,” Kelp said.
“Uh–huh,” Dortmunder said, thinking about his own bed.
Stan, backing and filling, had turned the big semi now, putting it crossways on the empty road, its rear bumper two feet from the rusty white metal lower crosspiece of the barrier. Leaning out his window, Stan called, “Let’s hurry it up, guys. Somebody comes along here, he could broadside me.”
“Nobody will come along,” Dortmunder said bitterly.
“The bars up here even close at midnight,” Kelp explained.
Everybody but Stan went to the back of the semi, where Tiny opened the big rear doors, and then he and Kelp climbed up inside while Dortmunder and Tom went around to the other side of the barrier, Tom shining his flashlight here and there, Dortmunder waiting for the planks to come out.
This part was going to be kind of tricky, and yet simple. The upper crosspiece of the barrier was about ten inches higher than a standard loading dock, and so the same height above the floor of the semi. They had a vehicle to pull out of the truck and over that barrier, and so a normal ramp wouldn’t do the job. They’d had to invent.
Tiny and Kelp pushed out the first plank, a long and heavy two–by–six. When it thunked into the barrier, Dortmunder called, “Hold it,” and he and Tom lifted it up to the top of the barrier and helped slide it on out. It was very heavy.
“Here comes the tricky part,” Kelp called from inside the truck.
“Right, right,” Dortmunder said. “Just let it come down.”
“It isn’t
let,
” came Tiny’s voice from inside the truck. “It’s
coming
down.”
And it did. Overbalanced, the plank abruptly seesawed on the fulcrum of the metal barrier and, as Dortmunder and Tom scampered out of its way, the end of the thing crashed down to the ground in the general vicinity of the railway tracks. The other end of it, still just within the truck opening and angled up to about the height of Kelp’s head in there, was now shown to be hinged to another two–by–six plank slanted down into the dark interior.
“You guys ready?” Kelp called.
“Sure, sure, just a minute,” Dortmunder told him, and said to Tom, “Shine the light around, will ya? Where’s the end of the board?”
“Here it is,” Tom said, standing over it, pointing the light down.
Dortmunder joined him, and the two of them moved the end of the heavy plank farther along the trackbed, lifting it, swinging it, dropping it, repeating the cycle until Dortmunder noticed he was doing most of the work, since he was using two hands and Tom only one. “Use both hands, Tom,” he said.
“I gotta hold the flashlight.”
“Hold it in your mouth.”
“No way, Al.”
Tiny called from the truck, “What’s the holdup?”
“Give me the flashlight,” Dortmunder said.
Reluctantly, Tom handed it over, and Dortmunder stuck the other end of it in his mouth, clamping it with his teeth, aiming it by moving his head. “Rurr,” he explained. “Gar rurr gar–gar.”
“Whatever you say, Al,” Tom said.
It went a little easier with four hands at the task, and finally Kelp called, “That’s it!” and they lifted the plank one last time, putting it on one of the rails, before going back to the barrier.
The hinge holding the two planks together now straddled the barrier, the second shorter plank angling back and down into the truck. Kelp and Tiny were already pushing out the plank for the other side, and this one seemed to go easier, now that they’d all had some practice.
Next came the car. Kelp was heard puffing and grunting (no sounds from Tiny), and then the eyeless noseless face of the green Hornet came into view, its half–flat tires waddling up the slope of the planks, Kelp and Tiny pushing from behind.
Up and over the hinged plank the abused little vehicle went, tires squlging along, its human servitors patting and prodding it along its way like circus roustabouts unlading a baby elephant. When the front tires hit the rails, the soft treads sagged around the shape of the metal, making a loose grip, keeping the tires firmly in place as the rest of the car continued on down the planks. When all four wheels were on the rails, momentum pushed the Hornet another dozen feet, before it drooped to a stop.
The planks wouldn’t be needed again. They were pushed sideways and dumped onto the ground behind the barrier, parallel to the road. Then the rest of the gear was unloaded from the semi and stowed into the roofless Hornet: diving suits, tanks, trash bags of Ping–Pong balls, winch, rope, shovels, poles (for pushing), wire cutters, and all the rest.
When that was done, Kelp and Stan got back into the vehicles that had brought them here and drove away to abandon the truck, which was too big to hide and in any event was no longer needed. Then Kelp would drive Stan back, and they’d stash the Cadillac in a nearby dirt road they’d noted earlier.
Meantime, Dortmunder and Tiny and Tom started pushing the Hornet along the track. They’d thought they might need somebody at the wheel, but the softness of the tires made that unnecessary; the car rolled right along, the overhanging bulge of tires keeping them from veering off the rail. On the other hand, the soft tires also increased friction and made the car harder to push; the best they could do was a slow walking pace.
If the work hadn’t been so hard, it would have been a pretty trip, strolling along the cleared railway roadbed through the forest, with the starry sky far above the trees in the pollution–free deep–black up–country sky. Their flashlights beamed this way and that through the tree trunks and shrubbery, making aisles of light in the dark forest, the green of spring’s young leaves standing out like wet paint. Now, at nearly two in the morning, the forest was silent and peaceful, the only sounds the scuffling of their feet on the gravel and their occasional grunted remarks: “Son of a bitch bastard,” and the like.
By the time Kelp and Stan caught up, the trio with the car had reached the chain–link fence marking the boundary of reservoir property, in which Tiny was in the process of wire–cutting a
huge
opening. “No problem,” Kelp announced.
“Please don’t say that,” Dortmunder told him.
“It’s your plan, John,” Kelp pointed out. “What could go wrong?”
Dortmunder groaned.