Authors: Donald Westlake
But all of these paled into insignificance beside the big one, the main fear, the thing he was at this particular moment the most terrified about, which was: he was going to steal a boat.
A crime. A felony. An active robbery or theft, in which he was
the principal figure.
Or at least that’s the way it would look to the law. True, his companions in crime were hardened criminals while he was still so soft he was practically runny, but in fact
his
expertise was necessary to the selection of just the right boat;
his
equipment from
his
shop would fill out the required gear;
his
pickup truck would tow the stolen boat halfway across New York State; and
he
would be
present
throughout the entire event.
Not that he wanted to be, God knows. He didn’t want to have anything to do with this entire operation. And yet, here he was. At just around the same time that — unknown to those in the pickup — Dortmunder and Guffey were sociably and comfortably observing Raquel Welch in that cozy living room in Manhattan, here was Doug in the middle of the seat of his pickup, flanked by these hardened criminals here, and heading toward his first major crime through a pelting rain that even
sounded
like doom, thundering on the pickup’s tin roof.
Somehow or other, by a wandering and purposeless journey he barely remembered and had never understood, Doug’s very first purchase of off–the–back–of–the–truck merchandise from Mikey Donelli (or Donnelly) had led, by minuscule gradations and unnoticeable slippages and the tiniest of forward steps, to
this:
piracy. On dry land.
Well, not that dry, really; it was raining just as hard here on Long Island as back upstate. “This is good for us,” Andy announced. “Nobody’s gonna be out and about to observe us.”
“It’s a well–known fact,” Murch added, racing them along a Long Island Expressway that was virtually empty for almost the only time in that clogged roadway’s existence, “that cops are afraid of water. They never come out in weather like this. That’s why we can make such good time.”
Very good time, unfortunately. The sign for the Sagtikos Parkway loomed out of the wet dark, and Murch took the ramp and swung them around onto the southbound highway without in the least slackening speed, leaving a double wake and a million dancing water specks in the oversoaked air behind them.
From there it was a quick run down to the south shore, Doug’s home area, where they would find their boat. (In one way, it seemed kind of dumb to do his first major criminal act in his own back yard, but on the other hand it would be even dumber to do it where he didn’t know the territory. Also, this way he could get back at a boat dealer who’d shafted him half a dozen years ago, too far back for anybody to think of Doug in connection with that dealer now.)
The Sagtikos took them to Merrick Highway, and then Doug directed them along that shopping artery through its various name permutations in several identical little south shore towns (identical even by day, when it wasn’t raining) until at last he pointed to the left, across the empty road, and said, “There’s the son of a bitch, right there.”
It was a revelation to see how professionals handled themselves in this situation; much, he supposed, as he handled himself when working underwater. The danger simply made you more methodical.
While Murch waited in the pickup, Andy and Doug got out into the pouring rain and Andy collected the short stepladder from the bed of the pickup. Then he and Doug approached the boat dealership, a long two–story building with large showroom and repair shop downstairs and offices up, plus a good–sized yard down at one end containing a number of new and repaired boats and enclosed by a chain–link fence with razor wire on the top.
Stopping in front of the triply bolted double gate in this fence, Andy peered into the darkness of the yard and said, “Where’s this dog, do you suppose?”
“Maybe he’s afraid of water,” Doug suggested. “He’s a police dog.”
“Well, he’ll be along,” Andy said, and opened the stepladder and climbed to its top. While Doug watched, he used the rubber–cowled alligator clips on the long length of wire to bypass the alarm system and make it possible to open the gate.
The dog, half German shepherd and half crocodile, came trotting out from under a large boat as Andy started picking the first of the padlocks. He didn’t bark, but simply looked at Andy and Doug the way heavyweight boxers look at each other. “Nice doggy,” Andy said, and took the aluminum foil package from his pocket. “Here’s a nice gift for you from Mickey Finn,” he said, opening the foil. Putting it on the pavement and using his boot–shod foot, he nudged the hamburger patty on its foil bed under the bottom of the gate and into the dog’s realm.
The dog sniffed once, chomped once, and the meat and half the aluminum foil disappeared.
Doug winced. “How can he do that?” he said, “D’jever get aluminum foil on your teeth? It’s
terrible.
”
“You know what’s worse than that?” Andy asked, returning to the padlock. “Eating a grapefruit and drinking milk at the same time.”
Oog; that
was
worse. Doug decided not to try to outgross Andy, and so the lock–picking was finished in silence, during which the dog wandered unsteadily back under the large boat and went to sleep.
What a complex moment it was for Doug when at last Andy pulled open the swinging gates! Mad elation swirled in tandem with redoubled terror in his brain, leaving him so shaken he almost lost his balance and fell when he stepped onto the boat dealer’s property. But he clutched at the breached gate for support, regained control, and went on to study the available boats while Andy put the stepladder back in the bed of the pickup, which Murch then backed into the yard.
“This one,” Doug had decided when Andy rejoined him.
Andy looked up at it. “Gee, Doug, we don’t wanna go to
Europe.
”
“This boat won’t sink in the rain,” Doug told him. “It’s quieter than an outboard. We can do the winching right
on
it.”
Andy said, “You mean, bring the box up and put it on the boat?”
“Yes. Much easier, Andy.”
“Gee, Doug, I think you’re right,” Andy said. “At night, in the rain, nobody’s gonna see us anyway. So why not be comfortable, right?”
“Sleeps two,” Doug told him, and couldn’t repress a giggle. The mad elation combined with a completely unexpected exhilaration were beginning at last to conquer his fear.
“Is that right? Sleeps two?” Andy stepped back and surveyed the boat with a kind of proprietary pride. “Pretty good, Doug,” he agreed. “Pretty good.”
And it was. The boat Doug had selected, already swapped to a three–wheel hauler, was a twenty–four–foot Benjamin inboard cabin cruiser with a Fiberglas top and Lucite sides around the wheelhouse amidships, an open deck at the rear, and a narrow cabin below in front containing two single–person sleeping sofas, minimal kitchen facilities, and a very basic head. In comparison with the
QEII,
say, it was merely a tiny pleasure craft for weekend fishermen, but in comparison with their previous rubber raft it was the
QEII.
Nodding happily in the rain, Andy said, “Stan’s gonna have a lot of fun towing this upstate.”
Startled, Doug said, “Andy? Stan, he won’t, uh, my truck …”
Andy reassuringly patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry, Doug,” he said. “Stan’ll be good. I’ll
tell
him to be good.”
“Uh,” said Doug.
It was amazing, really, that she’d been able to sleep at all. The cot was so
lumpy,
with one giant hard bump in particular, in the small of her back, that she just hadn’t been able to either prod out of the canvas or ignore. And there was also her situation, of course, as desperate as it could be, with the gang downstairs including among its members two people — Doug and Wally — that she’d thought of at one time as her friends, in their very different ways. Friendly, in any case.
So the fact that sleep had come to her at
any
time in the course of this night was just a proof of her exhaustion in the face of all this peril. And now, some sort of scratching noise had awakened her. Rats? Ooo!
Staring around at the bare wide–planked floor, Myrtle saw no rats, saw nothing alive or moving at all. Then she realized what it must be: rain. Very dim light showed at the one window in the end wall, meaning it must now be very shortly after dawn, and in that gray light she watched the raindrops pelt the window glass as hard and unceasing as ever.
So it was the rain, that’s all; too early to wake up. Myrtle closed her eyes again, and listened, and heard the scratching sound once more, and it came
from the other direction.
Not from the window at all. From the other way.
Reluctantly, Myrtle opened her eyes and looked the other way. Down there was the unfinished interior wall, closing off this room at the end of the attic. Centered in the wall was the old wooden door with its old worn brass round knob.
Skritch. Skritch.
Someone was at the door.
Myrtle sat up on the creaky old cot. Though she’d slept in all her clothes — wouldn’t you? — she held the ragged sheet and blanket up to her throat as she stared wide–eyed toward the door.
Who is it? She whispered that: “Who is it?”
Skritch. Skritch.
Well, she hadn’t slept in
all
her clothes. Tentatively putting her legs over the side of the cot, she felt around with her toes, found her shoes, slipped them on, and
now
was completely dressed. As armored as possible under the circumstances, she crept across the rough wood floor and bent her ear to the door. “Hello?”
“Myrtle!” An excited but unidentifiable whisper.
“Who is it?”
“Wally!”
She recoiled. The mastermind! Her own whisper became increasingly sibilant, with falsetto breakthroughs: “What do you want?”
“I don’t dare rescue you yet!”
She frowned at the wood panel of the door: “
What?
”
“Tonight,” his faint whisper came, “when they’ve all gone — Myrtle?”
“Yesss?”
“Can you hear me?”
“I think so,” she whispered.
“Get down by the keyhole!”
Poison gas. Pygmy dart in her eye. Bending nearer the keyhole but not all the way in front of it, she whispered, “I can hear you.”
“Tonight,” came that rustle of his whisper, “they’ll all be going to the reservoir.”
Devil cults, black masses. Mass poisonings. “Why?”
He ignored that (of course!). “Only May and Murch’s Mom and I will be here. The compu —”
“Who?”
“The two ladies.” Then, his whisper somehow closer, more insinuating, as though his astral person had shinnied through the keyhole and up onto her shoulder, he asked, “Is her name really Gladys?”
“I don’t know anything anymore,” Myrtle wailed, half whispered and half in that screechy falsetto. “I don’t know what anybody’s
doing,
I don’t know anybody’s real name —”
“You know
my
real name.”
“Do I?”
“And I know yours.”
That brought her up short. She leaned her palm against the door, its wooden surface surprisingly warm and comforting to her touch. Her mind ran like watercolors.
“Myrtle?”
Nobody
can be trusted, she thought hopelessly. Not even me. Bending closer to the keyhole, she whispered, “No, you don’t.”
“I don’t what?”
“Know my real name. My real name is Myrtle Street.”
“That’s where you
live.
”
“That’s partly why I lied. And partly, just before I met you, I just found out Tom Jimson’s my, my, my … father.”
“You just found out?”
“You’re the only person I ever said that name to. And now that I’ve
seen
Tom Jimson …”
His whisper awash in sympathy, Wally told her, “I guess he’s not much what people think of when they think ‘father.’ ”
“I sure hope not,” Myrtle whispered back.
“Well, listen. The computer says we can rescue each other!”
“Wally,” she whispered, bending closer and closer to the keyhole (oh, chink!), “who do you talk to when you use the computer?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where is it
connected?
”
“It’s just plugged in,” he whispered, sounding baffled. “Like any computer.”
“You aren’t giving orders to a gang? Or getting orders from a boss? Or anything like that?”
“Well, gee, no. Myrtle, it isn’t a VDT, not like your terminal at the library, it isn’t connected to a mainframe anywhere.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, honest. It’s my personal personal computer.”
Could she believe him?
What
could she believe? What
could
she believe? And, given her present circumstances, what did it matter what she did or did not believe? She whispered, “Wally, I don’t know what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you,” he promised. “Tonight, they’re all going out to the reservoir to get some money that’s hidden there. I think Tom’s going to try to cheat everybody once they get the money.”
Well,
that
sounded believable. Myrtle whispered, “Then what?”
“Tom might come back here to, uh, make trouble.”
Myrtle had the feeling she knew what he meant. She had a quick vision of herself pleading for mercy —
I’m your daughter!
— and she pressed herself closer to the door, imagining the little, squat, round, moist,
reliable
form of Wally Knurr on its other side. “What should I do?”
“After everybody else leaves,” he whispered, “I’ll get you out of there and we’ll go over to your house. We’ll be able to see what happens from there.”
My house.
My
house. No other part of the plan mattered. “That’s wonderful, Wally,” Myrtle whispered, patting the door. “I’ll be waiting, whenever you say. I’ll be right here.”