Drowned Hopes

SEVENTY-EIGHT

February 11. It had been months since Dortmunder had even thought about the failed reservoir job…

“It’s too awful to go out tonight,” May said.

“You’re right,” Dortmunder said, and she was. A winter storm, high winds packing an overload of wet snow, swirled through the canyons of New York City, hunting for victims.

“There’s a special on TV tonight about Caribbean vacation places,” May said. “We can stay in and watch.”

“I wish we could go there, May.”

“We’ve been before,” she pointed out, “and we’ll go again. This year, we’ll just watch.”

So they watched. And twenty minutes in, half asleep, distracted, barely paying attention at all, they were both snapped awake by—

Doug.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Ssh, John!”

“—new owner Douglas Berry, a transplanted New Yorker, has big plans for his resort hotel and dive shop, right on the beach, with easy access to the reef.”

Doug, grinning big, tanned, in a bathing suit, stood on the sand with a low white resort hotel behind him, his left arm around a beautiful young woman holding a tiny baby. “It’s gonna be great for little Tiffany, to grow up here. It’s a terrific place to be a kid. I’m a kid myself. Love it!”

Then there was a shot of Doug wind-surfing, grinning like a baboon, huge ocean, huge blue sky, fantastic yellow-white sun. The off-screen announcer said, “Berry himself, a qualified professional dive instructor, leads the snorkel and scuba-diving classes. His emphasis is on active vacation life.”

And now a shot of Doug bursting out of the ocean into close-up, in full scuba gear, pulling off the face mask and mouthpiece, giving that shit-eating grin right at the camera. “Come on down!”

“You’re goddamn right I will!” Dortmunder raged, on his feet, about to jump headfirst into the TV.

“John, John, John!” May leaped up and stood in front of him, patting his chest as though he were a spooked horse. “John, no.”

“He got it, the son of a bitch! He got the seven hundred thousand! New oooow-ner!”

“John, forget it,” May begged him.

“Where was that place?” Dortmunder demanded. “What island was that?”

But the TV was showing a commercial now, for a timed-release cold remedy. May said, “John, what can you do about it? Nothing.”

“Nothing! I can go down there, I can—”

“And do what? John, if he bought that hotel, he’s figured out how to make the money look legitimate. Said it was an inheritance, or gambling winnings, or something. Paid taxes on it, and bought that place with the rest.”

Dortmunder didn’t want to calm down, but he didn’t seem able to stop himself. “Yeah,” he agreed, “that’s the way to do it. But still, May—”

“It wasn’t ever your money,” May pointed out. “You can’t take him to court. If you go down there, if we even find out where it is, he won’t have to give you a thing.” She looked at the TV set, now showing a nasal spray commercial. “We gave up too soon, that’s all.”

Dortmunder gnashed his teeth. “His own hotel.” He started out of the living room, snarling, “You want a beer?”

“At least,” she said.

As he went through the doorway, the phone rang. He stopped, turned, pointed at the phone. “You tell Andy,” he said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”