What's The Worst That Could Happen?

40

The phone started ringing a little before one on Wednesday afternoon. At least this time Dortmunder wasn’t under the sink; this time, he was trying to pack.

The meeting last night at the O.J. had been shorter than such meetings usually went, because he didn’t yet have a detailed plan, but on the other hand it had been longer than necessary, because none of the other four could believe he didn’t have a detailed plan, and they wanted to keep talking about it.

“You must have an idea,” Andy Kelp had said at one point, for instance, but that was the whole problem. Of course he had an idea. He had a whole lot of ideas, but a whole lot of ideas isn’t a plan. A plan is a bunch of details that mesh with one another, so you go from this step to this step like crossing a stream on a lot of little boulders sticking out, and never fall in. Ideas without a plan is usually just enough boulders to get you into the deep part of the stream, and no way to get back.

So, while he was packing, he kept thinking about his ideas. Or trying to. For instance, the one in which Andy had a heart attack on top of a dice table and Stan and Ralph were the EMS medics and Tiny was a rent-a-cop, and while they were knocking over the cashier’s cage Dortmunder was waiting outside the cottage for the security forces there to be rushed over to cover the robbery. Lots of missing boulders in that stream.

Or the one where they knocked out the power lines, having first drawn trails in fluorescent paint to the places they wanted to reach; like the middle of the stream.

Or the bomb scare.

Or the one where they stole the tiger from the zoo—Wally Whistler would be better than Ralph Winslow at that part, actually—and released it into the casino.

Or the one . . .

Well. The point was, the details would have to wait, that’s all, until Dortmunder got to Vegas, which would be tonight, on the late flight out of Newark, if he could ever get finished packing here.

But, no. The phone had to keep ringing. Briefly, that first time, he considered not answering it, but it could be May from the supermarket; since she wasn’t coming along on this trip, she might have some last-minute thing she wanted to say. Or it could be any of the other four guys in the caper, with a problem; people sometimes have problems. So every time the phone rang he answered it, and every time it was the same thing, and what it was was, everybody wanted in.

The first was Gus Brock: “John, I thought we were pals again.”

“I got no problems with you, Gus,” Dortmunder admitted.

“So how come I’m included out?”

“Oh, you mean, uh . . .”

“I mean the little visit to Vegas,” Gus said. “Andy Kelp just happened to mention it.”

“Mention should be Andy Kelp’s middle name,” Dortmunder said.

“My lady and his lady and him and me,” Gus said, “knocked back a little omelette for lunch, and the subject come up, and my question is, where am I in this thing?”

“Gus,” Dortmunder said, “it isn’t that we aren’t pals, you know that, but for what I need—”

“You’re talking an awful lot of security,” Gus said, “a place like that.”

“I know I am,” Dortmunder agreed, “but I’ve always said, if you can’t do a task with five guys, you—”

“I want aboard, John,” Gus said. “And this time, it isn’t for the percentage, you know what I mean?”

“No,” Dortmunder said.

“I want to be there,” Gus told him, “when you get the ring. Okay? I wanna help. Just solidarity, like.”

“Well, say, Gus,” Dortmunder said, extremely uncomfortable, “that’s, uh, that’s pretty, uh . . .”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gus said. “I’ll ride along with Andy.”

“Okay, Gus,” Dortmunder said. He felt unexpectedly pleased and cheerful and buoyed up, and at the same time he was thinking he could always alter the plan a little, do different details when it came time to do the details, and Gus would probably be a useful addition to the crew anyway, and the five man rule wasn’t written in stone, so what the heck. “See you there,” he said, and hung up, and went back to his packing, and barely had a drawer open when the phone rang.

This time, it was Fred Lartz, the one-time driver whose wife, Thelma, these days did the actual driving. “John,” he said, “I was talking to Ralph Winslow this morning, I hear you’re gonna get that ring back.”

“I hope I am.”

“The way Ralph describes it,” Fred said, “you’re gonna need more than one driver. I mean, you got Stan, am I right?”

“More than one driver? Why would I—”

“You’re gonna have vehicles comin into town,” Fred said, “and goin out of town. Think about it, John.”

“You mean, you want in.”

“Thelma and me,” Fred said, “we haven’t had a vacation out west in a long time. Nice driving out there. We’d like to do our bit with you, John. Thelma and me. We talked it over, and that’s what we think.”

So Dortmunder agreed that Fred and Thelma should take part, and this time he wasn’t even back in the bedroom when the phone rang, and it was another longtime associate, with the same story, and no way to tell the guy no.

It went on like that, phone call after phone call. And then there came a phone call from A.K.A., who said, “John, I hear you’re gonna make a trip.”

“And you want to come along.”

“John, I really would if I could,” A.K.A. said. “But you know me, I always got these little stews on the fire, stews on the fire, you gotta stick around those little stews if you got them goin, you know.”

“I remember,” Dortmunder said. “Fred Mullins of Carrport told me about that.”

“And wasn’t that a shame, John?” A.K.A. asked. “I remember that whole thing like it was yesterday.”

“So do I,” Dortmunder said. “Some of the names are fading, though.”

“What I feel,” A.K.A. said, “is I owe you a little something for things that didn’t work out, here and there, now and again, once and a while.”

“It’s good of you to feel that way,” Dortmunder assured him.

“So do you remember,” A.K.A. asked, “a guy named Lester Vogel? Used to be in the luggage business, making luggage, you know.”

“I don’t think I do,” Dortmunder said.

“Went to jail for a while, some time back.”

“For making luggage?”

“Well, you know,” A.K.A. said, “Lester liked to put his initials on his luggage, expression of pride and all that, and turns out, with the initials on, and the designs and so on, his stuff looked an awful lot like some other stuff that had the edge on him in terms of getting there first. There was this talk of counterfeit and all this, and these other people had the inside track with the law, you know, so Lester went inside, carrying his goods in a pillowcase, nobody’s initials on it.”

“Same thing,” Dortmunder said, “happened to a guy I know, making watches. He called them Rolez.”

“These things happen,” A.K.A. said, “and you’d expect a little understanding from the competition, mistakes can come along to anybody, but there you are.”

“Uh huh,” Dortmunder said. “Where am I?”

“Lester’s out,” A.K.A. told him. “Got out a year or so ago.”

“I’m glad,” Dortmunder said.

“Moved out west for his health,” A.K.A. said. “Moved to a place in Nevada called Henderson, near Vegas.”

We might be getting to it now, Dortmunder thought, and said, “Oh, yeah?”

“Has a little factory there.”

“Back in the luggage business?”

“No no, he’s in the household cleaner business now,” A.K.A. said. “Little stuff to make the house look shiny and nice.”

“Spic and Span,” Dortmunder suggested.

“Well, I think his is Spin and Span,” A.K.A. said. “Same color box, though. But his big seller is Clorex.”

“Ah,” said Dortmunder.

“Sells pretty well there in the southwest,” A.K.A. said, “across the border into Mexico, down along the Caribbee. One way and another, you know, he undercuts the competition pretty good.”

“I bet he does.”

“I could give him a call,” A.K.A. suggested, “tell him you might drop by.”

“Yeah?”

“The thing is,” A.K.A. said, “Lester’s got employees, he’s got buildings, he’s got trucks, it could be he could be of use to you, you know what I mean? A lot more than if I came along, even if I could. I mean, what do I know about out west?”

A sudden boulder in the stream, right there. And another. And another. This is a new idea, it uses all those volunteers keep calling on the phone. Dortmunder, remembering an interesting fact about Las Vegas, said, “This business, your friend, this is chemicals, am I right?”

“Cleaning products,” A.K.A. said. “We’re not talking drugs here, John, controlled substances, nothing like that.”

“No, I understand,” Dortmunder said. “And maybe I will get in touch with your friend. You wanna give me a number?”

A.K.A. did, and said, “I’ll call him now, say you’re on the way.”

“A guy like this,” Dortmunder said, “the business he’s in, he’s probably got industrial gas, wouldn’t he?”

“You could ask him,” A.K.A. said, “but I should think probably, yeah. All that Tex-Mex stuff they eat down there, I should think they all got industrial gas.”