Why Me?

22

Dortmunder poured beer on a bowl of Wheaties and ate, all with his right hand, since his left rested in a pot of Palmolive Liquid.

May said, "Are you absolutely certain I'm not asleep and dreaming?" She sat across the kitchen table from him and simply stared and stared.

"Maybe we both are," Dortmunder said, through a mouthful of Wheaties and beer. He looked at his left hand. The red ruby in the green detergent looked like a toad Cardinal in a swamp.

"Let's try it again," May said.

Dortmunder lifted his green-oozing hand out of the pot, and while he chewed beer-soggy Wheaties, May twisted and struggled with the ring. Simple soap hadn't done it, hot soapy water hadn't done it—maybe Palmolive Liquid would do it.

"If I can't get that off," Dortmunder said, "I'll never be able to leave the house again. I'll be a prisoner in here."

"Don't talk about prison," May said. Shaking her head, she said, "Let it soak some more."

Dortmunder looked with loathing at the toad Cardinal in its swamp. "My greatest triumph," he said, in disgust.

"Well, in a way it is," May said. "If you stop and think about it. This has got to be just about anybody's biggest heist ever. Particularly for one man working alone."

"I can see me boasting," Dortmunder said. "To all those guys getting rousted by the law."

"Some day you'll be able to," she assured him. "This too will blow over."

Dortmunder understood that May was trying to make him feel better. What May didn't understand was that Dortmunder didn't want to feel better. Given the circumstances, any attitude in Dortmunder's mind at this moment other than frustration, helpless rage, and blank despair would be both inappropriate and a sign of mental incompetence. Dortmunder might be doomed, but he wasn't crazy.

"The day will come," May went on, "when you'll look back on all this—"

"— and get drunk," Dortmunder finished. Lifting the offending hand out of the Palmolive Liquid, he said, "Try again."

She tried again. The beveled edge of the ring grated against his knuckle. "Sorry," she said. "Maybe after—"

"Enough," Dortmunder said, put his hand in his mouth, and chomped down.

May stared, horrified. "Dortmunder!"

Palmolive Liquid tastes like used tires. Dortmunder chewed and tugged, chewed and tugged, flesh scraped raw, red blood mixed with the green detergent, and May sat there in shock, eyes as round as manhole covers. The goddamned thing fought back, but Dortmunder struggled grimly on, and at last determination won the day; removing his ringless hand from his mouth, he spat the Byzantine Fire into the pot of detergent. He would have stood up, except that May grabbed his hand in both of hers and out loud, in a shaky whispery voice, counted his fingers: "One, two, three, four, five. Thank God!"

Dortmunder stared at her. "Whadja think?"

"I thought— Never mind, it doesn't matter what I thought."

"Get that thing out of my sight," Dortmunder said, in re the ring, and went away to the kitchen to wash out his mouth. He was getting bubbles in his nose.