Why Me?

45

Life is unfair, as Tony Costello well knew. He was on the very brink of losing his job as police-beat reporter on the six o'clock news, and it was all because nobody knew he was Irish. It was bad enough that "Costello," though Irish, sounded Italian; but then his mother had had to go and compound the problem by naming him Anthony. Sure there were lots of micks named Anthony, but you go ahead and combine «Anthony» with «Costello» and you might just as well forget the wearin' o' the green altogether.

Plus, Tony Costello's additional misfortune was that he was a black Irishman, with thick black hair all over his head, and a lumpy prominent nose, and a short and chunky body. Oh, he was doomed right enough, that he was.

If only it were possible to bring it out into the open, to talk about it, go up to some of these dumb micks—Chief Inspector Francis X. Mologna, for instance, there was a tub of dolphin shit for you—and say to these fellas, "God damn it to hell and back, I'm Irish!" But he couldn't do that—the prejudice, the old boys' club, the whole Irish Mafia that runs the Police Department and always has would have to be acknowledged that way, which of course was out of the question—and as a result all the best scoops, the inside dope, the advance words-to-the-wise all went to that son of a bitch Scotsman, that Jack Mackenzie, because the dumb micks all thought he was Irish.

"Looks like spring today!" said a pretty girl in the elevator at noon on Saturday, but Tony Costello didn't give a shit. His days as police-beat reporter were numbered, the numbers were getting smaller, and there was nothing he could do about it. A month, six weeks, two months at the outside, and he'd be shipped bag and baggage to Duluth or some damn place, some network affiliate where the police beat was automobile accidents and Veterans' Day parades. Maybe it looked like spring today, maybe last night's drenching rain had been winter's valedictory, maybe this morning's soft breezes and watery sun heralded the new season of hope, but if there was no hope in Tony Costello's heart—and there was none—what could it matter to him? So he snubbed the pretty girl in the elevator, who spent the rest of the day looking rather bewildered, and he stamped down the corridor past all the other busy-busy network employees into his own cubicle, where he asked Dolores, the secretary he shared (for as long as he was still here) with five other reporters, "Any messages?"

"Sorry, Tony."

"Sure," Costello said. "Sure not. No messages. Who would call Tony Costello?"

"Buck up, Tony," Dolores said. She was slender, but motherly. "It's a beautiful day. Look out the window."

"I may jump out the window," Costello said, and his phone rang.

"Well, well," Dolores said.

"Wrong number," Costello suggested.

But Dolores answered it anyway: "Mister Costello's line." Costello watched her listen, nod, raise her eyebrows; then she said, "If this is some sort of prank, Mister Costello's far too busy—"

"Huh," said Costello.

Dolores was listening again. She seemed interested, then intrigued, then amused: "I think maybe you ought to talk to Mister Costello himself," she said, and pressed the hold button.

"It's Judge Crater," Costello suggested. "He was captured by Martians, he's spent all these years in a flying saucer."

"Close," Dolores said. "It's the man who burgled Skoukakis Credit Jewelers."

"Skoukakis…" The name rang a bell, then exploded: "Holy shit, that's where the Byzantine Fire was grabbed!"

"Exactly."

"He says—he says he's, uh, uh, Whatsisname?" (Not being on the inside track with the boys at Headquarters, Costello mostly got his police news from the radio and had heard Mologna's announcement in the car on the way downtown. Oh, it was an uphill fight for Tony Costello every inch of the way.)

"Benjamin Arthur Klopzik," Dolores reminded him. "And what he says is, he robbed the place. To prove his point, he described the store."

"Accurately?"

"How would I know? I've never been there. Anyway, he wants to talk to you about the Byzantine Fire."

"Maybe to set up a return." A rare smile lightly touched Costello's features, making him look a bit less like an Irish bog (or an Italian swamp). "Through me," he said, in wonderment. "Is that possible? Through me!"

"Talk to the man."

"Yes. Yes, I will." Seating himself at his desk, switching on the tape that would record the call, he lifted his phone and said, "Tony Costello here."

The voice was low in volume and with a faint echo, as though the speaker were in a tunnel or something. "I'm the guy," it said, "that robbed Skoukakis Credit Jewelers."

"So I understand. Klop, uhh…"

"Klopzik," said the voice. "Benjamin Arthur—I mean, Benjy Klopzik."

"And you have the Byzantine Fire."

"No, I don't."

Costello sighed; hope dashed, yet again. "Okay," he said. "Nice talking to you."

"Wait a minute," Klopzik said. "I know where it is."

Costello hesitated. This had all the characteristics of a prank or crank phone call, except for one thing: Klopzik's voice. It was a gruff voice, with a weariness, a many-battles-lost quality that reminded Costello of himself. This voice would not pull pranks, would not do dumb stunts for fun. Therefore Costello stayed on the line, saying, "Where is it?"

But then Klopzik had to go and say, "It's still in the jewelry store."

"So long," Costello said.

"God damn it." Klopzik's voice sounded really annoyed. "What's the matter with you? Where you going? Don't you want the goddam story?"

Which stung Costello: "If there is a story," he said, "naturally I want it."

"Then stop saying good-bye. The reason I picked you, I seen you on the TV and I don't think you're in the cops' pocket like that guy Mackenzie. You know the one I mean?"

Costello's heart warmed to this stranger: "I do indeed," he said.

"If I give this to Mackenzie he'll give it very quiet to the cops, and they'll do it very quiet, and I'll still be in a jam."

"I don't follow."

"Everybody's on my tail," Klopzik explained. "They're looking for the guy hit the jewelry store because they think I got the ruby, too. But I don't. So what I want, I want a lot of publicity when you get the ruby, so everybody knows I never had it, so they'll get off my back."

"I am beginning," Costello said, "to believe you, Mr. Klopzik. Tell me more."

"I broke in there that night," Klopzik said. "Must of been just after they put the ruby there. I didn't see them or anything, I'm not a witness. I just went in, I opened the safe, I took what I wanted, I saw this big red stone on a gold-looking ring, I figured it had to be fake. So I left it."

"Wait a minute," Costello said. "Are you telling me the Byzantine Fire has been in that jewelry shop the whole time?" He was peripherally aware of Dolores staring at him, open-mouthed.

"Absolutely," said Klopzik, with ringing sincerity. "This whole thing has been very unfair to me. It's strained my relationship with my friends, made me the object of a police dragnet, driven me from my home—"

"Hold on, hold on." Costello gazed at Dolores with wondering eyes, as he said to the man he was now convinced was an honest, truthful burglar, "Can you tell me exactly where you saw the Byzantine Fire?"

"Sure. It's in the safe, in a tray on the lower right. You know, the kind of tray you pull out like a drawer. It's there with a lot of little gold pins shaped like animals."

"That's where you saw it." ,

"And that's where I left it. A great big red stone like that in a little jewelry store in South Ozone Park, you got to figure it for a fake, right?"

"Right," said Costello. "So the police-and the FBI, by God, the police and the FBI—they all went to that jewelry store, they all searched the place, and none of them saw the Byzantine Fire, and it was there all along!"

"Definitely," said Klopzik. "I never had it on my person. I never so much as touched it."

"Let's see." Costello scratched his head through his thick black hair. "Would you be willing to do an interview? Just a silhouette, you know, no names."

"You don't need me," Klopzik said. "The whole point is, I never had nothing to do with that ruby in the first place. Listen, the store's empty now, it's closed, there isn't even a police guard. What you do, what I think you ought to do, if you don't mind my giving you advice—"

"Not at all, not at all."

"I mean, it's your business."

"Give me advice," Costello instructed.

"Okay. I think you oughta go out there with Skoukakis' wife, or whoever has a key and the safe combination, and bring along a camera, and you can film the stone just lying there on that tray."

"My friend," Costello said warmly, "if I can ever do you a favor—"

"Oh, you're doing me a favor," Klopzik said, and there was a click, and he was gone.

"Lordy lordy lordy," Costello said. He hung up and sat there nodding thoughtfully to himself.

Dolores said, "From the half I heard, he says he never took it."

"It's still there." Costello looked at her, wide-eyed with hope. "I believe him, Dolores. The son of a bitch was telling the truth. And I am going to ram the Byzantine Fire so far up those dirty bastards at Police Headquarters, they'll have red molars. Get me—" He stopped, frowning, gathering his thoughts. "Skoukakis is in jail; he has a wife. Get me the wife. And put an order in for a remote unit. Oh, and one thing more."

Dolores paused, halfway out the door toward her own desk. "Yes?"

"You were right before," Tony Costello told her, with a big happy grin. "It is a beautiful day."