The Road To Ruin

14

“THEY WON’T DO IT,” Mac said.

Ace looked anguished, agonized, possibly seasick. “But it’s perfect for them,” he insisted. “We couldn’t do it, but they could.”

“They won’t,” Mac said.

“But why not?”

“Because,” Mac said, “they’ll say it’s a harebrained idea.”

“Why would they say something like that?”

Mac was about to answer, because it is a harebrained idea, when he realized all he could do with that response was make Ace mad.

But he had to say something. He and Ace and Buddy were all gathered for late afternoon beers in Buddy’s rec room, in which the finished parts were really quite comfortable, and the unfinished parts, like the bar and the paneling and mounting the dartboard, Buddy would be getting around to pretty soon. In the meantime, the cast-off living room furniture from various of Buddy’s relatives made for a cozy little den that families were guaranteed not to enter, and that was pleasantly cool in the summer, and thoroughly warm—perhaps a tiny bit too warm, given the presence of the furnace three feet away—in the winter.

It was here that Mac had to find an alternative to the simple truth that what Ace had come up with was a harebrained idea. In its stead, he said, “We don’t even know if one of them can fly a plane.”

“They don’t have to fly a plane,” Ace said. “Did they drive that stretch limo? That’s what gave me the idea. That limo wasn’t theirs, they rented it, I saw the little sticker on the back.”

Mac said, “I’m not denying that.”

“Look, Mac,” Ace said, “these are guys lost a bundle to Monroe Hall, we know that, but these are also guys can go out and rent a stretch limo. You see what that means?”

“They still think rich,” Mac said.

“They’re still co

Buddy, who had not yet taken sides, said, “They call it charter.”

“Fine,” Ace said. “These guys could charter a plane.”

Mac said, “But then what?”

“There’s no way to get through that electric fence,” Ace said. “But we could go over it, have the pilot land in a field far away from the houses, we go over, grab Hall, stick him in the plane, fly back out again.”

“Ace,” Mac said, “if you make that suggestion to those two guys, they won’t have anything else to do with us. And we’re not getting anywhere on our own—”

“I am!”

“No, you’re not.” Mac spread his hands. “Follow this with me,” he said. “You’re over at Teterboro airport, you’ve got a airplane charter operation, these two upper-class guys come in, say we wa

“That’s what I’m saying,” Ace said.

“The guy says, ‘And what’s the flight plan, sir?’ And these two upper-class guys, they say, ‘Oh, we just wa

“They say they’re going to Atlantic City,” Ace said. “Once we’re all in the sky, we tell the pilot, ‘There’s this change of plans.’”

“They have radios in the planes,” Mac said. Pointing a finger at Ace, he said, “And don’t tell me you’re go

Buddy, who still hadn’t taken sides, sighed and got to his feet and said, “More beer.”

“You’re right,” Mac told him.

Buddy went over to the refrigerator, which still worked almost as well as when it had been made, sometime in the Korean War, and brought out three more cans of beer. Meanwhile, Ace had gone back to looking anguished and agonized and even more seasick. “There’s gotta be a way,” he said. “You just ca

“Maybe you wa

“Jeesis, Mac,” Ace said. “You don’t have to insult me. I’m trying to come up with an idea here.”

“Yeah, I know you are,” Mac said. “You’re right, I shouldn’t be a wise guy. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Okay, then.” Ace folded his arms. “So you come up with an idea,” he said.

“I’ve been trying to,” Mac assured him. “So far, nada.”

Buddy, who maybe by now wasn’t going to have to choose sides, delivered the beers, settled back into his very low armchair, and said, “You know what I keep thinking about?”

They both gave him their full attention. Mac said, “No, Buddy. What?”

“That green Subaru station wagon,” Buddy said.

They both considered that. Mac said, “You mean, the one that the guy drives it looks like an action toy.”

“Like the hero of a video game,” Buddy agreed. “Only shorter.”

Ace said, “Shorter? How do you know he’s shorter? You only seen him sitting down, inside his car.”

“All that chin of his,” Buddy said, “it’s the same level as the top of the steering wheel.”

Mac said, “All right, he’s probably short. So what? What about him?”

“He’s in and out of there all the time,” Buddy said. “It’s almost every day he’s in and out, just him and all that station wagon.”

“Hmm,” Mac said.

Ace said, “Whadaya think he does? I mean, that he goes in and out all the time.”

“Maybe we should follow him,” Buddy said. “Not goin in, we couldn’t do that, I mean comin out. Find out who he is. Find out if he’d like some undercover passengers some day.”

“Buddy,” Mac said, “you just might have an idea there.”

“And this one,” Ace said, “we don’t need to share with Harvard.”

“Ace,” Mac said, “now you’re right.”

Buddy said, “You guys both think they’re Harvard? They seemed more like Dartmouth to me.”

15

WHEN THE PHONE RANG, Dortmunder was in the can, reading an illustrated book about classic cars. Apparently, some of these cars really were very valuable, but on the other hand, it seemed to Dortmunder, the people who valued these cars were maybe a little strange.

“John?”

“Yar?”

“It’s Andy. Shall I tell him you’ll call him back?”

“No, I’ll be right there,” Dortmunder said, and was. Holding his place in the book with the first finger of his left hand, he took the phone in his right, said, “Thanks, May,” then said, “Yar.”

“Chester gave me the list,” Kelp said.

List. For a second, Dortmunder couldn’t figure out what Kelp was talking about. A list of classic cars? He said, “List?”

“Remember? You asked him for a list of the other things Hall collects, so we could find out what’s useful to bring along as cargo.”

“Oh, right.”

“So he gave me the list, that you were go

Dortmunder’s heart sank. “Oh, right,” he said, in tones of deepest gloom, because Arnie Albright, the fence with whom it was occasionally necessary for Dortmunder to deal, was a fellow with a distinct personality problem. His personality problem, in short, was his personality. He’d said so himself, one time: “It’s my personality. Don’t tell me different, Dortmunder, I happen to know. I rub people the wrong way. Don’t argue with me.”

This was the person, or the personality, that somebody was going to have to show Chester’s list, and then stick around in order to discuss it.

Wait a minute; was there an out? “Chester gave you the list,” Dortmunder said. “So why don’t you take it on over to Arnie.”