The Road To Ruin

5

DORTMUNDER HAD LEFT THE door open, which turned out to be a good thing. It wasn’t a good thing for the view it offered, which was of the opposite wall of the corridor, constructed many ages ago, apparently out of cooling lava, possibly with small life forms ambered within, but because the door being open made it possible for the next arrival to arrive.

He couldn’t have done it otherwise. With both of his hands encumbered as they were, a glass of beer (domestic, eight-ounce) in the right, a half-full glass salt-shaker with metal top in the left, he might have found it a little tricky to deal with that round smooth doorknob requiring a half turn to the left. It’s bad luck to spill salt, as everybody knows, and even worse luck to spill beer.

The bearer of these objects, a blocky ginger-haired man with freckles on the backs of his hands, gave Dortmunder a sour look and said, “You got here first.”

“Hi, Stan,” Dortmunder said. “You’re right on time.”

Stan came around the table to sit at Dortmunder’s right hand, which meant he would have anyway a three-quarter view of the door. Putting down his beer and his salt, he said, “I woulda been okay, I mean, I plotted it out ahead, I know the BQE’s no good, they’re putting in a bicycle lane—”

Dortmunder said, “On the BQE? Impossible. The slowest car on the BQE is doing Mach two. You’re go

“A bicycle lane,” Stan corrected. “It keeps the greens happy, now they got a bicycle lane, it keeps the construction industry happy, now they got useless work at union wages, and if a green ever tries to use it, there’s another cause for happiness. Anyway, the Van Wyck’s no good because they’re putting in the monorail—”

“I don’t know,” Dortmunder said, “what’s happening to New York.”

Stan nodded. “You wa

Dortmunder said, “Demonstration?”

“The people that want Long Island to secede from New York State,” Stan said, shrugging as though naturally everybody knew about that, but before Dortmunder could ask the first of several questions that came to mind, Andy Kelp entered, empty-handed, followed by Chester Fallon, carrying a glass of beer much like Stan’s, but without the side order of salt.

They both scoped out the seating situation pretty fast, but Kelp was quicker, and slid in to Dortmunder’s left, leaving a less-than-half view of the doorway for Chester at his left as he reached for the “bourbon” bottle and the other glass and said, “Tiny’ll be along in a minute.”

Dortmunder said, “Where is he?”

“Out in the bar,” Kelp said, “arguing with some people, is Decoration Day a national holiday.”

Surprised, Chester said, “That guy? He’s with us? I wouldn’t argue with him.”

Dortmunder said, “The arguments don’t run long.”

Kelp said, “Some of the people out there think it’s Decorator Day, which is kinda muddying the issue.”

At this point a man-monster entered the room. Shaped mostly like an armored car, but harder, he held in his left hand a tall glass of red liquid while his right hand was to his mouth as he licked his knuckles. He left off the licking to glare around the room and say, “I was born in this country.”

“Of course you were, Tiny,” Dortmunder said. “Come on in. This is Chester Fallon. Chester, Tiny Bulcher.”

“Harya,” Tiny said, and stuck out a hand like a Christmas ham, with wet knuckles.

Chester studied this offering. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“I don’t hurt myself,” Tiny told him.

So they shook hands, Chester winced, and Tiny shut the door, then sat with his back to it, not giving a damn.

Stan said to Chester, “We weren’t introduced. I’m the driver, Stan Murch.”

Chester looked at him in surprise. “You’re the driver? I’m the driver.”

Stan gave him the critical double-o. “Then where’s your salt?”

Chester said, “Salt? You expect icy roads? In May?”

“The driver drinks beer,” Stan told him. “Like you, like me. But the driver doesn’t want to drink too much beer, because he’s gotta know what he’s doing when he’s at the wheel.”

“Sure,” Chester said, and shrugged.

“But the thing with beer,” Stan said, “it won’t last. You just sip it, sip it, one time you look, it’s flat, head’s gone, tastes like shit.”

“That’s true,” Chester said.

Stan picked up the saltshaker. “Every once in a while,” he said, “you tap in a little salt, gives it back its head, gives it back its zest, you can pace yourself.” He demonstrated, tapping a little salt into his glass, and they all watched the head improve.

Chester nodded. “Pretty good,” he said. “Not exactly driving expertise, but useful. Thank you.”

“Any time,” Stan told him, and sipped beer.

“Anyway,” Dortmunder said, “this time around, we need more than one driver.”

Stan said, “Why? What are we taking?”

“Cars,” Dortmunder said.

Stan looked interested. “Yeah?”

Dortmunder turned to Chester. “Tell Stan and Tiny the story.”

So Chester told them the story, and at the end of it Tiny said, “Would you like it if this guy Monroe Hall got chastised a little along the way, as long as we’re there?”

“I wouldn’t mind that a bit,” Chester said.

“It sounds,” Tiny said, “like he’s overdue.”

“What we’re here for now,” Dortmunder said, “is, Chester tells us the layout, we see how we can do it. Or, you know, if we can do it.”

“For now,” Stan said, “let’s stick with how. I wa

“Okay,” Dortmunder said. “Chester, what’s the layout?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Chester said. “It isn’t easy. I wish it was, but it isn’t.”

Tiny said, “Just tell us.”

“Sure,” Chester said. “It’s a big place, don’t know how many thousands acres, rolling land, some woods, different buildings, roads. It’s like its own little country. In fact, it’s almost the entire county.”

“Everything,” Kelp suggested, “except the ‘R.’”

“Uh, yeah,” Chester said, and told the rest: “Part of it used to be a dairy farm, there’s still a part with horses, there’s these special buildings for the cars, other buildings for the other collections—”

Kelp said, “Collections?”

“This guy’s a collector,” Chester explained. “Not just cars. Some of the collections he keeps in the main house, like the music boxes and the cuckoo clocks, but some have their own buildings, like the model trains and the nineteenth-century farm equipment.”

Dortmunder said, “Wait a second, Chester. While we’re there taking these cars, is there stuff we should be putting in the cars?”

Kelp said, “I was just thinking the same thing. Small, valuable, fit right in the car, backseat and trunk. Chester? They got stuff like that?”

Chester said, “I’m not a collector, I don’t know what all that stuff is worth.”

“We know people that do know,” Dortmunder told him. “Give us a list of the collections. Not now, later.”

“Okay.”

Tiny said, “Okay, never mind what we put in the cars, we know we can deal with that. But let’s say we got the cars, these six cars you think are the best, worth a lot of cash. Who do we sell them to?”

“Insurance company,” Chester said, so promptly it was obvious he’d been thinking about it.