Bad News

My mother and I didn’t get along well when I was in my teens, I’m sorry to say, and eventually I left her in Pomona and went away to Las Vegas to live on my own. I had some success in show business in Las Vegas, but I had no more contact with my mother. I later heard that she had died, but I don’t know the circumstances or where she is buried.

However, I do know that I am Pottaknobbee of the Redcorn clan, through my mother, Doeface, my grandmother Harriet Littlefoot Redcorn, and my great-grandfather Joseph Redcorn.

Recently, I read an article in Modern Maturity at my dentist’s office about the casino at Silver Chasm and how the Pottaknobbee are part of the owners of the casino, except there aren’t any Pottaknobbees anymore. But I am Pottaknobbee. Shouldn’t I receive something from the casino?

I have come east to learn more about my situation at Silver Chasm. I am staying now at Whispering Pines Campground outside Plattsburgh, where the phone number is 555-2795. I will phone you Tuesday afternoon, by which time you should have received this letter.

I am very excited at the idea of being united at last with my own people, after having lived my entire life far away.

Sincerely,

Little Feather Redcorn

“It’s a phony,” Oglanda said when he’d finished reading. Disdainfully, he dropped the letter onto his desk.

“I certainly hope it’s a phony,” Fox said.

“No, Roger,” Oglanda said, “listen to me.” Tapping the letter with a hard finger, he said, “This claim is a phony, a definite phony. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because,” Oglanda told him, “if this woman is telling the truth, and she’s even fifty percent Pottaknobbee, we’re going to have to show her the books.”

“Oh,” Fox said. He picked up the letter, frowned over it. “You’re right,” he said. “No question. An absolute phony.”

12

Dortmunder said, “What’s in it for me?”

“Money,” Kelp suggested.

“That isn’t what I mean,” Dortmunder said.

Tiny said, “Money isn’t what you mean?”

“That’s right,” Dortmunder said. “Not this time.”

These three were seated in their sitting room as the fire sputtered through green wood in the fireplace and mostly white glistened outside the small windows. They had found this three-bedroom bed-and-breakfast just outside Chazy and had taken the whole thing on a very good weekly rental, because this wasn’t yet quite ski season in what, with rare simple truth, the locals called the North Country. Though it seemed to Dortmunder there was enough snow out there on the lawns and streets and car roofs and pine trees for any skier to ski on. But what did he know? His only outside winter sport was slipping on the ice while trying to get to the car. (Extra points if you’re carrying groceries. Double points if the groceries include beer bottles.)

Their hosts in the bed-and-breakfast were an elderly male couple who lived at the downstairs back and wore many heavy wool sweaters and scarves; with their wrinkled red faces on top, they looked mostly like baked apples on sheep. These were Gregory and Tom, and other than producing fine stick-to-your-ribs breakfasts of pancakes and fried eggs and French toast and lots of bacon and orange juice and a huge coffeemaker full of java, they tended to stay in their own part of the house. They had a French-Canadian maid, a large young woman named Odille, who did the laundry and cleaned the rooms while singing “Frère Jacques” over and over to herself.

Today, Monday, November 27, was their third day here, and Tom had informed them that winter rates would kick in two weeks from now, if they were still in residence. They’d promised to take that into account when considering their future plans.

So far, there hadn’t been much to do. They’d driven north the same day the trio in the motor home had come up here to turn themselves into a solo in the motor home. Little Feather was the only one in occupancy over there in Whispering Pines, while Guilderpost and Irwin had moved into a motel just south of Plattsburgh, where they had picture-window views of the wind howling down out of Canada and across Lake Champlain and into their rooms.

Although Tea Cosy, which in fact was the name on the small hanging sign outside the bed-and-breakfast, was the most comfortable venue among the three available to the conspirators, with its comfy, warm sitting room, where even Tiny could feel uncrowded, Dortmunder and Kelp and Tiny had all agreed they didn’t particularly want Guilderpost and Irwin to know where they were, so meetings were taking place in Guilderpost’s room at the motel. In the meantime, Dortmunder and Kelp and Tiny kept body and soul together, and dealt with the modest rent at the Tea Cosy, by committing the occasional minor felony, around and about. Enough to get on with, but not enough to lead local officials to create a task force. It was a living.

But was it an excuse for living? That was the question, and that was why, seated in the sitting room after yet another anchor-sized breakfast, digesting slowly and rather noisily while “Frère Jacques” was sung in counterpoint upstairs, waiting for the moment to go over to the Four Winds motel and read the letter Little Feather had yesterday sent to the casino, Dortmunder had professed his discontent: “What’s in it for me?”

“Well, if money isn’t what you mean,” Kelp said, “then what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Dortmunder said, “why am I in this place? I’m not a con artist. I’m not a grafter. I’m a thief. There’s nothing here to steal. We’re just riding Little Feather’s coattails—never mind, Tiny, you know what I mean—and we’re horning in on somebody else’s scam, and if they don’t manage to kill us—and you know, Tiny, that’s still Plan A they’ve got over there in their minds, and you can’t walk around with a hand grenade strapped on forever, for instance, you’re not even wearing it now—what do we get out of it?”

“A hundred K,” Kelp said.

“For what? Now, Andy, Tiny, listen to me. I think of myself as a person with a certain dignity and a certain professional ability and a certain standing, but what’s happening here is, I’m looking for crumbs from somebody else’s table, so why am I here?”

“That’s a very good question,” Tiny rumbled, and Kelp said, “To be perfectly honest, John—”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

“No, no, no, in this issue only,” Kelp assured him, then said, “The reason you’re here, and Tiny’s here, and I’m here, is because I screwed up. I misjudged Fitzroy, and essentially you didn’t get the gee you were supposed to get to make up for the other gee you didn’t get, and—”

“What are these gees?” Tiny demanded. “You two all of a sudden astronauts?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dortmunder told him. He did not want to get into a description with Tiny of his shopping experience at Speedshop.

“What it is,” Kelp said, “one thing leads to another, and that’s what happened here, and one thing led to another, and this is the other.”

They both looked at him, but Kelp was done. Dortmunder finally said, “That’s it? One thing led to another?”

“That’s the way it looks from here,” Kelp said. “Also, if you remember, we both wanted to know what Fitzroy and them were up to, and see maybe there’s a little something in it for us—”

“There’s always something in it for me,” Tiny grumbled.

“That’s right, Tiny, thank you,” Kelp said, and to Dortmunder, he said, “Then we got Tiny, and when Tiny’s aboard, you know, we always gotta come up with something.”

“Though sometimes,” Tiny said, “the something’s been kinda thi

“Thank you, Tiny.”

“—because you make me laugh,” Tiny said, and laughed, and the Tea Cosy rocked a little. “So here’s what it is,” he said. “We got these people go