Bad News

Furthermore, no one had put them up to it, nor had anyone discussed the idea with them, nor had they discussed it with anybody else. Was that clear? The three little Indians nodded their heads convulsively, and then they were taken away from O.O.O., back to Satan’s Brigade, and another night of trembling wakefulness.

The next and last time they saw O.O.O. was Wednesday afternoon at two, in a courtroom in Queens in a building that had been put up by the federal government during the McKinley administration, which was a long time ago. Additions and alterations had been performed on the building over the years, all as cheaply as possible, to save the taxpayers money and leave a little something for the contractor’s uncle, the alderman. Electric wires and steam-heat pipes snaked and sliced this way and that, a sprinkler system spiderwebbed overhead, and air-conditioning ducts had recently been jammed in somewhere. The result was that the courtroom looked like a basement, although it was on the third floor.

In this courtroom, Be

The ritual in front of the judge took five minutes, and then more ritual in front of a cashier’s cage took twenty minutes more. The three little Indians signed their names to things without knowing or caring what the things might say, while O.O.O. told them with bored indifference what to do but not why. Then he shook their hands, startling them all, but that, too, was apparently part of the ritual, because he did it without exactly making eye contact with anybody, and then he left, and in his place stood Uncle Roger.

“Nice work,” he said.

In the car, on the long drive north, Uncle Roger had more to say. Be

“I’m sorry, Uncle Roger.”

“Why the hell did you do it at ten o’clock, when there’s still people around? Any idiot knows you go there at two, three in the morning.”

Be

“Didn’t think! I’ll say you didn’t think! Flashing a lot of lights around, I suppose. Were you playing the goddamn radio?”

“No, sir!”

It went on like that, Uncle Roger mostly chewing them out for being such meatheads, but occasionally wondering out loud what the hell they were going to do now about the Little Feather problem, with a guard on the grave and an order from the judge that their stupidity had made possible.

After a while, during a pause in the tirade, Be

Don’t volunteer, Be

The one thing he knew for sure was, he never wanted to get riked again.

35

At the Four Winds motel, you didn’t get a nice full stick-to-your-ribs breakfast from the cheerful likes of Gregory and Tom. At the Four Winds motel, you put on a lot of coats and boots and hats and gloves and went outdoors and down along the parking lot to the office, at the center of the place, and then indoors again and past the check-in counter to the café, a bland, pale place lit by fluorescents all day long.

Dortmunder found Kelp and Tiny there at 8:30 Thursday morning, seated at a booth for six, with cups of coffee in front of them. He’d had a wakeful night, trying to think, trying to figure out what to do about that mix-up at the cemetery, and had just started to get some decent shut-eye half an hour ago, when Guilderpost rang him up to say everybody was gathering in the café in thirty minutes, for breakfast before heading south. A shower had helped a little, particularly because the water temperature kept changing all the time, encouraging alertness, so now here he was.

“(grunt),” he said, as he slid in next to Kelp and across from Tiny.

“You look like shit, Dortmunder,” Tiny said.

“Diddums,” Dortmunder corrected. “It’s Welsh. I’ve been trying to think of what we could do. You know, we got these five days, so why don’t we do something?”

“Four days,” Tiny said.

“How time flies,” Kelp said. He, too, looked like shit, but Dortmunder noticed nobody was commenting on that. He gri

Dortmunder didn’t like to start the day with humor. He liked to start the day with silence, particularly when he hadn’t had that much sleep the night before. So, avoiding Kelp’s bright-eyed look, he gazed down at the paper place mat that doubled in here for a menu, and a hand put a cup of coffee on top of it. “Okay,” he told the coffee. “What else do I want?”

“That’s up to you, hon,” said a whiskey voice just at ten o’clock, above his left ear.

He looked up, and she was what you’d expect from a waitress who calls strangers “hon” at 8:30 in the morning. “Cornflakes,” he said. “O—”

Pointing her pencil, eraser end first for politeness, she said, “Little boxes on the serving table over there.”

“Oh. Okay. Orange juice then.”

Another eraser point: “Big jugs on the serving table over there.”

“Oh. Okay,” Dortmunder said, and frowned at her. In the nonpencil hand, she held her little order pad. He said, “The coffee’s it? Then your part’s done?”

“You want hash browns and eggs over, hon,” she said, “I bring ’em to you.”

“I don’t want hash browns and eggs over.”

“Waffles, side of sausage, I go get ’em.”

“Don’t want those, either.”

Eraser point: “Serving table over there,” she said, and turned away as Guilderpost and Irwin arrived.

Most of the group said good morning, and the waitress said, “More customers. I’ll just get your coffee, fellas,” she added, which was apparently the plural of hon, but before she could leave, Irwin said, “I know what I want. Waffles, side of sausage.”

Guilderpost said, “And I would like hash browns and eggs over, please.”

The point end of the pencil now hovered over the pad. “Over how, hon?”

“Easy.”

The pencil flew over the pad. The waitress seemed pleased to have some actual customers, rather than a virtual customer like Dortmunder. “I’ll just get your coffee, fellas,” she promised again, and off she went.

Guilderpost slid in beside Tiny. Irwin would have taken the spot next to Dortmunder, putting Dortmunder in the middle, but Dortmunder said, “Hold on, let me up. I gotta go to the serving table.”