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Max had now regained control of himself. So; the burglar had escaped from those incompetent policepersons, had gone back to the house (in search of his ring?), had stripped the place, and then had stolen a car to transport his loot away from there. And somehow, as a result, Max’s own participation in the evening’s events had become known. Not good.
He said, “Walter, I always tell you the truth. If there’s something I don’t want to tell you, I simply don’t tell you. But I don’t lie.”
“You should have told me,” Walter said, “that you meant to violate the orders of the bankruptcy court.”
“You would have insisted I not do it.”
“Who was the woman?”
“With me, in Carrport?” Max shrugged. “Miss September.” But then another awful thought struck. “Does Lutetia know?”
“Not yet.”
“Walter, this is not something for a wife to hear, not now, not ever. You know that, Walter.”
“I certainly do,” Walter agreed. “Which is another reason I wish you’d mentioned your plans before acting on them.”
“I don’t see . . . why . . . why . . .” Max ground to a halt, took a deep breath, and started again: “How did it come out? About me ?”
“Apparently,” Walter told him, “the officers originally meant to cover up for you, but once their prisoner slipped out of their hands they could no longer do that, they didn’t dare do it, they were in too much trouble as it was. There was also the fact you made the 911 call.”
“I can’t believe—Walter, if you’d seen that fellow, that burglar, you wouldn’t—How on earth did they manage to lose him? He was as docile as a cow!”
Walter shook his baggy head. “Don’t trust those who are docile as cows, Max.”
“I can see that. So he went back,” Max mused, rubbing the ring against the point of his chin. “Looking for the ring, I suppose.”
“The what?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Max,” Walter said, leaning back in his chair so it made a noise like a mouse, “you know better than this. You’re supposed to confide in your attorney.”
“I know, I know, you’re right.” Max wasn’t used to feeling embarrassment in the presence of other human beings, and he didn’t like it; soon, he’d start to blame Walter. He said, “I’m just not sure you’ll think it fu
Walter raised his eyebrows, which made his bags look like udders. “Fu
Max gri
“You stole . . .”
“His ring.” Max held up his hand, to show it. “This one. You see? It has the trigram on it, and—”
“You just happened to be holding a gun on him anyway, so you thought—”
“No, no, after. When the police came.”
“You stole the burglar’s ring, with the police standing there?”
“Well, they suggested I look around, see if he’d taken anything, and it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, I said, that ring on his finger, right there, that’s mine. And they said, give Mr. Fairbanks back his ring.” Max beamed. “He was furious.”
“So furious,” Walter pointed out, “that he then escaped from the police and came looking for you, and found a quarter million dollars worth of loot instead.”
“Not a bad trade, from his point of view,” Max said, and held his hand up to admire the ring. “And I’m happy as well, so that’s the end of it.” Dropping his hand, he shrugged and said, “And the insurance company will certainly pay. We own it.”
“And the judge,” Walter said, “will ask questions.”
“Yes, I suppose he will,” Max agreed, as a faint cloud darkened his satisfaction. “But we can limit the damage, can’t we? What I mean is, I can surely say I merely went out there to get some personal items that are not a part of the Chapter Eleven, and I happened upon the burglar just as he was breaking in, lucky thing I was there and so on, and we needn’t mention Miss September. Which is to say, Lutetia. That’s where there could be trouble, if we’re not careful.”
“It doesn’t look good to the court,” Walter said, “you leaving the country immediately after.”
“It wasn’t immediate, Walter, and this trip has been pla
Walter said, “I’ve been on the phone with the judge.”
“And?”
“My most difficult job,” Walter said, “was to get him to agree to begin with a private conversation in chambers, rather than a session with all parties in open court.”
“A session in court? For what?”
“Oh, Max,” Walter said, exasperated. “For violating the terms of the Chapter Eleven.”
“For God’s sake, Walter, everybody knows that’s just a dance we’re all doing, some folderol, not to be taken seriously.”
“Judges,” Walter said, “take everything seriously. If you are making use of assets that are supposed to be frozen, he can if he wishes reopen the negotiation, bring in the creditors’ representatives—”
“Those miserable—”
“Creditors.”
“Yes, yes, I—”
“Including the IRS.”
Max grumbled. He didn’t like to be crowded, he didn’t like it at all. Feeling ill-used, he said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Put off Nairobi.”
“Walter, that’s very difficult, they—”
“You can do what you want, and you know you can, at least on that front. Put off Nairobi, fly back to New York with me tomorrow, meet with the judge in chambers at one on Thursday afternoon.”
“And?”
“And look penitent,” Walter said.
Max screwed his face around. “How’s that?”
“You can work on it,” Walter said. “On the plane.”
15
“The thing is,” Dortmunder said.
“Washington,” May suggested.
“That’s it. That’s it right there.”
They were walking home from the movies in the rain. May liked the movies, so they went from time to time, though Dortmunder couldn’t see what they were all about, except people who didn’t need a lucky ring. When those people in the movies got to a bus stop, the bus was just pulling in. When they rang a doorbell, the person they were coming to see had to have been leaning against the door on the inside, that’s how fast they opened up. When they went to rob a bank, these movie people, there was always a place to park out front. When they fell off a building, which they did frequently, they didn’t even bother to look, they just held out a hand, and somebody’d already put a flagpole sticking out of the building right there; nice to hold onto until the hay truck drives by, down below.
Dortmunder could remember a lot of falls, but no hay trucks. “Washington,” he said.
“It’s just a city, John,” May pointed out. “You know cities.”
“I know this city,” Dortmunder told her, pointing at the wet sidewalk between his feet. “In New York I know what I’m doing, I know where I am, I know who I am. In Washington I don’t know a thing, I don’t know how to go, to do this, to do that, I don’t know how to talk there.”
“They talk English in Washington, John.”
“Maybe,” Dortmunder said.
“What you need,” May said, “is a partner, somebody who knows that place, can help you along.”
“I du
“This Fairbanks is very rich,” May pointed out. “A place he lives, there’s got to be other stuff around. Look how much you got from his place on the Island.”
“Well, that’s true,” Dortmunder said. “But on the other hand, who do I know in Washington? Everybody I know is from around here.”
“Ask,” May suggested.
“Ask who?”
“Ask everybody. Start with Andy, he knows a lot of people.”
“The thing about Andy,” Dortmunder said, as May unlocked them into their apartment building, “is he likes knowing people.”
They went up the stairs in companionable silence, Dortmunder thinking about a nice glass of bourbon. Spring rains are warm, but they’re still wet.