What's The Worst That Could Happen?

37

Detective Second Grade Bernard Klematsky, currently assigned to the Fairbanks burglary at the N-Joy, knew all kinds of people. It was useful to him in his work to maintain co

Among the variety of Bernard Klematsky’s acquaintances there were even some who spent their time on the opposite side of the law from the side where Klematsky dwelled, and among those latter was a light-fingered fellow named Andrew Octavian Kelp. From time to time, this Kelp provided a bit of information here, a kernel of knowledge there, of benefit to society generally and to Klematsky particularly, so it was an association worth cultivating.

Not that Kelp was a stoolie; unfortunately, the man would not turn in, up, or on his friends. But he did have a certain underworld expertise that Klematsky could from time to time call upon, and the reason he could do so was because, as it turned out, from time to time Kelp, in the course of his own nefarious doings, also had need of information, which he could get nowhere except from his old friend on the force, Bernard Klematsky. There was a narrow range within which they could be useful to one another, since Klematsky would not knowingly abet a criminal enterprise any more than Kelp would turn rat, but still it was possible for them on occasion to be useful to one another. Besides which, they enjoyed one another’s company.

All of which was why, on Sunday, May 14, in pursuit of a certain theory he found promising, Bernard Klematsky called Andy Kelp, found him not at home (he was on his way to Washington, DC), and left a message on his answering machine. He left another message Monday morning, and then went out on another part of his caseload, and when he got back to the precinct Kelp had left a message for him. So he called Kelp, got the machine again, and left a message. Later, he went home, and on Tuesday morning when he got to the precinct there was a message waiting from Kelp. So he phoned, got the machine, and left a message. Some time later, he was about to go out to lunch, and in fact was halfway down the stairs, when another detective came out to the landing and called, “Somebody’s on the phone, says you want to talk to him.”

Klematsky was hungry, as he often was. His mind was on lunch. Still, he turned around and called up to the other detective, “Ask him if his name is Kelp.”

The detective went away, and Klematsky listened to his stomach make rumbling noises until the detective came back and called down the stairs, “He says, who wants to know?”

“That’s Andy,” Klematsky said, and smiled. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

They had lunch together in a place of Andy’s choosing, since Bernard was this time the one seeking information; Andy would pick the lunch, and Bernard would pay for it. Andy chose Sazerac, a New Orleans–influenced (but not slavishly so) neighborhood joint at the corner of Hudson and Perry streets in the West Village, down the block from the Sixth Precinct. They were supposed to meet at one o’clock, but Bernard got held up by a couple last-minute things at the precinct, so it was twenty after before he walked down Hudson and into the place, which was about average for him.

A narrow glass-walled porch wrapped around the two exterior walls of Sazerac, and that was where Andy was seated, looking out the windows at the cops going to and from the Sixth Precinct. Bernard put his hat on a hook—he’d taken to wearing a jaunty Tyrolean hat lately, with a feather, believing it made him seem more devil-may-care—and sat across the table, his back to the Sixth Precinct, saying, “Hello, there, Andy. You look well.”

“I like your hat,” Andy told him.

“Why, thanks.”

“I saw you coming down the street there, I thought it was Peter O’Toole or somebody.”

“I think he’s taller than I am.”

“Okay, his brother.”

The waitress came by to ask her question and Andy said, “I believe I’ll have an Amstel and the crab cakes.”

Because he was paying for this meal, Bernard said, “Beer? Andy, you’re going to have a drink at lunch?”

“That’s because I feel safe, with the precinct right there,” Andy told him.

Bernard looked at the menu and decided he’d have the jambalaya because it looked as though it would be filling without being expensive; then he decided what the heck, he’d have an Amstel, too. The waitress went away, and Andy said, “You see the taxi garage on the corner?”

Behind him, in other words. Bernard twisted around and looked, and directly across the street was a red brick taxi garage, the yellow cabs going in and out. The precinct was half a block beyond it. Twisting back, he said, “Yeah?”

“Does it look familiar?”

“Why not?” Bernard asked. “I’ve seen it before, when I come down to the Six.”

“You’ve seen it on television,” Andy told him.

“I have?”

“They used that for the outside of the garage in the show Taxi.”

“No kidding.” Bernard skewed around for another look, then faced the table and said, “It looked cleaner on TV.”

“Oh, well, you know,” Andy said. “TV.”

“Well, that’s true.”

The waitress brought their Amstel beers and they sipped companionably, and then Bernard said, “I haven’t been hearing much about you lately.”

“Good,” Andy said.

“I’d hate to think you’ve reformed or retired or something,” Bernard said.

“I did all of those things,” Andy said, and began to blink like mad. “I gave up a life of crime because I discovered that crime doesn’t pay. So now I’m legit and I’m happy—”

“And you’re blinking,” Bernard said. As they both knew, Andy blinked a lot whenever he was telling lies, which was unfortunate in a man of his profession.

Andy took a breath. He stopped blinking. He said, “So how are things with you, Bernard?”

“Very interesting,” Bernard said. “We’ve been nabbing the bad guys left and right.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“That’s right. Filling up the prisons so fast they’re out there building more prisons, and we’re filling them up.”

“I been noticing,” Andy said, “how crime is down, and the streets are safe, and the insurance companies aren’t hardly paying any claims at all any more. So that’s why, huh? The good work you and the guys are doing.”

“We help,” Bernard said, and they smiled at each other, and the food came.

They were both serious about food, so they didn’t do much conversation until the thoroughly empty plates were taken away. Then, over Bernard’s dish of ice cream and Andy’s second Amstel, Bernard said, “There are crimes still, here and there.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Bernard, after all your effort.”

“Fu

“Did I? Oh, yeah, I remember.”

“Because there’s one kind of crime,” Bernard said, “that really gets me. Nonviolent crime, I mean. Violent crime is something else.”

“Absolutely.”

“You were never violent,” Bernard pointed out, “back before you reformed and retired, that was one nice thing about you.”

“Thank you, Bernard.”

“The one nice thing about you.”

“Okay.”

“But among nonviolent crimes,” Bernard said, “the one that really gets my back up is insurance fraud.”

Andy looked surprised. “You care that much about insurance companies?”

“I don’t give a damn about insurance companies,” Bernard told him, “they’d cheat their own mothers, if they had mothers. No, what gets me about insurance fraud is, the crook is using me.”

“Ah.”

“Oh, Mr. Detective,” Bernard said, imitating a fluttery householder of indeterminate sex, “somebody broke in and stole all my goodies and here’s my list of what they took and please give me the docket number to give my insurance company, and then you can go away and run in circles trying to solve a crime that never happened.”