The Hot Rock (18 page)

Home for Albert Cromwell was a twenty–seventh–story apartment in a thirty–five–story building on the Upper West Side, and he traveled there by subway and elevator. Today, as he entered the elevator on the final leg of his homeward journey, a tall and imposing man with piercing black eyes, a broad forehead, and thick hair jet black everywhere except for the gray at the temples boarded with him. Albert Cromwell hadn’t noticed, but the same man had entered the elevator with him every evening this week, the only difference today being that this was the first time the two of them were alone.

They stood side by side, Albert Cromwell and the imposing man, both facing front. The doors slid shut and the elevator began to rise.

“Have you ever noticed those numbers?” the imposing man said. He had a deep and resonant voice.

Albert Cromwell looked at the other man in surprise. Strangers didn’t talk to one another in the elevator. He said, “I beg your pardon?”

The imposing man nodded at the row of numbers over the door. “I mean those numbers there,” he said. “Take a look at them,” he suggested.

Puzzled, Albert Cromwell took a look at them. They were small glass numbers running from left to right in a long chrome strip over the door, starting with B at the left (for basement), then L for lobby, then 2, 3, and so on all the way up to 35. The numbers lit up one at a time to indicate which floor the elevator was at. Right now, for instance, the number 4 was on. As Albert Cromwell watched, that number switched off and number 5 switched on in its place.

“Notice how regular the movement is,” the imposing man said in his resonant voice. “How pleasant it is to see something so smooth and regular, to count the numbers, to know that each number will follow the one before it. So smooth. So regular. So restful. Watch the numbers. Count along with them, if you wish, it’s very restful after a long hard day. It’s good to be able to rest, to be able to look at the numbers and count them and feel one’s body relaxing, to know that one is relaxing, to know that one is safe in one’s own building, safe and relaxed and calm, watching the numbers, counting the numbers, feeling every muscle relax, every nerve relax, knowing that one can now let go, one can lean back against the wall and relax, relax, relax. There’s nothing but the numbers now, nothing but the numbers and my voice. Nothing but the numbers and my voice. The numbers and my voice.”

The imposing man stopped talking and looked at Albert Cromwell, who was leaning back against the rear wall of the elevator, gazing in a bovine way at the numbers over the door. The number 12 switched off and the number 14 switched on. Albert Cromwell watched the numbers.

The imposing man said, “Can you hear my voice?”

“Yes,” said Albert Cromwell.

“One day soon,” the imposing man said, “a man will come to you at your place of employment. At the bank where you work. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Albert Cromwell.

“The man will say to you,
Afghanistan banana stand.
Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Albert Cromwell.

“What will the man say?”

“
Afghanistan banana stand,
” said Albert Cromwell.

“Very good,” said the imposing man. The number 17 lit briefly over the door. “You are still very relaxed,” said the imposing man. “When the man says to you,
Afghanistan banana stand,
you will do what he tells you to do. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Albert Cromwell.

“What will you do when the man says to you,
Afghanistan banana stand?
”

“I will do what he tells me to do,” said Albert Cromwell.

“Very good,” said the imposing man. “That’s very good, you’re doing very well. When the man leaves you, you will forget that he was there. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Albert Cromwell.

“What will you do when he leaves you?”

“I will forget he was there,” said Albert Cromwell.

“Excellent,” said the imposing man. The number 22 lit over the door. “You are doing fine,” said the imposing man. He reached out and pushed the button for the twenty sixth floor. “When I leave you,” he said, “you will forget our conversation. When you reach your floor, you will feel rested and very, very good. You will forget our conversation, and you will feel rested and very, very good. You will not remember our conversation until the man says to you,
Afghanistan banana stand.
Then you will do what he tells you, and after he leaves, you will again forget our conversation and you will also forget that he was ever there. Will you do all that?”

“Yes,” said Albert Cromwell.

The number 26 lit over the door, and the elevator came to a stop. The door slid open. “You did very well,” the imposing man said, stepping out to the corridor. “Very well,” he said, and the door slid shut again, and the elevator went up one more story to the twenty–seventh floor, which was where Albert Cromwell lived. It stopped there, and the door opened, and Albert Cromwell shook himself and stepped out to the hall. He smiled. He felt very good, very relaxed and rested. He walked down the hall with a buoyant step, feeling great, and thinking it must be because of the unseasonably warm weather this afternoon. Whatever it was, he felt great.

So here it was tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon, in fact. Dortmunder had come here once already today, at nine thirty this morning, but when he’d walked by the stairway and looked down, it was Albert on duty outside, which meant George would be inside, and George they didn’t have primed, so he’d gone away again, coming back now in the hope that Albert and George shifted after lunch and didn’t keep the same posts all day long.

Luck was in. Dortmunder got to the head of the stairs and looked down and there was George. Dortmunder didn’t hesitate, he trotted down the stairs, said hello to George, signed in, and was let through the first door.

There was no one in the small in–between room, and for just a second Dortmunder felt the cold touch of apprehension in the middle of his back. He could see himself locked away in here by a gloating George, everything known, he being held here until the police could arrive. A fitting end to the Balabomo Emerald quest.

But then George said, “Albert will be with you in just one moment, sir,” and Dortmunder’s paranoia faded like mist. He nodded, and George shut the barred gate after him and went back over to his desk.

There were a couple of chairs in this room, but Dortmunder was too nerved up to sit down. He stood where he was, as though he’d been left behind by somebody, like an umbrella, and after a couple of minutes the farther door opened and a stout elderly lady emerged, clutching a Pekingese to her fox, and followed by Albert.

Albert shut the gate and said to Dortmunder, “Just one moment, sir.”

“Take your time,” Dortmunder said.

Albert opened the other gate and let the lady out, then turned to Dortmunder. “If you’ll follow me, sir.”

They went through the inner gate and directly to Dortmunder’s box. Albert inserted his key, asked to borrow Dortmunder’s, opened the box, and at once gave Dortmunder his key back.

“I just wanted this,” Dortmunder said, and took out the envelope full of tissues. He tucked it away in his inside jacket pocket.

Albert used the two keys to lock the now–empty box, gave Dortmunder back his key, and said, “This way, sir.”

“
Afghanistan banana stand,
” Dortmunder said.

Albert stopped where he was. He turned to Dortmunder, and he looked calmly prepared to be of service. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Dortmunder took out Prosker’s key. “Now we’ll open this box,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Albert took the key and turned away. Dortmunder followed him, and they walked down the aisle to Prosker’s box. Albert used the two keys and opened the box, then stood there continuing to look calm and alert and ready to be of service.

There were a lot of papers in Prosker’s box, deeds and thick white envelopes and birth certificates and one thing and another. In with all the rest was a small black plush box of the kind cuff links and earrings come in. Dortmunder reached into the drawer, picked up the black plush box, and opened it.

The Balabomo Emerald. Filling the little box and winking at Dortmunder under the fluorescent lights. Grinning to itself inside the little box.

Dortmunder shut the little box again and slipped it into his left–side jacket pocket. He said to Albert, “All right, shut it up again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Albert shut the drawer and gave Dortmunder Prosker’s key. He then went back to looking alert, calm, ready to serve.

Dortmunder said, “That’s all. I’m ready to leave now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Albert led the way to the first gate, opened it, stood aside for Dortmunder to go on through. Then Dortmunder had to wait while he closed it again before crossing the small anteroom and opening the outer gate. Dortmunder walked past him, and outside George said, “Have a good day, sir.”

“Thank you,” Dortmunder said. He went upstairs and out of the bank and caught a cab. “Amsterdam Avenue and Eighty–Fourth Street,” he said.

The cab went down 45th Street and turned right and got itself snarled in a traffic jam. Dortmunder sat in the back and slowly began to smile. It was incredible. They had the emerald. They actually had the emerald, at long last. Dortmunder saw the cabby puzzling at him in the rearview mirror, wondering what a passenger caught in a traffic jam had to smile about, but he couldn’t stop. He just went right on smiling.

The three in the back room had been silent five or six minutes when Murch suddenly said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about it.”

“That’s a mistake,” Kelp said. “Don’t think about it. It’ll give you a rash.”

“I’ve been sitting here,” Murch persisted, “and I’ve been trying to think what could possibly go wrong this time. Like maybe they moved the bank since yesterday. Like somebody that works there embezzled the emerald.”

Chefwick said quietly, “I agree with Kelp. I think you should stop thinking about it at once. Or at least stop talking about it.”

Murch said, “But they don’t sound right. There’s nothing I can think of that sounds like the kind of snafu that happens to us. I’m almost ready to believe Dortmunder is actually going to walk through that door over there with the emerald in his hand.”

Murch pointed at the door, and it opened, and Greenwood walked in with the vodka sour in his hand. He blinked mildly at the finger Murch was pointing at him and said, “Somebody calling me?”

Murch stopped pointing. “No,” he said. “I was just saying I was optimistic, that’s all.”

“Mistake,” Greenwood commented and sat down at the table. “I very carefully left this evening open,” he said, “on the assumption we’d all be sitting around this room tonight working out the next caper.”

“Don’t even say that,” said Kelp.

Greenwood shook his head. “If I say it, it might not happen,” he said. “But what if I’d called some beautiful and willing young lady and arranged to cook dinner for her at my place tonight? What then, Kelp?”

“Yeah,” said Kelp. “You’re right.”

“Exactly.” Greenwood tasted his vodka sour. “Mmm. Very good.”

“This is a nice place,” Murch agreed. “It’s kind of far from my neighborhood, though, to just drop in. Though if I’m on the Belt anyway, or Grand Central, why not.” He sipped at his beer and added a little salt.

Kelp said, “What time is it?” but as Chefwick looked at his watch Kelp added quickly, “Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know.”

Greenwood said, “If he does get picked up, if Dortmunder does, we’ll have to spring him, of course. The way you guys sprang me.”

“Naturally,” said Chefwick, and the other two nodded agreement.

“Whether he’s got the stone or not, I mean,” Greenwood said.

“Sure,” said Kelp. “What else?”

Greenwood sighed. “When my dear mother told me to settle down to a steady job,” he said, “I really doubt this is what she had in mind.”

Murch said, “You think we’ll ever really get that stone? Maybe God wants us to go straight, and this is kind of a gentle hint.”

“If five jobs for the same emerald is a gentle hint,” Kelp said bitterly, “I don’t want Him to shout at me.”

“Still,” said Chefwick, studying his Diet–Rite Cola, “it has been interesting. My first helicopter ride, for instance. And driving Tom Thumb, that was rather pleasant.”

“No more interesting jobs,” Murch said. “If it’s all the same to everybody, I want things dull from now on. All I want is that door should open and Dortmunder should walk in with the emerald in his hand.” He pointed at the door again, and it opened again, and Dortmunder walked in with an empty glass in his hand.

Everybody stared at him. Dortmunder stared at the finger pointing at him, then moved out of its line of fire and walked around the table to the vacant chair and the bourbon bottle. He sat down, poured bourbon into his glass, and took a swallow. Everybody watched, unblinking. The silence was so pure he could be heard swallowing.

He looked around at them. His face was expressionless, and so were theirs. Then Dortmunder smiled.