The Hot Rock (20 page)

“I knew it,” Greenwood said. “Something had to go wrong.”

“Maybe not,” Dortmunder said, but his face showed he didn’t believe it. He got up and followed Rollo out to the bar and hurried down to the phone booth. He slid in, shut the door, picked up the receiver, and said, “Yeah?”

“Cross,” Kelp’s voice said. “Come over quick.”

“Done,” Dortmunder said and hung up. He left the booth and hurried toward the back room, calling to Rollo on the way by, “We’ll be back soon.”

“Sure,” Rollo said. “Any time.”

Dortmunder opened the back room door, stuck his head in, and said, “Come on.”

“This is really irritating,” Chefwick said. He banged his glass of Diet–Rite Cola on the table and followed Dortmunder and Greenwood out of the bar.

They got a cab right away, but it took forever to get through the park. Anyway, it seemed forever. Still, forever ended, and so did the cab ride, with Dortmunder and the others piling out at the corner half a block from the Talabwo embassy. Murch came trotting over as the cab went away, and Dortmunder said, “What’s going on?”

“Double cross,” Murch said. “Prosker and the Major are in it together.”

“We should have buried him in the woods,” Greenwood said. “I knew it at the time, I was just too soft–hearted.”

“Shut up,” Dortmunder told him. He said to Murch, “Where’s Kelp?”

“Followed them,” Murch said. “About five minutes ago, the Major and Prosker and three others came out and took a cab. They had luggage. Kelp’s after them in another cab.”

“Damn,” Dortmunder said. “It took too long to get through the park.”

“Are we supposed to wait here for Kelp,” Greenwood asked, “or what?”

Murch pointed at a glass–sided phone booth on the opposite corner. “He took that phone number,” he said. “He’ll call us when he gets the chance.”

“Good thinking,” Dortmunder said. “All right. Murch, you stay with the phone booth. Chefwick, you and me are going into the embassy. Greenwood, you got your gun on you?”

“Sure.”

“Pass it over.”

They stood close together briefly, and Greenwood passed over his Terrier. Dortmunder tucked it away in his jacket pocket and said to Greenwood, “You stay outside and watch. Come on.”

Murch went back to the phone booth, and Dortmunder and Chefwick and Greenwood hurried up the block to the embassy. Greenwood stopped and leaned against the ornamental iron railing and casually lit a cigarette while Dortmunder and Chefwick went up the stone stoop, Chefwick taking several small slender tools from his pockets as they went.

It was nearly four o’clock on a Friday afternoon, and Fifth Avenue was full of traffic; cabs and buses and occasional private cars and here and there a black limousine all crept southward, a sluggish stream heading down Fifth Avenue with the park on its right and the impressive old stone buildings on its left. The sidewalks were busy too, with nannies walking baby carriages and elevator operators walking dachshunds and colored nurses walking bent old men. Dortmunder and Chefwick kept their backs to it all, shielding Chefwick’s busy hands as he went through the door like a car with Platformate going through a paper hoop. The door ponged open, and Dortmunder and Chefwick stepped quickly inside, Dortmunder drawing the revolver while Chefwick shut the door again.

The first two rooms they went through, making quick searches, were empty, but the third contained two typewriters and two black female typists. They were quickly tucked away in a closet with a bolt lock, and Dortmunder and Chefwick went on.

In Major Iko’s office they found a note pad on the desk, with a pencil notation on the top sheet: “Kennedy — seven–fifteen — Flight — three–o–one.”

Chefwick said, “That must be where they’re going.”

“But what airline?”

Chefwick looked surprised. He studied the note again. “It doesn’t say.”

“Phone book,” Dortmunder said. “Yellow pages.”

They both opened drawers, and the Manhattan yellow pages were in the bottom desk drawer on the left. Chefwick said, “Are you going to call every airline?”

“I hope not. Let’s try Pan–Am.” He looked up the number, dialed, and after fourteen rings a pleasant but plastic female voice answered. Dortmunder said, “I have what may sound like a stupid question, but I’m trying to prevent an elopement.”

“An elopement, sir?”

“I hate to stand in the way of young love,” Dortmunder said, “but we’ve just found out the man is already married. We know they’re taking a flight out of Kennedy tonight at seven–fifteen. It’s flight three–o–one.”

“Is that a Pan–Am flight, sir?”

“We don’t know. We don’t know which airline, and we don’t know where they’re headed.”

The office door opened, and the ebony man walked in, white light glinting from his glasses. Dortmunder said into the phone, “Hold on a second.” He put the mouthpiece against his chest and showed Greenwood’s revolver to the ebony man. “Stand over there,” he said, pointing to a bare stretch of wall far from the doorway.

The ebony man put his hands up and walked over to the bare stretch of wall.

Dortmunder kept his eyes and gun on the ebony man, and spoke into the phone again. “I’m sorry. The girl’s mother is hysterical.”

“Sir, all you have is the flight number and time of departure?”

“And that it’s out of Kennedy, yes.”

“This may take a little while, sir.”

“I’m willing to wait.”

“I’ll be as fast as I can, sir. Will you hold on?”

“Of course.”

There was a click, and Dortmunder said to Chefwick, “Search him.”

“Certainly.” Chefwick searched the ebony man, and came up with a Beretta Jetfire .25–caliber automatic, a small nasty gun Kelp had already seen a little earlier in the day.

“Tie him up,” Dortmunder said.

“My idea exactly,” Chefwick said. He said to the ebony man, “Give me your tie and your shoelaces.”

“You will fail,” the ebony man said.

Dortmunder said, “If he prefers to be shot, stick your gun in his belly to muffle the sound.”

“Naturally,” Chefwick said.

“I will cooperate,” the ebony man said, starting to remove his tie. “But it doesn’t matter. You will fail.”

Dortmunder held the phone to his ear and the gun pointed at the ebony man, who gave his tie and shoelaces to Chefwick, who said, “Now remove your shoes and socks and lie face down on the floor.”

“It does not matter what you do to me,” the ebony man said. “I am unimportant, and you will fail.”

“If you don’t hurry,” Dortmunder said, “you’ll get even more unimportant.”

The ebony man sat down on the floor and took off his shoes and socks, then turned to lie face down. Chefwick used one shoelace to tie his thumbs behind his back, the other to tie his big toes together, and stuffed the tie into the ebony man’s mouth.

Chefwick was just finishing up when Dortmunder heard another click, and the female voice said, “
Phew.
Well, I found it, sir.”

“I really appreciate this,” Dortmunder said.

“It’s an Air France flight to Paris,” she said. “That’s the only flight with that number leaving at that time.”

“Thank you very much,” Dortmunder said.

“It’s really very romantic, isn’t it, sir?” she said. “Eloping to Paris.”

“I guess it is,” Dortmunder said.

“It’s really too bad he’s already married.”

“These things happen,” Dortmunder said. “Thanks again.”

“Any time we can be of service, sir.”

Dortmunder hung up and said to Chefwick, “Air France to Paris.” He got to his feet. “Help me drag that bird around here behind the desk. We don’t want anybody finding him and letting him go so he can call the Major at Kennedy.”

They toted the ebony man around behind the desk and left the embassy without seeing anyone else. Greenwood was still loafing around out front, leaning against the iron railing. He fell in with them, and Dortmunder told him what they’d learned as they walked back to the corner and across the street to where Murch was sitting in the phone booth. There Dortmunder said, “Chefwick, you stay here. When Kelp calls, tell him we’re on our way and he can leave a message for us at Air France. If they’ve gone someplace other than Kennedy, you wait here, and when we don’t get any message at Air France we’ll call you.”

Chefwick nodded. “That’s fine,” he said.

“We’ll all meet at the O.J. when this is over,” Dortmunder said. “In case we get separated, that’s where we’ll meet.”

“This may be a late night,” Chefwick said. “I’d best call Maude.”

“Don’t tie up that phone.”

“Oh, I won’t. Good luck.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Dortmunder said. “Come on, Murch, let’s see how fast you can get us to Kennedy Airport.”

“Well, from here,” Murch said, as they trotted across the street toward his car, “I’m going to go straight up FDR Drive to the Triborough …”

“Thank you,” Dortmunder said, and he and Greenwood moved away from the counter. Murch was out parking the car. Dortmunder opened the envelope and inside was a small piece of paper containing the scrawled words
Golden Door.

Dortmunder turned the paper over, and the other side was blank. He turned it back and it still said
Golden Door.
That’s all, just
Golden Door.
“I needed this,” Dortmunder said.

“Just a minute,” Greenwood said and walked over to the nearest passing stewardess, a pretty short–haired blonde in a dark blue uniform. “Excuse me,” Greenwood said, “will you marry me?”

“I’d love to,” she said, “but my plane leaves in twenty minutes.”

“When you come back,” Greenwood said. “In the meantime, could you tell me what and where is the
Golden Door?
”

“Oh, that’s the restaurant in the International Arrivals Building.”

“Lovely. When can we have dinner there?”

“Oh, the next time you’re in town,” she said.

“Wonderful,” he said. “When will that be?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Not yet. When do you get back?”

“Monday,” she said, smiling. “We come in at three thirty in the afternoon.”

“A perfect time for dinner. Shall we make it four?”

“Make it four–thirty.”

“Four–thirty Monday, at the
Golden Door.
I’ll reserve the table immediately. Under the name of Grofield,” he said, giving his most recent name.

“I’ll be there,” she said. She had a lovely smile and lovely teeth.

“See you then,” Greenwood said and went back over to Dortmunder. “It’s a restaurant, in the International Arrivals Building.”

“Come on.”

They went outside, and met Murch on his way in. They brought him up to date, asked a luggage handler to point out the International Arrivals Building, and took the bus over.

The
Golden Door
is upstairs, at the head of a long broad escalator. At the foot of it stood Kelp. Dortmunder and the other two went over, and Kelp said, “They’re up there feeding their faces.”

“They’re taking the seven–fifteen Air France flight to Paris,” Dortmunder said.

Kelp blinked at him. “How’d you do that?”

“Telepathy,” Greenwood said. “My stunt is, I guess your weight.”

“Let’s go up,” Dortmunder said.

“I’m not dressed to go up to a place like that,” Murch said. He was in a leather jacket and work pants, while the other three were all in suits or sport jackets and ties.

Dortmunder said to Kelp, “Any other way down out of there?”

“Probably. This is the only public way.”

“Okay. Murch, you stay down here in case they get through us. If they do, follow them but don’t try anything on your own. Kelp, is Chefwick still in the phone booth?”

“No, he said he was going to the O.J. We can leave messages there now.”

“Fine. Murch, if somebody comes down and you follow him, leave us a message at the O.J. as soon as you can.”

“Right.”

The other three rode the escalator upstairs, emerging on a dark carpet in a dark open area. The maitre d’s lectern, some doweling, and a lot of artificial plants separated this area from the main dining room. The maitre d’ himself, armed with a French accent less charming than the young lady’s at Air France, approached and asked them how many they were. Dortmunder said, “We’ll wait for the rest of our party before going in.”

“Certainly, sir.” The maitre d’ bowed himself away.

Kelp said, “There they are.”

Dortmunder looked through the plastic leaves. The dining room was large, and very nearly empty. At a table in the middle distance, beside a window, sat Major Iko and Prosker and three sturdy young black men. They were having a leisurely dinner, the time now being just a little past five, with over two hours left before their flight.

Kelp said, “I don’t like bracing them here. Too public, and too boxed in.”

“I agree,” Dortmunder said. “All right, we’ll wait for them downstairs.” He turned and started away.

Greenwood said, “I’ll be with you in a minute. Private business.”

Dortmunder and Kelp went on ahead, and a minute later Greenwood caught up with them. They filled Murch in, and then the four of them spread out around the waiting room, all keeping their eyes on the escalator to the
Golden Door.

It was nearly six o’clock, and afternoon had turned to night outside the terminal’s windows when the Major and Prosker and the other three finally came down from dinner. Dortmunder immediately got to his feet and walked toward them. When they saw him, and were still staring in astonishment, he put a big smile on his face, stuck his hand out, and advanced quickly, crying, “Major! What a surprise! It’s great to see you again!”

He had reached the group by now, and he grasped the Major’s limp hand and started to pump it. Keeping the big smile on his face, he said softly, “The others are all around. If you don’t want shooting, just stand still.”

Prosker had already been looking around, and now he said, “By God, there they are!”

“Dortmunder,” the Major said, “I’m sure we can talk this over.”

“You’re damn right we can,” Dortmunder said. “Just the two of us. No lawyers, no bodyguards.”

“You wouldn’t get — violent.”

“Not me, Major,” Dortmunder said. “But I don’t know about the others. Greenwood would shoot down Prosker first, that’s only natural, but I think Kelp would go first for you.”

Prosker said, “You wouldn’t dare start anything like that in a crowded place like this.”

“Perfect place for it,” Dortmunder said. “Shooting. Panic. We mix in with everybody else. Easiest place in the world to hide is in a crowd.”

The Major said, “Prosker, don’t try to make him prove himself, it has the ring of truth.”

“So it does, damn it,” said Prosker. “All right, Dortmunder, what do you want? More money?”

“We can’t afford a hundred seventy–five thousand,” the Major said. “It just wouldn’t be possible.”

“Two hundred thousand,” Dortmunder reminded him. “The price went up back at caper number three. But I don’t want to talk in front of all these other people. Come on.”

“Come on? Come on where?”

“We’re just going to talk,” Dortmunder said. “These people can stand here, and my people will stay where they are, and you and me are going over there and talk. Come on.”

The Major was very reluctant, but Dortmunder was insistent, and finally the Major started to move. Dortmunder said to the others over his shoulder, “Just stay right here, and you won’t start any posthumous panics.”

Dortmunder and the Major strolled away down the long corridor overlooking customs, with the duty–free shops on one side of the corridor and on the other side the railing where people can stand and look down at their returning relatives and visiting foreign friends being degraded.

The Major said, “Dortmunder, Talabwo is a poor country. I can get you some more money, but not two hundred thousand dollars. Perhaps fifty thousand, another ten thousand per man. But we just couldn’t afford any more.”

“So you figured this double cross from the beginning,” Dortmunder said.

“I won’t lie to you,” the Major said.

Back in the main waiting room, Prosker was saying to the three black men, “If we take off in four different directions, they won’t dare shoot.”

“We don’t want to die,” one of the black men said, and the others nodded agreement.

“They won’t shoot, damn it!” Prosker insisted. “Don’t you know what Dortmunder’s up to? He’s going to take the emerald away from the Major!”

The black men looked at one another.

“If you don’t go help the Major,” Prosker said, “and Dortmunder gets that emerald away from him, you’ll get worse than shot and you know it.”

The black men looked worried.

“I’ll count three,” Prosker said, “and on three we’ll take off in different directions, then all circle around and go down that way after Dortmunder and the Major. I’ll go back and to the left, you go straight ahead, you go at an angle to the left that way, and you go right. You all ready?”

They hated it, but the thought of the Major in a bad mood was even worse. Reluctantly they nodded.

“One,” Prosker said. He could see Greenwood sitting behind a copy of the Daily News way over there. “Two,” he said. In another direction he could see Kelp. “Three,” he said, and started to run. The black men went on standing there a second or two longer, and then they began to run.

Running people in an airline terminal tend not to be noticed very much, but these four had started so abruptly that a dozen people looked after them in astonishment. Kelp and Greenwood and Murch looked after them too, and then all of a sudden they started running, toward one another, for a quick conference.

In the meantime, Dortmunder and the Major were still walking down the corridor, Dortmunder trying to find an unpopulated corner in which to relieve the Major of the emerald and the Major talking on at great length about the poverty of Talabwo, his regret at trying to dupe Dortmunder, and his desire to make amends to the best of his ability.

A distant voice cried, “Dortmunder!” Recognizing it as Kelp’s voice, Dortmunder turned and saw two of the black men pelting his way, bouncing customs–oglers left and right.

The Major thought he was going to join the track team, but Dortmunder closed a hand on his elbow and locked it there. He looked around, and just ahead was a closed golden door marked
No Admittance
in black letters. Dortmunder pulled, the door opened, he shoved the Major through and followed him, and there they were at the top of a grimy gray staircase.

The Major said, “Dortmunder, I give you my word —”

“I don’t want your word, I want that stone.”

“Do you think I’d carry it?”

“That’s exactly what you’d do with it, you wouldn’t let it out of your sight till you were home free.” Dortmunder pulled out Greenwood’s revolver and shoved it into the Major’s stomach. “It’ll take longer if I have to search your body.”

“Dortmunder —”

“Shut up and give me the emerald! I don’t have time for lies!”

The Major looked in Dortmunder’s face, inches from his own, and said, “I’ll pay you all the money, I’ll —”

“You’ll die, damn you! Give me the emerald!”

“All right, all right!” The Major was babbling now, caught up in Dortmunder’s urgency. “You hold on to it,” he said, pulling the black plush box from his jacket pocket. “There won’t be any other buyers. Hold on to it, I’ll get in touch with you, I’ll find the money to pay you.”

Dortmunder snatched the box from his hand, stepped back, opened it and took a quick look inside. The emerald was there. He looked up, and the Major was jumping at him. The Major jumped into the barrel of the gun, and fell backward dazed.

The door opened, and one of the black men started in. Dortmunder hit him in the stomach, remembering that they’d just eaten, and the black man said, “
Phooff!
” and bent over.

But the other black man was behind him, and the third wouldn’t be far away. Dortmunder turned, emerald in one hand and revolver in the other, and raced away down the stairs.

He heard them following him, heard the Major shouting. The first door he came to was locked, and the second one led him outside into the chill darkness of an October evening.

But outside where? Dortmunder stumbled through darkness, rounded a corner, and the night was full of airplanes.

He had gone through the looking glass, past that invisible barrier that closes half the world to unauthorized personnel. He was back where the planes are, in pockets of bright light, surrounded by darkness punctuated by strips of blue lights or amber lights, taxiways, runways, loading zones.