Ross Thomas: No Questions Asked

“Is that what Marsh told you?”

“He said he had gone in on a business deal with Vardaman.”

“Did he say what kind?”

Spivey thought about it. “It was some kind of land speculation. They had optioned a big chunk of land down near San Diego. Marsh said each of them was going to take out a policy naming the other as beneficiary just in case. It seemed legitimate enough. It’s done all the time.”

“There wasn’t any land deal,” I said. “Vardaman is a collector for some gambling types in Vegas. If whoever he’s trying to collect from is a slow pay, he makes them take out life insurance for twice as much as they owe. When you know that you’re worth twice as much dead as alive it concentrates the mind wonderfully, as I think Dr. Johnson once said. Or something like it.”

I could almost see Spivey’s mind working. “Marsh had somebody in on it with him. If this Vardaman—”

I cut him off. “Vardaman says he can come up with fifteen witnesses who can place him in Vegas at the time that Marsh got shot. He couldn’t fix that many people.”

Some of the excitement drained out of Spivey’s face. He leaned back in his chair. “We’re right back where we were. Which is exactly no place.”

“Not quite,” I said. “You might still get the book back.”

“But we’re still out—” The phone on Spivey’s desk rang. He picked it up, said hello, listened, and then said, “We’ll be right down.” He hung up and looked at me. “That was Ronnie. Let’s go.”

We went down a hall and then into a large corner office that was paneled and carpeted and furnished to look exactly like what an ex-Hollywood agent might think that the office of the chairman of the board of a prosperous insurance company should look like.

A short, wiry man with a lot of pure white hair bounced up from behind a big carved desk. “You’re the hotshot,” he said, moving around the desk and holding out his hand. “I’m Ronnie Saperstein.”

We shook hands and he moved back a little and cocked his head to one side while he examined me with dark eyes that flickered in a tan face that was just beginning to grow a lot of lines. “I was wondering what you’d look like,” he said. “When people are in a funny business, you sort of expect them to look funny. But most of the time they don’t. For example, you don’t. You look like the second lead.”

“The one who doesn’t get the girl,” I said.

“Or the book,” Saperstein said. “But I hear we’ve got a second chance. Let’s sit down over here and run through it.”

We sat down on a couch and a couple of easy chairs that were drawn up around a low coffee table. Saperstein crossed his legs. “You got a call,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

“It was the same voice that I dealt with in Washington. It could be a man; it could be a woman. Whoever it is said they’d sell the book back for one hundred thousand dollars.”

Saperstein looked at Spivey. “What do you think, Max?”

“We’re already out two hundred and fifty grand.”

“But we’re going to be out five hundred grand unless we get that book back. What the hell did we ever start insuring crap like that for anyhow? We should have stayed with tits. Nobody ever stole a pair of tits.”

“Not yet,” Spivey said.

Saperstein looked at me. “What about you, St. Ives? You think whoever called is on the level or do you think they’re just making noises?”

I shrugged. “It was the same voice. I’d say there’s a chance.”

“Good chance or poor chance?”

“Just a chance,” I said.

“Maybe we should turn it all over to the cops,” Spivey said.

Saperstein thought about it. “We turn it over to the cops and what does it get us? The book? Doubtful. The two hundred and fifty thousand we’re already out? Equally doubtful. Whoever we’re dealing with must be expecting cops. They’re probably going to come up with all sorts of conditions that’re going to make cops impossible anyway. Isn’t that the way these things usually work, St. Ives?”

“Usually,” I said.

He looked at Spivey. “How much time have we got?”

“Till five, isn’t it?” Spivey said and looked at me.

I nodded. “That’s right. Whoever called me is going to call back at five.”

Saperstein uncrossed his legs and slapped his palms on his knees. “All right,” he said. “I say go. What’s your end of it, St. Ives, ten percent?”

I nodded. “That’s my usual rate. But what would it be worth to you if I got the book back along with whoever’s got it and whatever’s left of the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that got lost in Washington?”

Spivey stared at me, a look of curiosity on his face. Saperstein was grinning. “You’d cross the thief?” he said.

I shook my head. “The thief was Jack Marsh. Marsh is dead. We’re dealing with whoever was in on it with Marsh. But you asked me if I’d cross him. Or her. My answer is yes, if the money’s right.”

I could almost see Saperstein’s mind clicking off some figures. “What would you say to seventy-five thousand — if you wrap it all up like you said?”

“That’s an offer?” I said.

“It’s an offer. What do you say.”

“Put it in writing,” I said.

Max Spivey brought the $100,000 by my motel at twenty minutes to five and we counted it together.

“You must know some bank vice-president,” I said.

“We know a lot of bank vice-presidents, but none of them likes to part with a hundred thousand in cash, especially at four in the afternoon.”

“Well, it’s all there,” I said and closed the cheap black attaché case that Spivey had placed on the bed. “Would you like a drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

I opened a fresh bottle of Scotch that I had bought earlier and mixed two drinks. Spivey took a big swallow of his and leaned back in the lime green plastic chair. The chair creaked.

“Did you ever double-cross anybody like this before?” he said.

I shook my head. “Never. It’s not good for business.”

“But since they crossed you back in Washington, you figure it’s okay if you cross them this time, right?”

“If you want to go into the morality of it, I guess that’s the way it is.”

“How’re you going to do it?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “It depends upon what kind of a switch they come up with. All I need is a good look at whoever it is that I turn the money over to. When the thief sets up the mechanics of a switch, there’s usually a moment when he’s got to depend on the go-between’s not peeking. Well, I’m going to peek.”

“What if they come up with something so clever that you can’t?”

“Then I’ll have to do something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You want to know something?” Spivey said.

“Sure.”

“I think you earn your money.”

We sat there in a not uncomfortable silence with our drinks until five o’clock. At two past five the phone still hadn’t rung. “You think they’re going to call?” Spivey said.

“They said they would.”

It rang at three minutes past five. I picked it up on its second ring and said, “Yes?”

“Do you have the money?” the distorted voice said.

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’m going to say this just once so I want you to listen real good. First, get yourself some real heavy fishing line, about thirty or thirty-five feet of it. Second, have the money in something that you can tie the fishing line to. Third, go to the Santa Monica pier at two fifty-five. That’s two fifty-five A.M. Start walking toward the end of the pier. Take your time and go real slow because we’re going to be watching. Go along the pier until you come to the bar and grill called Moby’s Dock. It’s on the left. When you pass Moby’s Dock start counting your paces. Ninety-nine paces past Moby’s Dock there’s a place where the pier sort of juts out. That’s where you lower the fishing line over. We’ll tie the book to it and you can draw it up. Then you tie what you’ve got the money in to the fishing line and lower that. Wait three minutes while we check the money. After that, you can take off. But don’t try anything tricky because there’s going to be somebody between you and where the pier starts and if you try something tricky, you won’t make it back to New York. You got it?”