Donald Westlake - What's The Worst That Could Happen?

FOR QUINN MALLOY

As the I Ching says: Difficulty at the beginning works supreme success.

This is no time for levity — Oliver Hardy

This is no time for levity. Hmp! — Stan Laurel, in agreement

From the circumstances, Dortmunder would say it was a missing-heir scam. It had begun a week ago, when a guy he knew slightly, a fella called A.K.A. because he operated under so many different names, phoned him and said, “Hey, John, it’s A.K.A. here, I’m wondering, you got the flu, something like that? We don’t see you around the regular place for a while.”

“Which regular place is that?” Dortmunder asked.

“Armweery’s.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dortmunder said. “Well, I been cuttin back. I might see you there sometime.”

Off the phone, Dortmunder looked up the address of Armweery’s and went there, and A.K.A. was at a booth in the back, under the LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS poster where some wag had blacked out most of the Jap’s teeth.

“What this is,” A.K.A. said, under his new mustache (this one was gingery, and so, at the moment, was his hair), “is a deposition. A week from Thursday, 10:00 A . M ., this lawyer’s office in the Graybar Building. Take maybe an hour. You go in, they swear you, ask you some questions, that’s it.”

“Do I know the answers?”

“You will.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Half a gee.”

Five hundred dollars for an hour’s work; not so bad. If , of course. Depending. Dortmunder said, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

A.K.A. shrugged. “They go looking for Fred Mullins out on Long Island.”

“Who’s he?”

“You.”

“Got it,” Dortmunder said.

“There’ll also be a lawyer on our side there,” A.K.A. told him. “I mean, the side of the guy that’s running this thing. The lawyer isn’t in on what’s going down, by him you are Fred Mullins, from Carrport, Long Island, so he’s just there to see the other side doesn’t stray from the program. And at the end of it, in the elevator, he gives you the envelope.”

“Sounds okay.”

“Easy as falling off a diet,” A.K.A. said, and handed him a manila envelope, which he took home and opened, to find it contained a whole story about one Fredric Albert Mullins and an entire family named Anadarko, all living on Red Tide Street out in Carrport between 1972 and 1985. Dortmunder diligently memorized it all, having his faithful companion May deposition him on the information every evening when she came home from the Safeway supermarket where she was a cashier. And then, on the following Wednesday, the day before his personal private show was to open, Dortmunder got another call from A.K.A., who said, “You know that car I was gonna buy?”

Uh oh. “Yeah?” Dortmunder said. “You were gonna pay five hundred for it, I remember.”

“Turns out, at the last minute,” A.K.A. said, “it’s a real lemon, got unexpected problems. In a word, it won’t run.”

“And the five hundred?”

“Well, you know, John,” A.K.A. said, “I’m not buying the car.”

Which was why, that Thursday morning at ten, instead of being in a lawyer’s office in the Graybar Building in midtown Manhattan, just an elevator ride up from Grand Central Station (crossroads of the same four hundred thousand lives every day), talking about the Anadarko family of Carrport, Long Island, Dortmunder was at home, doing his best to clear his brain of all memory of Fred Mullins and his entire neighborhood. Which was why he was there to answer the doorbell when it rang at ten twenty-two that morning, to find a FedEx person standing in the hall there.

No FedEx person had ever before sought out Dortmunder, so he wasn’t exactly sure what was the protocol, but the person walked him through it, and the experience wasn’t hard at all.

What was being delivered was a Pak, which was a bright red-white-and-blue cardboard envelope with something inside it. The Pak was addressed to May Bellamy and came from a law firm somewhere in Ohio. Dortmunder knew May had family in Ohio, which was why she never went there, so he agreed to take the package, wrote “Ralph Bellamy” where the person wanted a signature, and then spent the rest of the day wondering what was in the Pak, which made for a fine distraction.

The result was, by the time May got home from the Safeway at 5:40 that afternoon Dortmunder couldn’t have told an Anadarko from an Annapolis graduate. “You got a Pak,” he said.

“I’ve got two entire bags. Here, carry one.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dortmunder told her, accepting one of the two grocery bags containing May’s daily unofficial bonus to herself. He followed her to the kitchen, put the bag on the counter, pointed to the Pak on the table, and said, “It’s from Ohio. FedEx. It’s a Pak.”

“What’s in it?”

“No idea.”

May stood beside the table, frowning at the Pak, not yet touching it. “It’s from Cincinnati,” she announced.

“I noticed that.”

“From some lawyers there.”

“Saw that, too. It came this morning, a little before ten-thirty.”

“That’s what they say they do,” May agreed, “deliver everything by ten-thirty in the morning. I don’t know what they do, the rest of the day.”

“May,” Dortmunder said, “are you going to open that thing?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “If I do, do you think I’m liable for something?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Lawyers,” she explained.

“Open it,” Dortmunder suggested, “and if it’s some kind of problem, we’ll both lie, we’ll say we never got it.”

“Did you have to sign for it or anything?”

“Sure.”

May looked at him, and finally understood. “Okay,” she said, and picked the thing up. With hardly any hesitation at all, she pulled the tab along the top, reached inside, and withdrew a folded sheet of top-quality letterhead stationery and a small box, such as earrings might come in, or a kidnap victim’s finger.

Putting down the Pak and the box, May opened the letter, read it, and silently passed it to Dortmunder, who looked at the five legal names and the important-looking address all in thick black across the top of the heavy expensive sheet of paper. There was also a whole string of names running down the left side, and then the typing: A heading to “Ms May Bellamy” at this apartment in this building on East Nineteenth Street, New York, New York, 10003, and

Dear Ms Bellamy:

We represent the estate of the late Gideon Gilbert Goodwin, sanguinely related to yourself. The deceased having passed away on April 1st inst., intestate except for a holograph letter to his niece June Havershaw, dated February 28, inst., requesting of her that she distribute his worldly goods to family members upon his demise as she saw fit, and Ms Havershaw having come to the conclusion that you, her sister and therefore also a niece of the decedent, should receive the enclosed from among the late G. G. Goodwin’s effects, we are pleased to forward to you the late Mr. Goodwin’s “lucky ring,” which he considered one of his most prized possessions, and which Ms Havershaw felt you would most appreciate for its sentimental value.

Further enquiries on this matter should be directed directly to Ms Havershaw, the executrix of the G. G. Goodwin estate.

With warmest regards,