Donald Westlake - Drowned Hopes

“Them graphics looked pretty good,” Tom Jimson added, nodding with satisfaction.

The graphics, as a matter of fact, had looked far too graphic. Wally, his fingers scampering like escaped sausages over the keys, had described to them how he’d presented the salvage operation problem to the computer, and how he’d input the tunnel option, and then he’d shown them what the computer thought of the various potential tunnel routes.

Not much. In beautiful blue and brown and green, the computer thought the routes were watery graves, every last one of them. Down would angle the tunnel, a beige tube eating its way into existence through the milk chocolate beneath and beside the baby-blanket-blue cross-section of the reservoir, inching cautiously but hungrily toward that tiny black cube of “treasure” placed just beneath the center of the blue mass like an abandoned novel under a fat man in a blue canvas chair, and sooner or later, at some horrible point in the trajectory, a crack would appear above the tunnel, a fissure, a seam, a funnel-shaped crevice, a swiftly broadening yawn, and in no time at all that ecru esophagus would fill right up with blue.

At that point, despite himself, Kelp’s throat would close. Every time. Which had made it difficult to take much part in the immediately ensuing conversation about non-tunnel alternatives, so that it was only now he could say, casually, throwing it away, “Forget the tunnel. The tunnel was never a big deal. That was just to feed the old creative juices, get us thinking about ways that will work.”

“Like,” said Tom Jimson.

“Like we’ll find it,” Kelp assured him. “We didn’t come up with anything yet , that’s perfectly true, but old Wally and his computer, they’ll—”

“Hmp,” said Dortmunder.

Whoops; another precinct heard from. They had just stopped at the curb at Eleventh Avenue to wait for the light to change, so Kelp leaned forward to look past the stone outcropping of Tom Jimson’s face at the rubble outcropping of Dortmunder’s face, and what he saw there told him his old friend John was not entirely happy. “John?” Kelp said. “What’s the problem?”

“Nothing,” Dortmunder said, and stepped out in front of a cab that, up till then, had thought it was going to beat the light. As the cabby stuck his head out his side window and began to make loud remarks, Kelp and Tom Jimson stepped off the curb after Dortmunder, Tom pausing to look at the cabby, who at once decided he’d made his point and, with dignity, retracted his head back inside his vehicle.

Meantime, Kelp, pursuing Dortmunder, said, “John? I don’t get it. What’s wrong?”

Dortmunder muttered something. Kelp hurried to overtake him and heard the last part: “—was the planner.”

“The planner?” Kelp echoed. “Yeah? What about it?”

Reaching the far corner, Dortmunder turned and said it all over again, out loud: “I was always under the impression, myself, that I was the planner.”

“Well, sure you are, John,” Kelp said, as Tom Jimson joined them and they resumed their walk east. “Sure you’re the planner. None better.” Kelp even appealed to Tom: “Isn’t that right?”

“That’s his rep,” Tom agreed.

“I’ve put together a lot of jobs in my time,” Dortmunder said.

“Of course you have, John,” Kelp said.

“Sometimes things go wrong, a little wrong,” Dortmunder said. “I freely admit that.”

“Luck, pure luck,” Kelp assured him.

“But the plan is good,” Dortmunder insisted. “I defy you, show me once when I put together a string of events that wasn’t the best when it comes to you get in, you get the goods, you get out.”

“I can’t,” Kelp admitted. “You win that one, John, I can’t come up with even one.”

“And all without a computer,” Dortmunder finished, with heavy emphasis.

“John, John,” Kelp said, while Tom looked a little confused by this turn of events, “the computer doesn’t take your place , John. The computer’s a tool , that’s all, like a pair of pliers, like a jimmy, a lockpick, a, a, a…”

“Over-and-under shotgun,” Tom suggested.

“Okay,” Kelp said, though reluctantly. “A tool,” he repeated to Dortmunder. “There’s some safes, you know? You drill a little hole next to the combination, you know the kind?”

“I know the kind,” Dortmunder agreed, though still stony-faced.

“Well, the drill,” Kelp said, “the drill doesn’t take your place , John, it’s just an aid, kind of. I mean, it’s easier than poking a hole through a half inch of steel with your finger, that’s all.”

“Back there right now,” Dortmunder said, “where we just came from, this drill of yours with the TV screen attached to it is thinking up plans .”

“For your consideration, John,” Kelp said. “For you to say yes or no. You’re the guy in charge.”

“In charge of what? A machine and a guy that isn’t even on the inside, this Wally of yours that we can’t even trust with the right story.”

“Oh, you can trust Wally,” Kelp assured him. “You can trust Wally to be very involved in the problem , and not worry his little soft head about what’s going on in the real world at all.”

“He better not,” Tom said.

“I’m the guy who does the plan,” Dortmunder insisted.

They were at Tenth Avenue already; you walk faster when you’re arguing. Stopping, waiting for the light to change, they all took a little breather, and then Tom said, “So we’re ahead, right? We got three people doin plans, so that’s even more chance to come up with the right one.”

Kelp, convinced there were quagmires ahead, but unable to keep from following the trail Tom had just indicated, said, “Three people, Tom?”

“Well, two people and a thing,” Tom amended. “Al here’s gonna think about plans—”

“You’re damn right I am,” Dortmunder said.

“And your little round fella’s machine is gonna think about plans—”

“Hmph,” said Dortmunder.

“And, of course, there’s me,” Tom said with an almost pleasant look. “But I’ve already got my plan.”

“That’s right,” Kelp said with a meaningful look at Dortmunder. “Wally and his computer aren’t the problem, John,” he said.

The one called Tom was angry when I said I knew he was the one who hid the treasure. Comment.

A secret is revealed.

But why is it a secret? The treasure is hidden, but it isn’t a secret. Comment.

Tom plus treasure is the secret.

That’s right. So it matters to Tom that he has a secret. Comment.

One secret means more secrets.

Tom is a man with many secrets. Also, Andy and the one called John were both afraid of Tom, but they tried to hide that. Comment.

Tom is the warlord.

Does Andy work for Tom?

The warlord stays in his castle, surrounded by his minions.

Are Andy and John minions?

Yes.

What are the roles of minions?

Guard. Soldier. Knight. Spy.

So Andy is a knight, employed by Tom. Andy does knight errands for Tom. Andy is a knight-errand. What of John?

John is the spy.

No. The characteristic of spies is that they look trustworthy but are not. John does not look trustworthy. Comment.

Tom is the warlord. Andy is the knight. There is nothing to guard, so John is the soldier.

But what do they want?

The treasure beneath the water.