Lawrence Block - The Specialists

“I know you will, Edward.”

When Simmons had seen as much of the grounds as he could stand, he made his way back to the truck. He tossed his clipboard into the front seat, then walked around to the back. Murdock was on his sixth tree and Simmons could only hope he was about ready to pack it in. He was impatient to get going.

Something about the place gave him the jitters. At first the lawn and gardens had overwhelmed him. The plantings were what might be called semiformal, in perfect order and yet with a natural feel to them. As he walked through it all he had thought what a man could do with a place this size, the pleasure you could have.

Then another thought came along and soured it all. What was the thrill of somebody else did it for you? Platt, now, how could he take any pride in what he had? Somebody cut the grass and somebody else weeded the flower beds and somebody else trimmed the shrubbery, and Platt, all he did was write out a check.

Simmons had heard of stamp collectors like that. He was an unsuccessful bidder for one such lot, a prize-winning collection of German States issues that had taken honors at national and regional shows. The condition of the material was of an exceptionally high level, the mounting was magnificent, the degree of completeness most impressive. But the retired rancher who had owned those extraordinary stamps didn’t know a watermark from a perforation. He had professional buyers purchasing stamps for him, and he had a commercial artist preparing his displays, and he kept the whole collection in a bank vault and never even looked at it. Finally he sold it because he got bored with it, but as far as Simmons could understand, he had never gotten interested in it to begin with. He was like Platt. He wanted the best, he could afford the best, but what he wound up with wasn’t really his at all, because all he ever put into it was money.

Simmons opened the can of creosote. He dipped a hand into it, capped the can, headed over toward the garage. A short, stocky, well-muscled young man was polishing one of the cars, the Mercedes. He had already finished with the Lincoln, and it gleamed.

He said, “Yeah?”

Simmons held up a hand. “Wondered if I could have the use of a rag. Creosote, the can dripped.”

The man waved a hand at a pile of rags. “Help yourself.”

That wouldn’t do; the rags were a long way from the Lincoln with the man in the middle. Simmons picked up a rag and walked along with it, rubbing ineffectually. He passed the man and approached the Lincoln. But out of the corner of his eye he saw that the clown was still watching him. “She don’t come off,” he said. “Y’all have some turpentine?”

“Beats me. I just started here.”

Rice’s replacement, Simmons guessed. From the looks of him, Manso would have his hands full.

“Ah’d look around,” he said, putting the plantation accent on, “but Ah’d shore hate to mess up the boss man’s things and all.”

“Yeah,” the bodyguard said. “Yeah, well. I suppose I could look. You said turpentine?”

When he turned, Simmons got the beeper from his pocket. It was two inches square and three-eighths of an inch thick, and it did something electronic that Simmons couldn’t understand. He bent over and stuck it to the underside of the Lincoln’s rear bumper. A magnet held it in place.

He was leaning against the garage door when Gleason turned to tell him there wasn’t any turpentine. Simmons thanked him and left. There was turps in the back of the truck, and he used some to get the damned gunk off his hand. By the time it was all off, Murdock was climbing down from his last tree.

One of the guards said, “You got a package, hand it over.”

“Has to be signed for.”

“So I’ll sign.”

Manso shook his head. “Personal delivery,” he said. “And it’s not a package, it’s a letter. It has to be signed for personal by Mr. Albert Platt.”

“Listen, I sign for everything. He’s a busy man, Mr. Platt. He don’t have time to see delivery boys.”

Manso straightened his cap. It was navy blue with a glossy plastic peak, and the badge on it said WELLS FARGO. Manso had bought the cap in a surplus store in Tenafly. He found the badge in the toy department at Kresge’s. The cap cost $1.69. The badge was supposed to cost 29¢, but there was a line at the cash register, so he just put it in his pocket.

Now he said, “Look, it’s only a job with me. I get my orders.”

“So do I, fella.”

“So I’ll just go back and tell the boss I couldn’t get through to Platt, and he’ll get on the phone, and you can explain to him why you never even bothered to let him know I was here.”

The other guard wagged the rifle at Manso. “You beat it,” he said. “You just get the hell—”

“Hold it, Jack. I’ll call, it can’t hurt.”

He picked up a phone. Manso didn’t try to hear the conversation. The guard put a hand over the mouthpiece. “He says is it from Lucarelli or what?”

“Nobody told me a name.”

The guard was on the phone for a few more seconds. Then he told Manso to get out of the car.

“I got to frisk you,” he said “Then we walk up to the house. The car stays here.”

“Sure.”

The frisk was cursory. The guard never even touched Manso’s arms. It wouldn’t have mattered if he did; the knife was now taped to the sole of his shoe. They walked together up the curving driveway to the house. The guard didn’t say anything and neither did Manso. He had a manila envelope in one hand, a receipt book in the other.

Platt was waiting in the entrance hall. The man at his side was built like a fireplug. Platt said, “Okay, kid, go ahead,” and the guard left the house. To Manso, Platt said, “What is this crap that I gotta sign for some letter?”

“Just doing my job, Mr. Platt.”

“Yeah. Well, hand it over.” Manso gave him the envelope and Platt looked at it without opening it, then thrust it into a pocket. “Now gimme your pad.”

“You have to read it first, Mr. Platt.”

“I have to what?”

Manso nodded. “What I was told. You have to sign that you received the letter and read it.”

“Who the hell sent this?”

“They didn’t tell me.”

He held his breath while Platt tore the end off the envelope, drew out the single sheet of paper. He looked at Platt, then at the man next to him, watching one for his reaction while estimating the force and speed of the other. The heavy didn’t look too bad, but Platt was a study. His face ran through a full range of emotions, registering surprise and shock and irritation and anger.

He said, “Okay, kid. Who’s this from?”

“Me.”

“You sent it yourself?”

“That’s right.”

“And the crap with the messenger outfit?”

“Just to get past the gate.”

“What the hell do you know about Buddy?”

“I listen close, I hear things.”

Platt turned to the fireplug. “Get this. ‘Mr. Platt: I am your new bodyguard and chauffeur. I can do anything Buddy Rice could do. Also I’m alive and he isn’t.’ I’ll be a son of a bitch.” To Manso he said, “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“It says in the letter. Your new bodyguard,”

“Somebody put you up to this?”

“No. My own idea.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not the best one you ever had. The job’s taken, punk. Now get your ass out of here.”

Manso nodded at the bodyguard. “Who’s he?”

“His name’s Buddy. Scram, punk.”

“Another Buddy?” He straightened, rested his weight on the balls of his feet. “I’ll tell you, Mr. Platt. You want me to go, tell Buddy here to throw me out.”

“Why?”

“Maybe he can’t.”