Donald Westlake - Smoke

"Where are you, man, in a tunnel?"

Jimmy was one of Freddie's younger siblings, so Freddie didn't have to take any shit. "No, I'm not in a tunnel," he said. "Is that why you called?"

"You sound like you're on one of those speakerphones or something."

"Well, I'm not. This is how I sound these days, is all." Through the eyeholes, he could see Peg wincing in sympathy, which made him feel a little better. He said, "I'll tell you all about it sometime, Jimmy. What's going on?"

"Well, I'm calling from a pay phone," Jimmy said.

Ah-hah. The message in that was that Jimmy wanted to tell him something that the law might want to know about, and Jimmy's own phone might be tapped, since Jimmy had also in the course of his life at times drawn himself to their attention. But, since Freddie's phone likewise might have additional listeners, Jimmy's comment was also a warning: Be careful what we both say here.

"Okay," Freddie said. "How's the weather out there, by your pay phone?"

"Not bad. You got one of those sting letters, sent to the folks' place."

Whoops. Again Freddie knew exactly what his brother was talking about. Whenever the cops wanted to round up a whole bunch of really stupid people who had warrants outstanding, they'd send out these letters, which had come to be known on the street as the Superbowl letters, because usually they told the recipient he'd won tickets to the Superbowl and all he had to do was come to such-and-such an address and pick them up. Instead of which, he was what would be picked up, by a lot of unfriendly cops. This was a real cull, sweeping the streets of the most boneheaded of the crooks, leaving a clearer field to everybody else.

On the other hand, it was kind of an insult to be sent one of those letters. Voice dripping scorn, hoping his phone was tapped, Freddie said, "I got tickets to the Superbowl."

"It wasn't exactly that," his brother said, "but you got the idea. I don't know what you been up to recently—"

"Nothing! There's no sheet out on me at all!"

But even while he was saying that, and just for that moment believing it, Freddie was also thinking, Those damn doctors ! Frankenstein and Frankenstein. They must have turned him in, and he must not have cleared away every last fingerprint from all the places he'd been in their damn house.

Meantime, Jimmy was saying, "Well, the folks got the letter, and it gave them a start, you know what I mean?"

"Tell them everything's fine, Jimmy, okay?"

"But is it? I mean, really? You know, just a yes or a no."

"Yes, Jimmy," Freddie said, and hung up, and said to Peg, "Let's get outta town for the summer."

18

At the end of 1993, Congress passed an obscure amendment to the tax law declaring that employer-provided free parking garage space worth more than $155 a month was to be treated as taxable income. The purpose of this obscure amendment was to skim just a little more off a few rich businessmen in New York and Los Angeles and Chicago, it never occurring to the good burghers of Congress that they receive from their employer — us — free parking garage space worth considerably more than $155 a month; have you ever tried to park near the Capitol? This fact, however, did not escape the notice of the IRS, no respecter of persons, so we can assume it's an amendment that won't be on the books for long.

In the meantime, however, the partners of Mordon Leethe's law firm were faced with an agonizing choice. Either pay the tax on their convenient parking spaces in the basement of their office building, or remove the glass from the barred high windows of the basement garage area, thus making the parking area one "exposed to the elements," thus presumably outdoors, thus worth less than $155 a month; whew, close one.

In June, the breeze wafting through the basement garage where Mordon parked his Mercedes was sweet and soft, redolent of the islands, or at least of the Cajun restaurant half a block away. Mordon locked his car — he also locked it inside his own garage, attached to his own house, in Oyster Bay — and as he turned toward the elevator a nearby car door slammed and there was Barney Beuler, the corrupt cop, striding fatly toward him, smiling that smug smile of his. (The man, did he but know it, was far more credible as a maоtre d' than a police officer.) "Good morning, Mr. Leethe," Barney crowed, pleased with himself. "Long time no see."

This was why Mordon locked his car. "How did you get in here?" he snapped.

Some men might have been insulted by such a greeting, but not Barney. "Are you kidding?" he said, and beamed more and more broadly in self-satisfaction. "I can get in anywhere I want."

"I thought you liked to be careful where you went," Mordon said, sour because he hadn't been looking forward to an encounter like this at the very beginning of the business day. "I thought you were worried about surveillance from — What do you call them? The police that police the police."

"Shooflys," Barney said, and grinned again, and pointed a thumb upward. "At this very moment," he said, "I am at my dentist's, in this building."

"When did he become your dentist?"

"Very recently."

The difference between Barney and me, Mordon told himself, and the reason I am automatically repelled by the man, is that when we meet, I am doing my job, but he is betraying his job. It makes all the difference. "What's this about, Barney?" he asked, and made a point of looking at his watch. "If you have news about that fellow Noon, why not get to me the normal way?"

"Because it isn't normal news," Barney said. Gesturing at Mordon's Rolex, he said, "You got nothing that won't keep. Come on and siddown a minute, lemme tell you a story."

Reluctant, but curious despite himself, Mordon followed Barney to a long black Lincoln, where Barney opened a rear door and gestured for Mordon to enter.

Mordon reared back to study the car. Connecticut plates. Chauffeur's cap on front passenger seat, on top of today's New York Post. Extraspacious rear seat, with TV. "This isn't your car."

"I never said it was. Get in, will ya?"

Mordon couldn't believe it. "It was unlocked?"

"Not when I got here. Come on, we don't wanna stand out here in the wind. You people oughta glass in those windows or something."

Mordon was not going to get into a discussion of tax law with Barney Beuler. Instead, he bowed forward and climbed into the Lincoln, sliding over on the black leather to make room. Barney settled in next to him, pulled the door shut, and leaned back with a sigh and a smile. "Not bad."

"Are you here to sell me this car?"

"That's one of the things I like about you, Mr. Leethe," Barney told him. "You're always a pistol, you never let up."

Mordon closed his mouth, observed Barney from a great distance, and waited.

Barney got it; he was always quick. "Right," he said, and looked out at the parking garage, then back to Mordon. "This fella Noon," he said. "He's an interesting guy."

"Just a little crook, you told me the other day."

"That's his record," Barney agreed. "Not even a blip on the old crime meter. But here you are taking an interest in him."

"My client is taking an interest in him."

"Even better. So this fella Noon, there's more to him than meets the eye."

Mordon permitted himself a wintry smile. "That's truer than you know."

"There's been no answer to our letter," Barney said.

"Surely he's gotten it by now." Today was Tuesday, and the letter had been sent last Thursday.

"Either he's not gonna get it," Barney said, "because his people don't know where he is, or he's too smart to fall for the stunt."

"This isn't what you're here to tell me."

"Last Wednesday," Barney said, "there was a break-in at a fur storage place out in Astoria. Looks like an inside job, nothing busted to get in, alarms switched off, a bunch of valuable mink coats just up and walk off the property. But the Burglary Squad takes prints, just to see if there's any strangers that the inside man let in, and there's our friend Fredric Urban Noon."