Donald Westlake - Smoke

Freddie had not had that much experience maneuvering a monster this large around streets as small and narrow and bumpy as those in the West Village. Every time he made a turn, at least one tire climbed the curb. That he didn't hit any parked cars was a miracle. Peg, trailing along behind him, had to keep closing her eyes and waiting for the crash that never came.

But then Freddie saw it, out ahead; the old railroad line, the black iron terrace of the Nibelungs, a black bridge spanning the street from one nineteenth-century brick factory to another, with the murky expanse of New York Bay in the background, beneath a clouded sky.

That creature hulking in the deeper darkness under the span was more than likely Jersey Josh; the truck's headlights somehow seemed to avoid shining directly on him. The two guys with him maybe actually were Nibelungs: brutish, nasty, and short.

Freddie wasn't used to thinking in terms of the height of the vehicle he was driving, so it wasn't until later, after he was out of the truck, that he realized that, when he'd driven under the railroad bridge, he'd had less than three inches' clearance. Which, of course, was as good as a mile.

In any event, Freddie drove the truck under the bridge and beyond, stopping with just the very rear of the trailer still underneath. Then, as he climbed down from the cab, feeling very stiff and sore after all that time in the same unnatural position, Peg drove the van into the narrow lane left between the truck and the line of parked cars at the curb, and stopped next to Jersey Josh, who was standing between cars, frowning at the big trailer as though he'd expected something smaller, maybe pocket-size.

"Hi, Josh," Peg said.

Josh looked at her and said nothing. The two henchmen — born henchmen, those two — stood back on the sidewalk, near the chain-link gate, and said nothing. Freddie approached, in his Dick Tracy head and Playtex gloves.

Perky as she could be, Peg said, "You got the money, Josh?"

"Check," Josh said.

Peg shook her head. "We don't take checks, Josh," she said.

He pointed a blunt and filthy finger at the trailer. "Check truck ."

Freddie had reached them by now. "Josh," he said, "you know it's all there. Everything you asked for. In fact, even two extra washing machines. I'm throwing them in for free."

Josh turned his head to look toward Freddie's voice, and then recoiled at what he saw, bouncing his butt off the hood of the car behind him. "What U?" he cried.

Freddie waved a Playtexed hand at the henchmen. "You trust these guys because they're your pals," he said, which was patent nonsense. "But do I know them? No. So I don't want those guys to know who I am."

"I know who you are," one of the henchmen said. "You're Dick Tracy."

The other henchman said, "How come a cop?"

"If a real cop stops me," Freddie explained, "he'll think I'm on his side."

"Gloves," Josh pointed out, pointing at them.

"Fingerprints."

Josh shook his head, bewildered as usual by the antics of the human race.

"Money," Peg said, extending a graceful arm out of the van.

Josh ignored her. Pointing his right hand at the truck and his left hand at Freddie, he said, "Back in." Then pointed both hands at the chain-link fence, which one of the henchmen was now unlocking.

The other henchman stepped forward and said, "We'll move these cars, they're ours," meaning the ones blocking entrance to the dungeon.

But Freddie said, "Not me, Josh. You got guys know how to baby these babies. I couldn't back one of these monsters anywhere if I had to."

"Deal," Josh said.

"No, Josh. The deal is I bring it here. You want me to back that up? I'll knock the whole building down, the first thing you know you'll have cops here, wanting to know what's going on."

It's the little things that change history. Josh had been prepared to honor his side of the bargain, but on the other hand, Freddie and Peg had bested him in a couple of encounters recently, leaving a bad taste in his mouth in addition to the bad taste that was always there. Also, one was always up for betrayal, if the situation looked promising. And now Freddie wouldn't back up the truck.

"No deal," Josh said.

"You mean, you want me to take the truck away?"

"It stay."

"We keep the truck," said one of the henchmen, catching on fast.

" You go away," said the other henchman, also a quick study.

Peg said, "Without our money?"

Josh gave her a nasty smile. "Revenge," he said.

Both henchmen drew pistols from under their Hawaiian shirts. "Maybe," one of them said, "we keep the broad."

Freddie said, "Josh, you got three seconds to get smart."

Josh looked at him in gloomy satisfaction. "U could die," he said.

"Peg," Freddie said, "go around the block," and he was already ripping off the head and gloves when he dove down and went rolling under the trailer.

The henchmen shouted, as Peg accelerated, and Josh missed her wrist by a millimeter. The van went tearing away down the block. The henchmen ran around both ends of the truck. Josh bent to peer under the trailer, seeing nothing, hauling out his own very old and well-used pistol, just in case Freddie decided to come rolling back.

The henchmen met at the far side, and stood over a pile of clothing on the sidewalk there. "He's naked," one of them said.

"Duhhh," the other one said, and fell down.

The first henchman stared. It was a brick, is what it was, a big dirty brick, waving around in the air all on its own, and now it was coming after him. He backed away, stumbling over Freddie's clothes, dropping to one knee in his panic, and took a shot up at the damn brick, and the bullet zipped away up into the understructure of the railroad, binging and caroming off the metal up there for quite a while.

With a moan, the henchman dropped his pistol, swung about, and tried to escape on all fours, which meant he didn't have far to drop, when he dropped.

Josh remained crouched on the other side of the trailer. He could hear activity over there, but didn't know what it meant. Then there was a shot, which he didn't like; if there were seven or eight more like that, somebody might call the cops. But then there was silence, which was better, but not informative. Josh waited, and waited, and then something cold and hard touched his right cheek, and when he rolled his eyes down and to the right, it was a gun barrel. He froze.

"Josh, I'm beginning to lose patience with you."

Freddie, behind him somehow. Where were the henchmen? Josh remained frozen.

"Straighten up, Josh."

Josh did so.

"Do you even have the money, you jerk?"

"In car," Josh said, moving nothing but his arm as he pointed away to his right and behind him, at one of the cars blocking access to the gate.

"Is it locked?"

"Dough no. Not mine."

The van returned then, having circled the block, and stopped next to Josh. Peg said, "Freddie, is that you?"

"Yeah. My clothes are the other side of the trailer, would you get them?"

"Sure."

While Peg got out of the van and trotted away, Josh stared and blinked at the side of the trailer, stared and blinked, afraid to turn around. Freddie was naked? Why?

Peg came back with the pile of rumpled laundry and latex and tossed it into the van, then said, "Now what?"

"He says the money's in the car there. Is it locked?"

Peg went over and tested. "No."

"Trusting."

"There's three big manila envelopes on the backseat."

"F!" cried Josh. "F! F!"

Peg said, "One of the envelopes has an F on it."

"Freddie!" cried Josh.

"Is there money in it?"

"There's money in all three."

"Take them all."

"Just F!" Because the other two envelopes contained the extra sixty thousand earmarked — or dogeared — for Josh.