"Westlake, Donald E - Dortmunder 09 - What's the Worst That Could Happen 4.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Westlake Donald E)

"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."

2

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.