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

"Thanks, May," Dortmunder said, and the phone rang.

May gave it a look. "There's June now," she said. "Wondering did I get the package, do I love the ring, do I remember the good old days."

"I'll take it," Dortmunder offered. "You aren't here, but I'll take a message."

"Perfect."

But of course this didn't necessarily have to be May's sister calling, so Dort- munder answered the phone in his normal fashion, frowning massively as he said into the thing, with deep suspicion, "Hello?"

"John. Gus. You wanna make a little visit?"

Dortmunder smiled, so May would know it wasn't her sister on the phone, and also because what he had just heard was easily translated: Gus was Gus Brock, a longtime associate in this and that, over the years, from time to time. A visit meant a visit to a place where nobody was home but you didn't leave empty-handed. "Sounds possible," he said, but then caution returned, as he remembered that Gus had described it as a little visit. "How little?"

"Little trouble," Gus said.

"Ah."

That was better. "Where?"

"A little town out on Long Island you never heard of, called Carrport."

"Now there's a coincidence," Dortmunder said, and looked at Uncle Gid's lucky ring, nestled on his finger. Seemed as though the luck had already started. "That town owes me one."

"Yeah?"

"Doesn't matter," Dortmunder said.

"When do you want to make this visit?"

"How about now?"

Ah.

"There's a seven twenty-two train from Grand Central. We'll make our own arrangements, coming back."

Even better. The location of the visit should include a vehicle of some sort, which could be made use of and then turned into further profit. Nice.

Seven twenty-two was an hour and twelve minutes from now. "See you on the train," Dortmunder said, and hung up, and said to May, "I like your Uncle Gid."

"This is the right distance to like him from," she agreed.

3

If Caleb Hadrian Carr, whaler, entrepreneur, importer, salvager, sometime pirate, and, in his retirement, New York State legislator, could see today the town he'd founded and named after himself on the south shore of Long Island back in 1806, he'd spit. He'd spit brimstone, in fact.

Long Island, a long and narrow island east of New York City, has taken as its standard Bishop Reginald Heber's famous maxim, "Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile."

Once a pleasantly wooded landmass of low hills and white beaches, well-watered by many small streams, populated by industrious Indians and myriad forest creatures, Long Island today is a Daliscape of concrete and tickytack, all its watches limp.