What's The Worst That Could Happen Part 17

They went on through the mall, unseen, and out to the promenades that connected all the buildings. The hotel was down to their right, the Watergate Water dead ahead. The buildings all around them were thoroughly balconied, to take advantage of the river views, and the balcony railings were composed of rows of s.p.a.ced vertical white concrete stanchions, looking from the distance like very serious teeth, so that from down here the buildings were stacks of sharks' jawbones, one atop the other, all those teeth sticking straight up.

Kelp looked up at the balconies of Watergate East, North and said, "Hey."

Dortmunder looked up. "What?"

"She's gone now."

"Who?"

"There was a woman up there, leaning over the balcony, gotta be right near where we're going tonight, she looked like Anne Marie."

"Couldn't be," Dortmunder said. "The hotel's over there."

"I know. She just looked like. Well... from this distance."

"And you probably don't really know her looks yet," Dortmunder pointed out, and added, "She's a good sport, isn't she."

"I sure hope so," Kelp said. "Let's look at that garage some more."

A little after three, they got back to Dortmunder's room, and May wasn't there. "Maybe they're both in my room," Kelp said, and phoned, but there was no answer. So they sat down at the round table near the balcony and the view - from here, up close, the teeth looked like a highway divider - and went over the notes they'd taken, the kinds of locks they'd seen, the internal TV monitors they'd noted, the posts and routes of the security personnel. They didn't have information, of course, about the actual apartment and the lay of the land up there, but that would come later, when they went in.

About fifteen minutes after they'd arrived, May and Anne Marie came in, grinning, and Kelp said, "Hey, there. Have a good time?"

"Pretty good," Anne Marie said, and May dropped on the round table in front of them a bunch of Polaroid pictures.

Kelp picked up one of the pictures and looked at it. A curving hall with round nearly flush ceiling lights. Gray patterned wallpaper, shiny brown wood doors, a kind of mauve carpet with a big complex medallion on it every ten feet or so. A red-lettered exit sign some distance away around the curve. Kelp said, "What's this?"

"The hall outside the apartment where you're going," May told him, and pointed. "That's the door to it right there."

Anne Marie touched a couple of other pictures, saying, "This is an apartment just like the one where you're going, only it's two floors down. But it's the same layout."

Dortmunder and Kelp went through the pictures. Interiors, exteriors, balcony shots, elevator shots. Kelp said, "What is all this?"

"We thought it might help," May said.

Anne Marie said, "We weren't doing anything else, so what the heck."

Kelp said, "So that was you, up on the balcony."

"Oh, did you see me?"

Anne Marie smiled. "You should have waved."

Stunned, Dortmunder said, "May? How did you do this?"

"Turns out," May said, "there's only certain special real estate agents are permitted to list the apartments here, because it's all co-ops. So every Sunday afternoon, between noon and three, there's open house."

"It's over now," Anne Marie said.

"The way it works," May explained, "you go to the desk downstairs and check in - "I used my real name and ID," Anne Marie said.

"There didn't seem to be any harm in it," May said. "Anyway, after a couple minutes a real estate agent comes and gets you and rides up in the elevator with you and tells you what's available, and asks what you're interested in."

"There's a lot of people at this open house," Anne Marie said. "I got the idea a bunch of them are people already living there in that building, they just want to snoop around in their neighbors' apartments."

"So after you've looked at a couple places," May went on, "you just tell the real estate agent thank you, I can find the elevator on my own, and you leave. And it's okay because she's got half a dozen other people she's showing around."

"So then you take the stairs," Anne Marie continued, "and go wherever you want. If we knew how to pick locks, we could have gone right into that apartment you fellas want, and took pictures all over the place."

Dortmunder and Kelp looked at each other, their mouths open. "If I'd known," Dortmunder said, "I could have gone in there, done what they said, got into the apartment, and just wait for that son of a b.i.t.c.h to show up."

"That would have been very nice," Kelp agreed.

"It's over now," May said. "It's after three."

Anne Marie said, "But they do it every Sunday."

"Next Sunday," Dortmunder said, "Fairbanks isn't gonna be here, and neither are we."

He sighed, then more or less squared his shoulders. "Okay," he said. "No use crying over spilt blood. We can still get in, no problem."

"When?" Kelp asked him.

"Early," Dortmunder said. "If he isn't there yet, we'll wait for him. We'll have an early dinner, the four of us, then you and me'll go in. Nine o'clock. We'll go in at nine."

34.

Sunday, 9:00 P. m. Max should have left hours ago for DC, but he was restless, troubled in his mind. So many things had gone so badly lately. Two burglaries. The loss of the Carrport house. The added complications of the bankruptcy, difficulties he had never antic.i.p.ated. The insane detective in New York who so clearly believed that Max had arranged to burglarize his own homes, and who seemed perfectly capable of rooting around in Max's affairs until he did find something illegal that Max might have done. It was all as though some black cloud were hovering above his head, confusing him, keeping him off-balance.

Nine P. M. The Hilton Head condo was dark and empty, except for himself in the s.p.a.cious living room, seated on the broad canvas sofa, the table lamps on both end tables the only illumination. The secretary who had been here to help him with his statement before the congressional committee tomorrow, among other things, had come and gone, leaving him alone in the house. In a guest cottage half a mile away, a nameless chauffeur awaited his call, already well overdue. Here in the condo air-conditioning hummed, and beyond the broad uncurtained front windows stretched the wide porch, the regular narrow pickets of the porch rail, and then the Atlantic, extending far out eastward under a pale moon and a black sky, the sea's black surface glinting here and there and over here, as though tiny men in black armor were creeping ever closer.

Open on the gla.s.s coffee table in front of him was The Book, the I Ching. He'd been reading it, dipping in here and there, hoping for general guidance, somehow reluctant to open the door to his own particular situation. But why? He'd never been afraid to know his destiny before. That destiny, whatever by way of destiny he might still have out ahead of himself, was all lagniappe anyway, a treat from the master of the house, an extra serving of dessert, a long and delicious overtime following the brief harsh course he was supposed to have led. So why be afraid now? I'm not, he decided, and reached for the three shiny pennies on the gla.s.s coffee table, and six clattering tosses later - loud, the copper pennies on the gla.s.s - he had his current reading, this moment in his life, and there was Tui! His own Joyous trigram, in the upper half of the hexagram, with the only moving line at the base of it, the nine in the fourth place. The lower trigram was Chen, the Arousing, Thunder, and the number of the hexagram was 17, and its name was Following.

Following? Max had never seen himself as following, as being a follower. Could it mean those who followed Max? And if so, was it for good or for ill? Could the follower be the New York detective, Klematsky? Could it be that hapless burglar? Could it be the d.a.m.n bankruptcy judge, d.o.g.g.i.ng his tracks? Max bent over The Book, studying its words. Following, the Judgment: "Following has supreme success. Perseverance furthers. No blame."

Yes, yes, he knew The Book well enough by now to furnish the words it would customarily elide. What the judgment meant was, no blame would accrue to Max if he persevered, but in this situation (whatever this situation was) perseverance was linked with the concept of following, and it was only in understanding the link between the two that he could succeed.

Maybe the Image would clarify things: The Image Thunder in the middle of the lake: The image of FOLLOWING.

Thus the Superior man at nightfall Goes indoors for rest and recuperation.

Hmmm. The Book often spoke of the superior man, and Max naturally a.s.sumed it was always referring to himself. When it said the superior man takes heed, Max would take heed. When it said the superior man moves forward boldly, Max would move forward boldly. But now the superior man goes indoors? At nightfall? It was nightfall, and he was indoors.

Max read on. The explications given by the editors of The Book, sometimes very helpful, seemed to him this time merely reductive. Following and its image, they suggested, merely meant that in life one time followed another time, and when it was the appropriate time to stop working and get some rest the superior man would stop working and get some rest. But here was Max at Hilton Head, where he'd been romping quite successfully with a compliant secretary. Did he need to be told, at this moment, to stop working and get some rest? Or was The Book simply pointing out his present situation, like a map mounted in a public s.p.a.ce, featuring an arrow with the notation You ARE HERE? If so, then the moving line would be the significance. Nine in the fourth place: Following creates success.

Perseverance brings misfortune.

To go one's way with Sincerity brings clarity.

How could there be blame in this? Oh, well, really, what's all that supposed to mean? A minute ago, perseverance furthered. Now the editors say this line means the superior man should see through sycophants, which was hardly Max's problem.

In another part of The Book, there was more about the meaning of the lines, first quoting a bit of the line and then glossing it: "Following creates success": this bodes misfortune.

"To go one's way with Sincerity": this brings clear-Sighted deeds.

And what do the editors have to say about this, when success is equated with misfortune? Max read, and pondered, and began to see what they meant, and he didn't like it at all.

What The Book was saying to him was that he had succeeded in getting somebody to follow him that he didn't want following him; the line is in the wrong place. There's danger in being followed this way, all kinds of trouble, and the way to avoid it is to see clearly. To see the follower clearly.

Who? Detective Klematsky sprang to mind. Should Max try to exert pressure at the NYPD, have Klematsky replaced by somebody less insane? Or would that just make more trouble than before? And what if the follower isn't Klematsky after all, but is, for instance, the bankruptcy judge, Mainman? How could he see the follower clearly if he didn't know which follower it was? Max had known he felt beleaguered, and now he knew why. He was being trailed somehow, followed by somebody, and he could feel it, sense it. But who? This isn't enough information, Max decided, and tossed the coins again. You could approach The Book two or three times in a row this way, before the information would reduce to gibberish. And this time he got - wait a minute, Tui again, his own trigram, but now at the bottom of the hexagram. And once more the other trigram was Chen, the Arousing, Thunder, this time on the top. The previous hexagram had come back to him, inverted, with again only one moving line, this time the nine in the second position.

The number of the hexagram was 54, and its name was the Marrying Maiden, and Max felt a chill go up his back, and thought about turning down the air conditioning.

The Marrying Maiden. He'd never been led to that hexagram before, but in his reading of The Book he'd come across it several times, and he'd noticed how unpleasant it was, and he'd always been glad when 54 had not come up.

But now it had. Hexagram 54, what are you? The Judgment THE MARRYING MAIDEN.

Undertakings bring misfortune.

Nothing that would further.

Good G.o.d. It was some undertaking of his, something he had done, that had brought about this mess. What was it? What had he done? The Carrport visit? Was it that d.a.m.n judge after all? With fingers that now trembled a bit, Max turned the page to read the image of this hexagram: The Image Thunder over the lake: The image of THE MARRYING MAIDEN. Thus the Superior man Understands the transitory In the light of the eternity of the end.

The eternity of the end! Wait, wait, wait a minute here. Why bring death into this? Yes, of course, Max had al ways laughed at death, had always said, and always believed, because of course it was true, that his own life was an afterthought, a joke, a cosmic error, that he was supposed to have been snuffed out long ago, lifeless in the first dew of his youth, but that didn't mean, that doesn't mean, that doesn't mean he wants to die. What is this, all of a sudden? What exactly is he being warned about here? Is there actually an a.s.sa.s.sin following him? Has some enemy there are enemies, oh, G.o.d, there are enemies - hired a killer to stalk him? But we're all businessmen here, aren't we, all rational people? Our weapons of choice are attorneys and accountants, not a.s.sa.s.sins. Still, could it be that someone was driven too close to the edge, has someone's sanity snapped, is there a murderer coming? That window ahead of him, with its black view of the black ocean, how exposed it is. How exposed he is, here in this double halo of light from the lamps flanking this sofa, like two shotgun barrels firing at once.

What an image! Max ducked his head, blinked at the page of The Book, tried to concentrate, tried to read the editors' comments, tried to find the loophole.

So hard to concentrate, so hard to read. And what namby-pamby is this from the editors? It might as well be out of Ann Landers. No, worse, Joyce Brothers. They say, these Hallmark level editors, they say this terrifying image of the superior man understanding the transitory in the light of the eternity of the end, they say it simply means friends should avoid misunderstandings that will make their relationships turn sour.

Oh, please. How can they say such a thing? Max read and read, time going by, the pages turning this way and that, and finally he calmed enough to realize that the hexagram of the Marrying Maiden was at its literate level simply about the ways in which a girl adapts herself to her bridegroom's household, the difficulties and delicacies of being low woman on the totem pole in a traditional Chinese family.

Still, even though that was the literal meaning of what he'd just read, the whole point of the I Ching was to adapt the concrete imagery of its hexagrams to the specifics of one's own life. Max Fairbanks was no blushing bride, cowed by her new mother-in-law. So what could this mean? Somehow, he had entered into a relationship the way a bride enters into a relationship with her new husband's family, fraught with peril. Once she accepts the ring - No. It can't be.

Max stared at The Book, stared at the pennies, stared at the window, which had become opaque with a rise in humidity outside, a pa.s.sing mist, so that what he saw was his own startled self, squat on the sofa.

The burglary at the N-Joy.

He returned to the Carrport house.

He knows where I am. Well, of course he does, everybody knows where I am, the newspapers know where I am. And he's following me, because he wants this ring.

He can't have it. Max looked at the ring, glinting and winking on his finger. It felt so good there, so warm, so right. This is my trigram! The Watergate apartment. He expects me to be there, next.

I could still be wrong, he thought, trying to soothe himself. It could still be something else, anything else. There's still more to the answer, there's the one moving line that I haven't consulted yet, the nine in the second place. That could change everything.

Max turned the page. He bent his head over The Book. He read the two sentences, then read them again, then looked up at himself in the window.

It's about him. The Book has done it again, and I can't argue. First it described me, as I am at this moment. Then it described the situation that was coming closer to me. Then it pointed to the person who had caused that situation. And now it says what that person is doing: Nine in the Second place means: A one-eyed man who is able to See.

The perseverance of Solitary man furthers.

He's coming to get me.

35.

"John! Ssshhh! John! Wake up! Pssst! John! Ssshhh!"

"I'm awake, I'm awake," Dortmunder grumbled, and opened his eyes to look at a color-deprived room with the lights on dim.

Andy was leaning over him, still jostling his shoulder. "You fell asleep, John," he said.

"What gives you that idea?"

Dortmunder sat up to put his feet over the edge of the bed, and looked around. It was a big bed with a big soft spread on it. His shoes were on the tan wall-to-wall carpet. The room looked like it should be in the Carrport house. "What time is it?"

"A quarter to five. He isn't coming, John."

"Sure he's coming," Dortmunder said. "He's got to talk to Congress tomorrow. Today. You don't stand up Congress."

"He isn't coming here at quarter to five in the morning, John. You want a cup of coffee?"

"Yes."

"You want some breakfast?"

"Yes."

Andy went away at last, and Dortmunder got up from the bed, creaking a lot, and went over into the bathroom, where there was a fresh toothbrush in the medicine chest, along with many other little amenities.

This was some apartment. Two large bedrooms, each with its own full bath, plus a long living room, a pretty good compact kitchen, a smallish dining room, and a half bath off the hall between living room and bedrooms. Also off the living room was one of those balconies with all the concrete teeth, providing a view of Virginia's low hills over the river. The design throughout was like the inoffensive design at Carrport, except this was much more basic and minimal, without the antiques and little fineries that would fit so nicely into the pocket of a pa.s.sing wayfarer. There was d.a.m.n-all here to steal, if it came to that. Unless you felt like roaming the halls with a television set in your arms, which they didn't at all feel like doing, you could leave this place starved for a sense of accomplishment.

The lights had been on all over the apartment, turned low, when they'd arrived, so they'd left them like that. It made it easy to move around the place, and wouldn't startle Fairbanks when he arrived. Except the son of a b.i.t.c.h wasn't arriving.

In the dining room, also dimly lit, Andy had set a nice spread at one end of the table, toast and jam and b.u.t.ter and orange juice and milk and coffee. "Looks good," Dortmunder admitted, as he sat down.

"There was Cheerios," Andy said, "but it had little bugs in it."