Meatheads. Eating the sandwich—ham and swiss on sourdough, with honey mustard and mayo, not bad—Dortmunder brooded at the room, this solid cube he was shut inside.

How?

53

WHEN HE HEARD THE clink of his pen as it hit the floor, Monroe Hall immediately dropped the metal rod onto the windowsill against the plywood, slid the window shut, and was halfway across the room, glaring, when the door opened and the five buffoons in their varied masks marched in.

“What now?” he demanded, hoping one of them would talk. He needed to hear that voice again, the one he knew damn well he’d heard somewhere in the past. Some unpleasant association, but that didn’t help much; most of his conversations the last few years had involved unpleasant associations.

But they didn’t speak, none of them. The one wearing a Frankenstein head carried a laptop, and the one in the green ski mask with the elks carried a folded sheet of paper, which he extended toward Hall.

Hall backed away, not taking the paper. “You people are in a great deal of trouble,” he said. “You can make it easier for yourselves if you release me now. The longer this goes on—”

Ski Mask moved forward, waving the piece of paper in his face, insisting he take it. Hall folded his arms. “If you want to talk to me,” he said, “talk to me.”

In the background, Frankenstein had started a whispered conversation with Bandit’s Bandanna, who nodded. So did Paper Bag and the Lone Ranger. Hall, trying to keep an eye on everybody at once while ignoring the sheet of paper, watched Frankenstein and Bandit come this way, passing to either side of Ski Mask. Abruptly, they grabbed Hall’s arms, ran him backward, and forced him to sit down hard on the bed.

“What are you—What are you doing?”

Frankenstein and Bandit stood to each side of him, to hold him in place. Ski Mask stepped forward, opened the piece of paper, and held it in front of Hall’s face.

Hall knew when to quit. “All right,” he said. “All right, I’ll read it. You can let me go, I’ll read it by myself.”

So they let him go. Ski Mask handed him the paper, and he read:

“Not a chance.”

He glared at them, and they stood in a semicircle, observing him, waiting to see what he would do. He said, “I will not, now or ever, while you people hold on to me, access anything except nine-one-one. You people must have a very low opinion of me, I must say.”

They looked at one another. A couple of them shrugged, and then they all turned away and moved toward the door.

Hall popped to his feet. “Make your own money!” he shouted at their backs. “Don’t come sniveling to me!”

Out the door they went, carrying the laptop, shut the door, and the key turned in the lock.

Immediately Hall went looking for his pen, which he found against the baseboard, where the door had pushed it when they came in. It was his warning system. Once again, the same as last time, he inserted the end of the pen into the keyhole, balancing it there just far enough inside not to fall back out again, and also far enough inside to be nudged by a key as it was inserted from the other side. The idea had served him well already, and he was sure it would serve him well again.

Alarm system in place, he turned back to the window he’d been working at, and all at once the lights went out.

Oh, yes? In the dark, he made his way around the bed and found the bathroom doorway, and tried the light switch there, and that was also out.

It was really pitch black in here, and of course it would go on being pitch black, night and day. He could see their idea. They had no intention of feeding him, of course, and they would leave him alone here in the dark, making their demands until hunger and sense deprivation should force him to go along.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen. Hall had triumphed over tougher adversaries than these amateurs. He didn’t need light, not for what he had to do.

In the dark, he moved along the wall until he found the window he wanted. He opened it, reached in, and found the rod where he’d dropped it. This was a strong piece of metal about eight inches long, one inch wide, and a quarter inch thick. It had been part of the flushing system in his toilet. He’d have to flush by hand now, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Not for as long as he intended to be in this place.

He’d be happier with a larger tougher prybar, but this one would do. Slowly, patiently, relentlesly, he prodded the space between the window frame and the plywood sheeting. Infinitesimally, he could feel it give way. He had no idea how much longer he worked on it, but then all at once he became aware of a difference in the air, a hint of smell, a sense of movement.

Outside air. It was a start.

54

IT WAS PANIC THAT saved Flip’s bacon, panic and nothing more.

The trouble was, it had never occurred to him that once “Jay Gilly” kidnapped Monroe Hall, the person who had recommended Jay Gilly to Monroe Hall would attract the attention of the police. After all, he wouldn’t be anywhere around the Hall compound when the deed was done, but would have a solid alibi, being miles away with a client. Thus, it had come as a real shock when the police came beating on his office door at seven that evening. A shock that should have ruined him but that ultimately saved his bacon.

He was in his office at that hour to videotape his step-board routine for the exercise DVD he planned eventually to release. All at once, a pounding at the door to the front office threw him off his stride, and initially just made him angry. Switching off the camera, fuming, ready to give somebody a good tongue-lashing, he stomped through from the gym to the office, yanked open the door, glared at the two men in suits and ties standing there, and barked, “Now what?”

They both held up small leather folders with shiny things inside. “Police,” one of them said. “Alphonse Morriscone?”

He almost fainted. He nearly fell down in an absolute swoon. He never sweat while doing his routines, but now great beads of perspiration popped out all over him like a tapioca pudding, and he said, “Puh-puh-puh—”

“We’d like a moment of your time,” the same man said, but he said it in a very disagreeable threatening manner, as though what he really were saying was, “You’re under arrest and you’ll never be a free man again.”

“Well, I–I don’t see—I mean, why would—”

“If we could step inside, Mr. Morriscone.”

“I, I, I—”

Somehow, they were inside. Somehow, they were all seated in his office, the talking policeman behind the desk, Flip in the client’s chair facing him, the other policeman in the folding chair from the closet. The talking policeman said, “Tell me about Jay Gilly, Mr. Morriscone.”

“Oh, my God!”

They both looked alert. “Yes, Mr. Morriscone?”

“I–I—who?”

“You heard us, Mr. Morriscone.”

Deny everything. No, it’s too late, they already know. Deny everything anyway. “I don’t, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what, Mr. Morriscone?”

“Jay Gilly.” Sweat ran into Flip’s eyes, but he was afraid to blink.

“Is that so?” The talking policeman smirked. “And yet somehow,” he said, “you introduced Jay Gilly to a client of yours, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“Oh, my God.” Too late to deny everything. “Oh, Mr. Hall.”

“You remember now, do you? You don’t know Jay Gilly, and yet somehow you introduced him to Monroe Hall, didn’t you? Didn’t you, Mr. Morriscone?”