Chapter 39 – The Writer
Gale managed to get her clothes on, Jinny picked up the leftover pizza, and we headed down the back steps. As we went through the opening in the 150 year old brick wall that separates our properties Tommy said, “It’s 2am, we’ve been drinking, and we’re going to visit your neighbor?”
“He’s a writer so he leads a dull life, and likes hanging out with us. And his girlfriend’s out of the country, so he’s bored.”
We climbed the steps to Richard’s back porch and knocked. As he opened the door, from inside we heard, “If it’s the putz, don’t let him in.” Apparently the dog had resumed his antagonistic attitude towards Tommy.
Jinny handed the pizza box to Richard, while Gale said, “We came over so the putz can take a leak.”
Richard said, “Come again?”
The dog said, “What’s wrong with the garden, sarcasm dripping from each canine tooth.”
Tommy said, “Can I use your bathroom? Other than the kitchen, Gwenny’s house is on lockdown, and we’ve been drinking beer.”
“Out there and to the left.”
While Tommy was gone Richard said, “I take it this is the investigator? You’re drinking beer with someone whose mission is to put you in jail, and you invite him into your house, where you’ve stashed the valuable work of art you stole?” He looked at the dog and said, “I see what you mean; she’s lost it big time.”
“Pinched,” I said. “Not stole.”
Tommy came back into the kitchen and said, “Thanks, and nice to meet you. I’m Tommy Crown.”
“Westlake. Richard. Nice to meet you.”
I said to Richard, "Have some pizza."
He looked in the box, then looked at the dog and said, "It's veggie special. You want some?"
The dog said, "Gross. Where's the pepperoni?"
We sat around his kitchen table while Richard ate, each of us thinking the same thing: why had someone introduced this neighbor into the world of the telepathizing dog, and why had someone introduced the putz into that world? It hadn't been too long ago that that world was inhabited only by me and Roger. That was the long-standing code of the dog's ancestors, the need to know basis. Now, Gale and Jinny were in, which is not too big a stretch, them being full blown Junies, but why expand to these other two? And, of course, we now have the wild card hand, the straight flush of hands, Gwendy Bedgewood, gumming up the works. A little more expressiveness on her part and I just might end up in an orange jump suit for a few years. The dog had initiated Richard a few years ago because the dog had to have someone to talk to about our capers. Roger and I didn't like talking about them a lot; we're doers, not talkers. So the dog had to have someone to tell, and he started squealing to the writer, with predictable consequences, a string of books about us, thinly veiled. Strike one for the dog.
Then the dog had initiated Gale and Jinny in an effort to foil my designs on a platonic relationship with Tommy, them being friends of little faith in my will power, and the dog not constitutionally able to get out of the house and chaperone me and Tommy around town in the Mustang. Strike two for the dog. Now, in my kitchen, the putz also had been initiated by the dog (after first being alerted by me down at The Sanctuary). This string of events occurred to all of us at the same time, even Richard chomping away on the pizza, and we looked at the dog lying on the floor in front of the dishwasher.
Right after this crossed my mind I also realized I had used the word putz several times to describe my sandy haired blue eyed boy, and I thought, 'Is that a nice way to refer to Tommy? How had that insinuated itself into my mental and verbal lexicon? Why was the dog using it? What's the dog know of Yiddish slang? Charleston girls sit at the top of the heap of all southern women, the epitome of courtesy and decorum, so what's one of them doing using a word like that?' Maybe I better had consider rehab. Maybe a stint in the slammer would be good for me, get me back to my true self.
Anyway, everyone was waiting for the dog to take charge, the three of us being worthless sloshheads, and Richard, given his vocation, being inherently worthless; the dog to take charge and tell us what to do next, and, especially, figure out what to do with the p....Tommy, him now playing in the esoteric folds of canine telepathy.
While Richard ate, Jinny and Gale started looking around the kitchen for booze, didn't matter what kind, anything to keep the flames lit. I stared at the dog, waiting for action, but either he had turned sullen because there wasn't any meat pizza for him or he was just plain tired, it being 2am and him not having alcohol to serve as a temporary stimulant before modulating into a depressant. I watched his eyes droop closed and his head droop down until his chin rested on his crossed front legs. Richard finished the last slice of veggie special, moved the box from the table to the counter, washed his hands at the sink, and said, "I've started a new book, which always is very exciting. This one, especially."
Gale had found Richard's stash of vintage port in a cabinet, and without asking, busied herself with extracting the cork and pouring everyone (not the dog, who liked port even less than veggie pizza) a glass. Tommy said, "You're going to drink port on top of stingers and beer?"
Gale said, "Port is the king of wine, the ultimate finisher, and it's got brandy in it so it's not too far away from the stingers in composition. And I've got a feeling about two things: first is that the end of the binge is near, I think we're at the cracking point, and second, that Richard's going to spring something interesting on us that matches with port's regality."
We looked at Richard who said, "How'd you know? I think it's going to be interesting, and y'all may too." He paused, then went on, "The book is about the painting. The stolen painting. The one he's looking into," nodding at Tommy.
At this the dog opened one eye, said, "Oh, shit," and closed it again.
Gale said, "Wait a second. Books about stolen art aren't uncommon, a lot of people have written about that, but don't they wait until the crime is solved, so they can tell the whole story?"
I cringed at her use of the word crime. Roger and I commit heists, not crimes, just like we pinch things; we don't steal them.
Now Tommy spoke up, "Most of the time, yes, but not all the time. Sometimes people write about famous thefts that never have been solved, like the job at the Gardner Museum in Boston. $500 million dollars' worth of stuff and still missing."
Jinny said, "That ever happen to you? Someone write a book about you investigating an art theft?"
"Not a book, but a few magazine articles. Me solving the cases. I try to keep a low profile."
"Any articles about you not solving a case?"
Tommy looked at me and said, "Hasn't happened, yet."
Jinny said, "The article or the not solving?"
"Both. Or neither, however you want to look at it."
Gale didn't care either way but asked Richard, "How are you going to write a book about the painting that was stolen here, when no one knows anything about it? It just happened."
He said, "Who says no one knows about it?"
"But it hasn't been solved?"
"Who says it hasn't been solved?"
This got Tommy's attention big time, him thinking he was the only one who had solved the case. Partially solved it. It also got the dog's attention, it taking a lot when he goes into slumber mode, who opened both eyes this time, uncrossed his legs, and said to Richard, "You really want to go where you're going now? You got nothing better to do with your time?"
"Not really. What's better than writing caper novels?"
The dog said, "Ok, let's get it out in the open so we can start damage control. What's the game?"
Richard sipped on his port, Gale fiddled with the snap on her pants, feeling constrained, Jinny started thinking of places he could move the painting where no one would find it AND where Gwendy wouldn't go off the deep end, thinking she'd find a U Store It locker unacceptable, and wasn't sure he, we, could afford to rent a suite at the
Charleston Place Hotel for her, at four bills a night, for the long term, and I started to see what Anna, a physical and intellectual bombshell of a woman, saw in this writer guy. I sat back to listen. Somehow Tommy restrained himself from asking the questions that were on all of our tongues: who's solved the case, who stole it, where is it, what's going to happen next?
Richard responded to the dog and said, "Look, I'm not trying to be mysterious here, but I have sources, unusual sources that I trust, and that I think incrementally will provide me with information over the next few weeks about this deal, and that information will allow me to write the book serially, up to and including the ending."
I said, "That's pretty mysterious. What's it mean?"
"Ok, think of it this way: it's like a game of chess. A series of moves are made, and at some point a great player can see the endgame. He or she can deduce the conclusion from the moves that have been made, and from this he or she can make the remaining moves that lead to the end. Same with me here. Moves have been made, and more will be made over the next few weeks, and I will become aware of them and write them as chapters in the book, and will publish them serially in a suitable forum."
Jinny asked, "How will you become aware of the next moves?"
"Umm, I think I'll keep that secret for now. But, that's not all; that's not the whole game I want to play."
Tommy said, "There's more?"
"I'm going to start with the last chapter. The end. I'm going to write that first, and publish it in a place where I can't change it, but where no one can read it until the entire game is over. And I'm going to publicize this as a contest, a challenge, where people can challenge me to write the course of the heist (thank you, Richard, for your word choice, I appreciate that) leading up to the ending. If I don't get it right, I pay those who have challenged me. If I do get it right, they pay me. I'm looking to gambol a little, making the whole thing interesting."
There wasn't a lot of discussion after that. Maybe it was the 3am hour, maybe all the booze had destroyed most of our brain cells, maybe we really couldn't fathom Richard's scheme, or maybe all of us were afraid of the outcome. Finally the dog earned his keep, getting up and nosing each of us with his muzzle, not nipping at us like before, but moving us towards the back door and home. Back through the brick wall we went, and when we were in my back yard again he separated me from the others. "You," he said, "upstairs. Alone." He turned back to Gale, Jinny, and Tommy, saying, "Go home. Get outta here. Stop causing trouble. No sleepovers here tonight. Enough's enough."
No one contested the order, and they disappeared around the corner of the house and down the driveway to Church Street. I dragged myself up the stairs and into the house, where I said, "You expect that from Richard? You see it coming?"
The dog shook his head and said, "Came from outta the blue. Didn't know he had it in him."
"Anna knows. Guess that's why she likes him."
"Yeah, I see that now; she was way ahead of us. Now he pulled this one, I didn't think things could get any crazier."
"Goodnight," I said. "It's been an interesting couple of days."
"For you maybe. The meatloaf was the high point for me."