361 - Donald E. Westlake [46]
After fifteen or twenty minutes, the one whose doctor wouldn’t let him drink came out on the dock and stood leaning against the side of the boathouse. He lit a cigarette and threw the match in the water and looked at nothing across the water for a couple minutes. Then he turned to me and said, “You’re gimpy, aren’t you?”
I said, “Yes.”
“Fall off your scooter?”
I looked at him. He was grinning. I said, “No.”
“Oh,” he said. “I see. You don’t talk much, do you? You’re the strong silent type.”
I hadn’t heard any voices from upstairs for the last couple minutes. But I didn’t look up. I got to my feet and folded the chair and hit him in the stomach with it. He bent over and I hit him on the back of the head with it. When he fell I rolled him off into the water. Then I looked up at the watching faces and said, “Satisfied?”
Kapp was grinning. So was the other guy. Rovito nodded. He said, “So-so.”
I started to go inside. Rovito called, “Hey, what about Joe?”
I looked up. “What about him?”
“Aren’t you gonna help him out of the water?”
“No. I wasn’t playing. I don’t play.” Then I went in and up to my room and got the bottle from under the bed.
I heard them go by, on their way down to help Joe out of the water.
Twenty
Two more came Monday night, and the phone rang a few times, announcing more who were staying at motels around on the other side of the lake. By Tuesday afternoon, ten of them had moved into the house. I spent most of the time in my room. Whenever anyone opened the door by mistake, they said, “Oh, excuse me,” and backed out again. Nobody asked me who I was, and I wasn’t introduced to anybody. But they knew.
Appalachin had taught a lesson, though these weren’t the same people. But they came in on different highways from different directions. No two cars stopped at the same restaurant or the same motel. They traveled in no convoys.
Wednesday night, eleven o’clock, they had the meeting. Cadillacs clogged the road. Only two of them had New York plates. One had Florida, and one California. Some of the chauffeurs stayed with the cars, some came down to the house.
The two large rooms facing the lake on the top floor had been fixed up for the meeting. All the chairs and tables from all over the house were in those rooms, plus all the ashtrays and wastebaskets. The refrigerator was full of nothing but beer and ice. House of Lords lined the cupboards. The early arrivals played poker while they waited.
Kapp came down to my room at ten-thirty. He was wearing one of the black suits he’d bought in Plattsburg. His shirt was white and his tie was black. Tie and collar were both too wide and too pointed. So were his shoes, which were black. The ring on his left pinky was white gold. His cigar was black. A white handkerchief peeked out of his breast pocket. His gray hair was brushed back till it shone. He didn’t exactly look fatter, but he did look sort of heavier, as though he were more solid, more full.
He said, “The big moment, eh, boy?” He was like an actor, all made up in his starchy costume, ready to go on.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the empty bottle standing beside the ashtray on the floor. He said, “You aren’t juiced, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. I want to give you a rundown on these people.”
I lit a cigarette and waited. If he felt like talking, I could listen.
He said, “There’s thirty-eight people going to be here, not counting you and me. Nick Rovito and Irving Baumheiler and Little Irving Stein are here because I’m here. There’s seven other guys here because those three are. And twelve more here because of the seven. And sixteen because of the twelve. You see?”
I nodded.
“The point is, it’s Nick and Irving and Little Irving you got to watch for. Those three. By you, they’re the only ones here.