What was the thrill of somebody else did it for you? Platt, now, how could he take any pride in what he had? Somebody cut the grass and somebody else weeded the flower beds and somebody else trimmed the shrubbery, and Platt, all he did was write out a check.
Simmons had heard of stamp collectors like that. He was an unsuccessful bidder for one such lot, a prize-winning collection of German States issues that had taken honors at national and regional shows. The condition of the material was of an exceptionally high level, the mounting was magnificent, the degree of completeness most impressive. But the retired rancher who had owned those extraordinary stamps didn’t know a watermark from a perforation. He had professional buyers purchasing stamps for him, and he had a commercial artist preparing his displays, and he kept the whole collection in a bank vault and never even looked at it. Finally he sold it because he got bored with it, but as far as Simmons could understand, he had never gotten interested in it to begin with. He was like Platt. He wanted the best, he could afford the best, but what he wound up with wasn’t really his at all, because all he ever put into it was money.
Simmons opened the can of creosote. He dipped a hand into it, capped the can, headed over toward the garage. A short, stocky, well-muscled young man was polishing one of the cars, the Mercedes. He had already finished with the Lincoln, and it gleamed.
He said, “Yeah?”
Simmons held up a hand. “Wondered if I could have the use of a rag. Creosote, the can dripped.”
The man waved a hand at a pile of rags. “Help yourself.”
That wouldn’t do; the rags were a long way from the Lincoln with the man in the middle. Simmons picked up a rag and walked along with it, rubbing ineffectually. He passed the man and approached the Lincoln. But out of the corner of his eye he saw that the clown was still watching him. “She don’t come off,” he said. “Y’all have some turpentine?”
“Beats me. I just started here.”
Rice’s replacement, Simmons guessed. From the looks of him, Manso would have his hands full.
“Ah’d look around,” he said, putting the plantation accent on, “but Ah’d shore hate to mess up the boss man’s things and all.”
“Yeah,” the bodyguard said. “Yeah, well. I suppose I could look. You said turpentine?”
When he turned, Simmons got the beeper from his pocket. It was two inches square and three-eighths of an inch thick, and it did something electronic that Simmons couldn’t understand. He bent over and stuck it to the underside of the Lincoln’s rear bumper. A magnet held it in place.
He was leaning against the garage door when Gleason turned to tell him there wasn’t any turpentine. Simmons thanked him and left. There was turps in the back of the truck, and he used some to get the damned gunk off his hand. By the time it was all off, Murdock was climbing down from his last tree.
FIFTEEN
One of the guards said, “You got a package, hand it over.”
“Has to be signed for.”
“So I’ll sign.”
Manso shook his head. “Personal delivery,” he said. “And it’s not a package, it’s a letter. It has to be signed for personal by Mr. Albert Platt.”
“Listen, I sign for everything. He’s a busy man, Mr. Platt. He don’t have time to see delivery boys.”
Manso straightened his cap. It was navy blue with a glossy plastic peak, and the badge on it said WELLS FARGO . Manso had bought the cap in a surplus store in Tenafly. He found the badge in the toy department at Kresge’s. The cap cost $1.69. The badge was supposed to cost 29¢, but there was a line at the cash register, so he just put it in his pocket.
Now he said, “Look, it’s only a job with me. I get my orders.”
“So do I, fella.”
“So I’ll just go back and tell the boss I couldn’t get through to Platt, and he’ll get on the phone, and you can explain to him why you never even bothered to let him know I was
Simmons had heard of stamp collectors like that. He was an unsuccessful bidder for one such lot, a prize-winning collection of German States issues that had taken honors at national and regional shows. The condition of the material was of an exceptionally high level, the mounting was magnificent, the degree of completeness most impressive. But the retired rancher who had owned those extraordinary stamps didn’t know a watermark from a perforation. He had professional buyers purchasing stamps for him, and he had a commercial artist preparing his displays, and he kept the whole collection in a bank vault and never even looked at it. Finally he sold it because he got bored with it, but as far as Simmons could understand, he had never gotten interested in it to begin with. He was like Platt. He wanted the best, he could afford the best, but what he wound up with wasn’t really his at all, because all he ever put into it was money.
Simmons opened the can of creosote. He dipped a hand into it, capped the can, headed over toward the garage. A short, stocky, well-muscled young man was polishing one of the cars, the Mercedes. He had already finished with the Lincoln, and it gleamed.
He said, “Yeah?”
Simmons held up a hand. “Wondered if I could have the use of a rag. Creosote, the can dripped.”
The man waved a hand at a pile of rags. “Help yourself.”
That wouldn’t do; the rags were a long way from the Lincoln with the man in the middle. Simmons picked up a rag and walked along with it, rubbing ineffectually. He passed the man and approached the Lincoln. But out of the corner of his eye he saw that the clown was still watching him. “She don’t come off,” he said. “Y’all have some turpentine?”
“Beats me. I just started here.”
Rice’s replacement, Simmons guessed. From the looks of him, Manso would have his hands full.
“Ah’d look around,” he said, putting the plantation accent on, “but Ah’d shore hate to mess up the boss man’s things and all.”
“Yeah,” the bodyguard said. “Yeah, well. I suppose I could look. You said turpentine?”
When he turned, Simmons got the beeper from his pocket. It was two inches square and three-eighths of an inch thick, and it did something electronic that Simmons couldn’t understand. He bent over and stuck it to the underside of the Lincoln’s rear bumper. A magnet held it in place.
He was leaning against the garage door when Gleason turned to tell him there wasn’t any turpentine. Simmons thanked him and left. There was turps in the back of the truck, and he used some to get the damned gunk off his hand. By the time it was all off, Murdock was climbing down from his last tree.
FIFTEEN
One of the guards said, “You got a package, hand it over.”
“Has to be signed for.”
“So I’ll sign.”
Manso shook his head. “Personal delivery,” he said. “And it’s not a package, it’s a letter. It has to be signed for personal by Mr. Albert Platt.”
“Listen, I sign for everything. He’s a busy man, Mr. Platt. He don’t have time to see delivery boys.”
Manso straightened his cap. It was navy blue with a glossy plastic peak, and the badge on it said WELLS FARGO . Manso had bought the cap in a surplus store in Tenafly. He found the badge in the toy department at Kresge’s. The cap cost $1.69. The badge was supposed to cost 29¢, but there was a line at the cash register, so he just put it in his pocket.
Now he said, “Look, it’s only a job with me. I get my orders.”
“So do I, fella.”
“So I’ll just go back and tell the boss I couldn’t get through to Platt, and he’ll get on the phone, and you can explain to him why you never even bothered to let him know I was
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