Why Me? by Donald E. Westlake Page A

anything ?” Irritation made her puff out redoubled clouds of cigarette smoke. “That famous ruby that was stolen out at the airport,” she said, “the one the fuss is all about.”
    â€œOh, yeah, the ruby.” Dortmunder still didn’t make the connection. He sipped at his drink. “What about it?”
    â€œYou’ve got it.”
    Dortmunder stood there, the glass up by his mouth, and looked over it at May. He said, “Say what?”
    â€œThose men stole the Byzantine Fire,” May told him. “They put it in the safe in that jewelry store. You took it.”
    â€œI took the— I’ve got the Byzantine Fire?”
    â€œYes,” said May.
    â€œNo,” said Dortmunder. “I don’t want it.”
    â€œYou’ve got it.”
    Dortmunder filled his mouth with bourbon—too much bourbon, as it developed, to swallow. May pounded his back for a while, as bourbon dribbled out of his nose and eyes and ears, and then he handed her the glass, said hoarsely, “ More ,” and went away to the bedroom.
    When May left the kitchen with the fresh drink, Dortmunder was just leaving the bedroom with the plastic bag of loot. Silently, solemnly, they walked to the living room and sat next to one another on the sofa. May handed Dortmunder his drink, and he took a normal-sized sip. Then he emptied the plastic bag onto the coffee table, bracelets and watches all a-tumble. “I don’t even know what it looks like,” he said.
    â€œI do. There was a picture on—” She picked up a ring out of the scrumble of jewelry. “That’s it.”
    Dortmunder took it, held it between thumb and forefinger, turned it this way and that. “I remember this,” he said. “I almost left it behind.”
    â€œYou should have.”
    â€œAt first I figured it was too big to be real. Then I figured, why put glass in the safe? So I brought it along.” Dortmunder turned it over and over, peering at it, seeing the light glint and shimmer in the depths of the stone. “The Byzantine Fire,” he said.
    â€œThat’s right.”
    Dortmunder turned to her, his eyes filled with wonder. “The biggest haul of my career,” he said, “and I didn’t even know it.”
    â€œCongratulations.” There was irony in her voice.
    Dortmunder didn’t notice; he was caught up in this astonishing success. Again he studied the ring. “I wonder what I could get for this,” he said.
    â€œTwenty years,” May suggested. “Killed. Hunted down like a deer.”
    â€œUn,” said Dortmunder. “I was forgetting.”
    â€œThere’s a police blitz on,” May reminded him. “Also, according to the TV, a lot of foreign guerrillas and terrorists want that ring.” She pointed at it.
    â€œAnd people on the street,” Dortmunder said thoughtfully, “they’re pretty teed off right now at whoever has this thing.”
    â€œYou.”
    â€œI can’t believe it.” Dortmunder slipped the ring onto the third finger of his left hand, stretched the hand out at arm’s length, and squinted at it. “Jeez, it’s gaudy,” he said.
    â€œWhat are you going to do with it?”
    â€œDo with it.” That question hadn’t occurred to him. He tugged the ring, to remove it from his finger. “I don’t know,” he said.
    â€œYou can’t fence it.”
    â€œYou can’t fence anything , everybody’s shook up by all this cop business.” He kept tugging at the ring.
    â€œYou can’t keep it, John.”
    â€œI don’t want to keep it.” He twisted the ring this way and that.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œIt won’t—”
    â€œYou can’t get it off?”
    â€œMy knuckle, it won’t—”
    â€œI’ll get soap.” She stood as the doorbell rang. “Maybe that’s Andy Kelp,” she