Dancing Aztecs by Donald E. Westlake Page B

Building, surrounded by the symbols and implements of his power, Victor Krassmeier was wont to sit, a big balding man whose meaty shoulders and heavy waist were almost completely disguised by first-rate tailoring, and bask in the pleasant sensations of comfortable self-esteem. He was not at all used to this sudden panicky roiling of the stomach. Blinking sullenly at his crude partner, he said, “Problems? What do you mean, problems?”
    August Corella, a blunt-featured man who looked like a cabdriver dressed up for his daughter’s graduation, said, “The messenger didn’t get it.”
    â€œDidn’t get it? It’s lost?”
    â€œNot exactly,” Corella said. “What happened is, our piece got mixed in with fifteen copies, and they all got given away as prizes.”
    â€œPrizes?” Krassmeier shook his head, as though to jangle these incomprehensible words out of his ears. “Prizes for what?”
    â€œI don’t know, Vic.” Corella was the only person in the history of the world ever to call Victor Krassmeier “Vic.” “And I don’t think it matters that much, do you? The point is, sixteen different people got the pieces, and we don’t know who got ours.”
    â€œBut that’s awful. We have to get it back.”
    Corella nodded. “Sure. Somebody has to trace out who those sixteen people are, and then go to all their houses and see which one has the winner. The question is, who’s the somebody? You want to do it?”
    Krassmeier stared at him. “Me? Personally?”
    â€œSend somebody,” Corella suggested.
    â€œImpossible. No one knows I’m involved in this.”
    Corella had nothing to say. Krassmeier sat looking at him, waiting for something more, but all at once Corella was content to be silent Krassmeier, feeling himself in a situation he didn’t entirely understand, progressed cautiously, saying, “What about the messenger? Isn’t it his responsibility?”
    Corella shook his head. “In the first place, he didn’t cause the screw-up. In the second place, he isn’t part of the organization, he’s an independent operator out at Kennedy. That’s all he’s ever used for, picking things up at Kennedy.”
    â€œUse him anyway.”
    â€œI told you, Vic, he’s an independent operator. If I let him know that wasn’t any ordinary package, he’ll go after it for himself, not for you and me. So when he called I cooled him out, I told him it wasn’t that important.”
    â€œWhat about the person who did cause the mixup?”
    â€œHe got punished a little,” Corella said. “He isn’t in any shape to go look for things.”
    Krassmeier did not at all want to hear such details. Returning to the main point, he said, “We can’t just let this matter go. The statue has to be found.”
    â€œRight” said Corella. And once again he closed down into that silence.
    Krassmeier studied him. Suddenly tentative, he said, “ You could do it, couldn’t you?”
    â€œI got a lot of other stuff on my plate, Vic,” Corella said. But he didn’t say no .
    â€œYou have people who could help you.”
    â€œNot for free.”
    All at once, Krassmeier understood where they were and what was coming. Business was business, after all. “Oh,” he said:
    â€œNo matter how you look at it,” Corella said, with a little smile, “this is going to cost.”
    â€œI see,” said Krassmeier.
    â€œI think you and me, Vic, we’re going to have to do, whadayacallit? Renegotiate.”
    HOWEVER …
    When Jerry Manelli came out of the library at Grand Army Plaza he felt like he’d been given Novocaine in his whole body, and it was just now wearing off. He kept blinking, and looking around, and when he got behind the wheel of the van he didn’t start the engine right away but just sat there, staring across