got the damn ring back. Let him walk around with that ring on his finger, on this personal finger right here, and then who’s the goat?
Okay. Max Fairbanks, here I come.
Which meant, first, Wally Knurr here I come, so Dortmunder walked on into the living room and there he was, Wally Knurr, looking the same as ever, like a genial knish. A butterball in his midtwenties, his 285 pounds, devoid of muscle tone, were packed into a ball four feet six inches high, so that he was at least as wide as he was tall, and it seemed arbitrary in his case that the feet were on the bottom and the head on top. This head was a smaller replica of the body, as though Wally Knurr were a snowman made of suet, with blue jellybean eyes behind thick spectacles and a beet for a mouth. (The makers presumably couldn’t find a carrot, so there was no nose.)
Dortmunder was used to Wally Knurr’s appearance, so he merely said, “Hey, Wally, how you doing?”
“Just fine, John,” Wally said. When he stood from the chair he’d been perched on, he was marginally shorter. The orange juice stood on the end table beside him. He said, “Myrtle and her mother say hello.”
“And back at them,” Dortmunder said. This having exhausted his social graces, he said, “You found my guy, huh? Sit down, Wally, sit down.”
Wally resumed his chair, while Dortmunder crossed to the sofa. To the side, Andy sat at his leisure in the overstuffed chair, smiling upon Wally as though he’d created the little fella himself, out of instant mashed potato mix.
Wally said, “Finding Mr. Fairbanks wasn’t the problem. He’s kind of everywhere.”
“Like bad weather,” Dortmunder said. “Wally, if finding him wasn’t the problem, what was the problem?”
“Well, John,” Wally said, swinging his legs nervously under his chair (his feet didn’t quite reach the worn carpet when he was seated), “the truth is, the problem is you. And Andy.”
Laughing lightly, Andy said, “Wally thinks of us as crooks.”
“Well, you are,” Wally said.
“I am,” Dortmunder agreed. “But so is Fairbanks. Did Andy tell you what he did?”
Andy said, “I just said he had something of yours. I figured, you wanted Wally to know the details you’d rather tell him yourself. Put your own spin on it, like they say.”
“Thanks,” Dortmunder said, and to Wally he said, “He’s got a ring of mine.”
Wally said, “John, I don’t like to say this, but I’ve heard you tell fibs about rings and things and this and that and all kinds of stuff. I like you, John, but I don’t want to help you if you’re going to do felonies, and after all, that’s what you do.”
Dortmunder took a deep breath and held it. “Okay,” he said, “here it is,” and he gave Wally the full story, including the Chapter Eleven stuff and the house supposed to be empty — and yes, it was a felony he and an unnamed partner, not Andy, planned in that supposedly empty corporate–owned building that night — and when he got to the theft of the ring he got mad all over again, and it didn’t help when he saw Wally — Wally! — hiding a smirk. “So that’s it,” he finished, sulky and feeling ill–used.
“Well, John, I believe you,” Wally said.
“Thanks.”
“Nobody would tell a story like that on themselves if it wasn’t true,” Wally explained. “Besides, when I looked for Mr. Fairbanks, I read all about the Chapter Eleven bankruptcy, and I even remember something about the house in Carrport.”
“So there you are,” Dortmunder said.
“You told that very well, John,” Andy said. “There was some real passion in there.”
“But if you do meet with this Mr. Fairbanks again,” Wally said, “how are you going to get him to give you your ring back?”
“Well,” Dortmunder said, “I thought I’d use a combination of moral persuasion and threats.”
“You aren’t going to hurt anybody, are you?”
There’s only so much truth a person should
Okay. Max Fairbanks, here I come.
Which meant, first, Wally Knurr here I come, so Dortmunder walked on into the living room and there he was, Wally Knurr, looking the same as ever, like a genial knish. A butterball in his midtwenties, his 285 pounds, devoid of muscle tone, were packed into a ball four feet six inches high, so that he was at least as wide as he was tall, and it seemed arbitrary in his case that the feet were on the bottom and the head on top. This head was a smaller replica of the body, as though Wally Knurr were a snowman made of suet, with blue jellybean eyes behind thick spectacles and a beet for a mouth. (The makers presumably couldn’t find a carrot, so there was no nose.)
Dortmunder was used to Wally Knurr’s appearance, so he merely said, “Hey, Wally, how you doing?”
“Just fine, John,” Wally said. When he stood from the chair he’d been perched on, he was marginally shorter. The orange juice stood on the end table beside him. He said, “Myrtle and her mother say hello.”
“And back at them,” Dortmunder said. This having exhausted his social graces, he said, “You found my guy, huh? Sit down, Wally, sit down.”
Wally resumed his chair, while Dortmunder crossed to the sofa. To the side, Andy sat at his leisure in the overstuffed chair, smiling upon Wally as though he’d created the little fella himself, out of instant mashed potato mix.
Wally said, “Finding Mr. Fairbanks wasn’t the problem. He’s kind of everywhere.”
“Like bad weather,” Dortmunder said. “Wally, if finding him wasn’t the problem, what was the problem?”
“Well, John,” Wally said, swinging his legs nervously under his chair (his feet didn’t quite reach the worn carpet when he was seated), “the truth is, the problem is you. And Andy.”
Laughing lightly, Andy said, “Wally thinks of us as crooks.”
“Well, you are,” Wally said.
“I am,” Dortmunder agreed. “But so is Fairbanks. Did Andy tell you what he did?”
Andy said, “I just said he had something of yours. I figured, you wanted Wally to know the details you’d rather tell him yourself. Put your own spin on it, like they say.”
“Thanks,” Dortmunder said, and to Wally he said, “He’s got a ring of mine.”
Wally said, “John, I don’t like to say this, but I’ve heard you tell fibs about rings and things and this and that and all kinds of stuff. I like you, John, but I don’t want to help you if you’re going to do felonies, and after all, that’s what you do.”
Dortmunder took a deep breath and held it. “Okay,” he said, “here it is,” and he gave Wally the full story, including the Chapter Eleven stuff and the house supposed to be empty — and yes, it was a felony he and an unnamed partner, not Andy, planned in that supposedly empty corporate–owned building that night — and when he got to the theft of the ring he got mad all over again, and it didn’t help when he saw Wally — Wally! — hiding a smirk. “So that’s it,” he finished, sulky and feeling ill–used.
“Well, John, I believe you,” Wally said.
“Thanks.”
“Nobody would tell a story like that on themselves if it wasn’t true,” Wally explained. “Besides, when I looked for Mr. Fairbanks, I read all about the Chapter Eleven bankruptcy, and I even remember something about the house in Carrport.”
“So there you are,” Dortmunder said.
“You told that very well, John,” Andy said. “There was some real passion in there.”
“But if you do meet with this Mr. Fairbanks again,” Wally said, “how are you going to get him to give you your ring back?”
“Well,” Dortmunder said, “I thought I’d use a combination of moral persuasion and threats.”
“You aren’t going to hurt anybody, are you?”
There’s only so much truth a person should
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