Two Much! by Donald E. Westlake Page B

could Art spend the next three days with Liz if Bart was stuck in Manhattan with Betty? For the first time I found myself wishing I actually were twins.
    All right. Every problem can be dealt with, if we but try. I managed to get away from Betty briefly, and phoned the Minck household. Let Ralph answer, I prayed, and let it not be Candy.
    Well, it was neither. It was a snot-nosed brat. “Child,” I said. “I wish you to take down a phone number, and if you take it down wrong I shall come to your house tonight with a hatchet and chop off your feet.”
    â€œI’ll get it right,” the child said defensively. “I always do.”
    Slowly I read off the number from the phone in front of me, then demanded the child read it back. Only when it was read back to me with no numbers transposed or misinterpreted did I move on. “I wish you, child,” I said, “to go to your father at once, tell him it’s important, and tell him to call this number and ask for Bart. B. A. R. T. Got it?”
    The child, upon reading it back, turned out to have it.
    â€œGood, child,” I said. “Your father must call this number within half an hour. Not your mother—your father. Got that?”
    The child said yes. We both hung up. I went off to the kitchen and prepared myself a drink containing alcohol. Then there was nothing to do but rejoin Betty on the front porch and wait.
    Twenty minutes. I was becoming fidgety, I was having trouble concentrating on Betty’s heartwarming tales of college days at dear old Bennington. I was on the verge of losing my sweet disposition. What the hell was I doing all this for anyway? The card racket wasn’t major money, but it was keeping me housed and fed. Screw the world’s third largest supplier of wood and wood products and the several other firms and the television station in Indiana. Let the money go, let Volpinex have both sisters and whatever else he wanted; why should I strain myself when the whole scam was certain to fall apart sooner or later anyway?
    Phone. Ting-aling-aling; what a cheerful sound.
    Through which Betty kept talking, paying no attention. “Dear,” I said. “Wasn’t that the phone?”
    â€œHm?”
    Ting-aling-aling. “The telephone,” I said. “I think it’s ringing.”
    She’d been halfway through a story as fascinating as the road from Cairo to Aqaba and the interruption made her irritable. “Now, who could that be?”
    â€œSomeone who wants to talk to you,” I suggested, and for the third time the phone went ting-aling-aling.
    â€œOh, well.” At last she got off her ass and went inside and I heard her say, “Hello?” Yes, yes, yes. “Just a minute.” Ahhhh. “Ba-art?”
    â€œMmm?”
    â€œIt’s for you.”
    â€œReally?” Already on my feet, I strolled into the house and crossed the living room toward the phone she was extending in my direction. “Who is it?”
    â€œI’ll ask,’ she said, and dipped her head toward the receiver.”
    Christ. “Never mind, it’s okay.” I took the phone away from her and said, “Hello?”
    Ralph’s voice. “Art? Is that you?”
    â€œOh, Art!” I said. And I mouthed silently at Betty. It’s Art . She nodded hugely, understanding.
    â€œThe darn kids got it wrong again,” Ralph was saying. “They thought you said Bart.”
    â€œOh, that’s a shame,” I said.
    â€œWell, at least they got the phone number right.”
    â€œWell, sure,” I said.
    â€œYou think so? You’d be surprised how those kids can louse up a message.”
    â€œIf you say so,” I said.
    â€œArt? Is there something wrong?”
    â€œI’m really sorry to hear that,” I said. Betty was mouthing What is it? I gestured at her to wait.
    Ralph was saying, “What? No, I didn’t mean there was anything wrong with me