“The question is,” Lieutenant Orville said, “is the butler in on it?”
Lieutenant Wooster cocked his head, like a very bright spaniel. “You think the butler did it?”
“It’s been known to happen.” Liking the phrase, Lieutenant Orville said it again: “Known to happen.”
“When are people going to get over it?”
“People don’t get over it when you’re a pariah, Monroe.”
“Why do people keep using that word?”
“Well, Monroe, think about it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“–Another three conspirators are thought to have been involved, but little is known of them except that they are alleged to have belonged to the same labor union.”
“There you go,” Dortmunder said. “Now the kidnappers got a union.”
Because I keep doing these multi-part reviews, and would like my readers to have something other than great tedious blocks of text to scan, I have found it necessary to scour the web for exotic cover art, traveling far afield of our author’s native land, and too often finding to my chagrin that the golderned foreigners did a better job illustrating him than us Yanks did. Westlake had avid readers across the globe, and I could spend the rest of my life tracking down foreign editions (so rarely utilizing the original title, because why would they?), and never scratch the surface.
By far the two best covers I found for this book are the two you see up top. The domestic ebook beneath looks like a manual on road safety the Murches would be forced to study for some court-ordered traffic school course. This is, wouldn’t you know it, the only edition of this book I possess.
French publisher Rivages (which must have the widest selection of Westlake, Coe, and Stark of any extant publishing firm, if extant publishers there be) simply looked for a pre-existing bit of art they could get for cheap, and this time they happened to hit on something that works beautifully (it would work just as well for a Jeeves novel, which is kind of the point here).
But feast your dumbfounded eyes, won’t you, on the nifty purpose-built artwork for the Finnish edition. Yes, Finnish. According to Google, the title (so much smaller than the author’s name, indicating said author’s name alone sells books there) more precisely translates as The Road to Corruption, and I’m not sure that isn’t an improvement on the original. Nothing could ever improve on that cover, though. Enough prologue; back to the synopsis or we’ll never be Finnish.
There are a lot of characters in this book, and it’s a challenge to explain what some of them are doing here. My inclination is to skip over these as quickly as possible, and concentrate on the storylines that matter.
For example, there’s an entire subplot involving Chester Fallon, the former stunt/getaway driver (whose incipient professional rivalry with Stan Murch doesn’t get nearly enough play here). His wife is bugging him to get out of the house and do something useful, so even though he’s in the middle of planning a heist, he takes a job driving an office supply salesman whose license was taken away because he’s always drunk. He’s always drunk because there’s no other way he can stand all the schmoozing and gladhanding that goes with his job. Trouble is, he can’t turn the snappy patter and bad jokes off when he’s in the car with Chester.
This subplot does lead to Chester finding an abandoned store at a failing strip mall, that can be used to store the vintage cars they mean to steal. Plus it gives him a fallback position if the heist doesn’t work out. It’s not a bad story in itself. It could have been a good short story–or a subplot in another novel, which it very well might have been originally intended as–a novel in which Chester would have played the Dortmunder role in a topical satire; another take on Put A Lid On It. But since Dortmunder is here, Chester is little more than the finger on a job that doesn’t pan out, and the bit with the salesman seems pointless, if amusing.. So let’s skip it.
There’s a subplot involving a short heavily muscled fitness instructor named Flip Morriscone, who is acting as Monroe Hall’s personal trainer, even though he can’t stand the guy. This gives him and his Subaru access to the estate. Hall has a creepy mancrush on him, but still takes perverse pleasure in ratting him out to the IRS for not reporting the cash Hall hands him for their sessions together.
This gives Flip a motive for revenge, which is instrumental to the B plot, involving the alliance of three disgruntled union guys and two equally disgruntled small time venture capitalists, who are also toting large grudges against Mr. Hall. But again, it kind of clogs the story up a bit–Westlake needed to be at absolutely top form to write a novel with this many moving parts and have it come out as a well-balanced unitary offering–this one is more of a jumble sale. Well, those have their own pleasures to offer, right? I’ve never gotten anywhere near Mr. Westlake’s top form, so I think that’s all we need to hear about Flip Morriscone, even though the chapters dealing with him and his passionate love affair with his buff image in the mirror are pretty funny.
There’s also a subplot about Arnie Albright, the world’s most unlovable fence of stolen goods (there’s actually a fence in Smoke who makes Arnie look like Albert Schweitzer, but never mind that now), involving his family doing an intervention and sending him to a Club Med so that he can learn to be less obnoxious, and you know what? That’s a much more important plot point in the next Dortmunder, so I don’t need to talk about that here.
And there are many other subplots, for characters we normally don’t hear much about, so surely there must be a subplot for the delectably devious Josephine Carol Taylor? In fact, she isn’t even mentioned in the book, though her behemoth boyfriend sure is. Not enough eyerolls in the world, Mr. Westlake……
So with all that out of the way, what’s left? Dortmunder & Co. hiring on as domestics at the understaffed Hall Estate–understaffed because he is now so universally despised, nobody will work for him (they have an excellent personal chef, but she came with Alicia, Monroe’s wife, and never liked Monroe to begin with).
That’s the main gag of the book, and it’s a good one. Is it a plausible one? I have my quibbles. Good help is always hard to find, but so is a good-paying job, and it’s a bit hard to swallow that Hall can’t find any takers (to be sure, he’s under too much scrutiny by the law to hire illegal immigrants like a normal rich conservative).
The Enron guys were widely hated and reviled after their downfall, without question. Money is still money. Kenneth Lay (‘Kenny Boy’ to the more recent President Bush) presumably had all the servants he needed, right up to when he cheated the system one last time by dropping dead at a luxury ski chalet before his sentencing (and so hated was he that people were demanding to know why the chalet’s management allowed him to die there, instead of some convenient ditch). Some of those servants probably lied to their neighbors about where they worked, but they took the money. Contrivance is an integral part of comedy, so this is not such a huge problem.
Hall’s self-image relies upon having underlings around, so he can be condescending, irritatingly over-familiar, do the odd bit of bullying, all in order to make himself feel like the big wheel he wants everyone to see him as. He’s basically an overgrown child with a superiority/inferiority complex that requires the constant presence of social inferiors, even while he’s painfully aware that most people on his economic level regard him as an inferior. (Yes, I’m seeing the parallels, you can hardly miss them, but this book was inspired by different models, and let’s not kid ourselves that there’s ever just one rich prick with these types of issues at any given time. Their name is Legion. Or should I say, Lesion?)
After alternately pleading with, hectoring, berating, and outright threatening the increasingly disgusted head of the employment agency that’s been trying in vain to fill all his vacancies, Monroe Hall is overjoyed to learn that all of a sudden there are four new applicants! One an intimidating mass of muscle to man his gates, frighten away any potential ill-wishers. Another a carrot-haired chauffeur who seems to know everything there is to know about cars and potential routes for them to take. And best of all, a personal secretary (the male kind) with a narrow nose and a congenial bustling air about him, a real take-charge kind of guy who attacks his newfound duties with unparalleled enthusiasm.
And there’s the new butler. Well, he’s going to be a work in progress.
And how did this come to pass? As we covered in Part 1, Dortmunder figured the only way for them to get onto the Hall property in order to steal Hall’s property was to pose as the hired help. But all new servants will be subject to intimidatingly strict security checks. Your average jury rigged fake ID’s are not going to cut it here. In this new digital era Dortmunder & Co. have been forced to live in, how can the motley likes of them ever hope to fool the system? And here’s where I switch over to those titled subheadings I so often resort to in my reviews of these books. Not always when the book as a whole underwhelms me, while certain components within it enchant me, but……
In Memory Yet Green:
It is none other than Kelp’s charming lady friend, Anne Marie Karpinow, who, noticing her beau’s atypically downcast air, and learning the reasons for it, tells him he should have confided in her from the start. She’s got a guy. Well, she knows a guy. Her father, you will recall, was a U.S. Senator. It was through daddy that she became friendly with Jim Green, who is a ‘substitute identity specialist.’ In other words, somebody who creates the kind of fake ID that holds up to anything. Even his own name is fake–he picked it because it’s forgettable.
He’s not with the government anymore–freelancing now, selling his services to various people who have to become somebody new or else go shopping for cemetery plots. He’s prohibitively expensive, but she’s got an in. The friendship came with certain benefits. He always liked her. Used to dandle her on his knee. “When you were a little girl” Andy suggests. “Oh, seventeen, eighteen” she responds offhandedly.
So there’s a chapter showing us the Verdi of Verisimilitude (damn, that would have been a good subheading), at work with some eastern bloc outcast, and we learn something about how you create new identities in the digital world, and we also learn that Mr. Westlake was actively updating his own tradecraft in this area–because he needs to believe there will always be a way for someone to disappear, if he or she really wants to. And in fact, there is an escape hatch concealed in the prison cell of meta data.
Every day, the web of information grows thicker, more convoluted. When so much is known, what can still be secret? But the very complexity of the knowledge stream at times betrays it. Here and there, in the interstices of the vast web of details covering the globe, there are glitches, hiccups, anomalies, crossed wires. Jim Green could find those like a hunting dog after a downed quail. He could find them and store the knowledge of them for later use.
Then the phone rings, and of course he remembers Anne Marie and he’d be delighted to come see her (no mention is made of knee-dandling, though it is surely in his mind). He meets Kelp, Dortmunder, and the rest, and finds the experience most revelatory. On the whole, he’s favorably impressed with Kelp. He’s pleased to learn that the former Mrs. Karpinow, who he once knew (biblically, perhaps?) as Anne Marie Hurst, isn’t dating and/or marrying jerks like her father anymore, it being a nigh-universal guy-thing that if we can’t have some girl we fancy, we at least don’t want to see her with someone makes us sick to our stomachs, and it’s uncanny how they unerringly home in on some emetic in pants, ain’t it? As Andy puts it, she’s changed her M.O. (Or has she?)
Cherished memories of perfectly innocent knee-dandling aside, Jim doesn’t work for free, and they can’t afford the elite services he provides, even if he was willing to delay payment until after the job was done. Seeing the crestfallen look in Anne Marie’s lovely eyes, Jim amends his statement this much–there are certain of his former clients who have either died or gone back to their original identities. Their manufactured identities are still out there in cyberspace.
With a bit of jiggering, he can re-engineer them for John, Andy, Stan, and Tiny. And that somewhat attenuated level of professional service he won’t charge for. (Or you could say Anne Marie made payment in advance. Perhaps that knee-dandling sometimes verged on lap-dancing. Still perfectly innocent, as long as nobody got pregnant.)
One negligible caveat–Jim cautions them it is barely possible that either the original owner of one of these identities or whatever unpleasant persons he was trying to evade, will come knocking should any of them learn that name is back in circulation. But since the gang is only going to be using their borrowed bonafides for maybe two or three weeks, tops, it’s not very likely this will transpire. (And of course it does transpire, but that’s yet another subplot I feel this review can do without).
Having gathered the necessary data from the four felons to meld into the new identities, Jim is pleased as punch with the way his clients react to their new aliases (complete with passports that would calm the most querulous of TSA screeners). Like kids unwrapping their Christmas presents by the tree.
Anne Marie tries to turn the unwrapping into the kind of midwestern society shindig she’s used to from her days as a politician’s daughter, and is a bit deflated to learn her hostess skills are not needed (Jim tells her if she ever needs to disappear, he’ll give her the deluxe package, no charge, but she’s not that deflated).
Dortmunder is now John Howard Rumsey. Murch is Warren Peter Gillette. Tiny is Judson Otto Swope (he likes that name, for which Jim should be grateful).
Kelp is Fredric Eustace Blanchard, and being a Westlake character, he will shorten that to Fred. Which brings us to–(with profuse apologies to Myrna Loy and Jean Harlow)–
Thief vs. Secretary:
All four of the guys interview first at the employment agency (which gets its own subplot, there’s a positive superabundance of them), and the way they’ve worked out their cover stories is they’ve all been distracted by other matters, and simply don’t know how universally loathed Monroe Hall is now. Or in Tiny’s case, simply don’t care, because all his character wants to do is bust heads for a living, which isn’t really all that different from what he actually does for a living. Typecasting can work. The minute Monroe sees him, all he can think is “I want him on my side!” (And the moral is, even very rich people don’t always get what they want.)
Kelp and Dortmunder are supposed to have worked at the same foreign embassy in DC–the embassy for none other than Votskojek (grrrrr!), a fictional Westlake nation in Central Europe, last seen in Don’t Ask. What makes this cover story useful is that the guy they supposedly worked for there, Ambassador Chk, was assassinated, and therefore is not currently available to provide references. Oh those Votskojekians and their periodic purges. So quaint and Ruritanian.
When Monroe gets to interview the four of them, he’s mainly quite pleased, except he’s not so sure Dortmunder looks like a proper butler, which he doesn’t (he watched a lot of old movies with butlers in them, but simply is not to the manor born). But then again, who’s coming to the house to see how he looks? Nobody.
Anyway, Hall is fine with all of them, disgraced billionaire beggars can’t be disgraced billionaire choosers. Except, as he tells this eager and attentive young fellow Blanchard, he doesn’t really need a personal secretary anymore. He used to have two of them, and play them off against each other for laughs (I know, I know, maybe Westlake was falling back on some of the research he did on Trump, it’s possible), but now that he’s persona non grata to the world at large, what’s the point in employing even one?
This is an unexpected wrinkle in the plan, which calls for improvisation on Kelp’s part, and as ever, he rises to the task. Well, he’s up to the task, put it that way. He tells an astounded Monroe that he must not give in to those nattering nabobs of negativity. Words to that effect.
“Rehabilitation!” Blanchard cried, and pointed a stern finger at the ceiling. “It’s time,” he declared in ringing tones, “to get your story out there!”
“My story is out there,” Hall said, “that’s the problem.”
“Your old story is out there,” Blanchard insisted. “It’s time for a new story, and that’s why you need me. A personal. Private. Secretary.”
After a brief homage to Prof. Harold Hill, Kelp cuts to the heart of the matter. Okay, so Monroe bankrupted millions, destroyed lives, simply in order to enrich himself when he was already rich. Who hasn’t done that? It’s time everybody just got over it! He’s only human! Aren’t we all sinners? Hall has one timid little query–
“Would I have to give back the money?”
“Never!” Blanchard’s eyes flashed. “You’re explaining your common humanity, you’re not feeding the multitudes!”
“No, no, I see.”
“We’ll start small,” Blanchard said. Somehow, he was halfway across Hall’s desk, staring into his eyes. “Church social egg rolls on the lawn. Boy Scout groups meeting here. Have your photo taken at the wheel of one of your famous cars.”
“Not driving it!”
“Sitting in it.” Blanchard beamed, his arms spread wide. “The squire of Pennsylvania,” he announced. “How bad a fella could he be?”
“You’re hired!” Hall cried.
Now of course this is Andy adroitly feeding into the mark’s narcissism and utter lack of conscience, but how much of a conscience does Andy himself have? How much of a core? The reason, I think, he’s clung to Dortmunder like a barnacle to a hull for so long is that his own identity is far more pliable and adaptive than Dortmunder’s, and he needs some kind of fixed navigational point to keep from going adrift. But now he’s hitched his wagon to a very different star.
He’s got to believe in the role to perform it properly, like any good flim-flammer, something he’s always been better at than Dortmunder (who has a hard time being anybody but himself). And there’s nothing else for him to do, really, until it’s time to jack the cars. So he commits totally to the role of loyal lackey to a maligned mogul, and for a while he really is Fred Blanchard–and this means being a shameless toady. Something he’s never been before. (He was shameless, but on his own time.)
To be sure, he’s spent years steadfastly plugging Dortmunder as a criminal genius, but Dortmunder really is a criminal genius, hard as that may be to fathom when looking at him. Plugging Monroe Freaking Hall as a misunderstood victim of circumstance is rather more of a challenge, even for Mr. Kelp’s considerable talents at dissimulation.
And he reaches the point where he’s so engrossed in this project that he starts wishing they could put off the heist for a little while, just so he can make some progress–he sincerely wants to get Hall accepted by society once more. At no point does Andy ever stop in the midst of his nigh-Kushnerian labors (I’m going to catch hell for that in the comments section, but he’s too slick and self-effacing for Spicer, nor is he blonde enough for Conway, or deranged enough for Bannon) and think “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
And of course his new employer is grateful to him for his devotion. To the extent that he is capable of such an emotion, which isn’t much. After a very short while, Monroe just accepts it as his due, as he accepts all things to be his due. At one point, Andy, with his usual curiosity about how gadgets work, pops a quarter into one of Monroe’s collectible antique toy banks. Once his coin predictably disappears into the gizmo’s inner recesses, he asks how he can get it back. He can’t ever get it back. It’s Monroe’s quarter now. He is smirking at his underling’s credulity.
Andy blinks, and the most delicious identity crisis of the entire book presents itself. The unctuous Heep he’s pretending to be and has to some extent become should just write the quarter off as a loss. The thief in him needs desperately to steal that errant two bits back. In the end, the thief wins, of course (though the quarter is still history).
But you’re made painfully aware of the fact that to a very great extent we are our jobs, and that Andy is the free-wheeling independent we love precisely because he never previously had the motive, means, or opportunity to be anything else. In a different life, he very well could have become some smug sycophant like Anne Marie’s former hubby. There but for the grace of God (whose name is Westlake) goes he. There’s an ass kisser lurking inside the best of us, waiting to get out. And much as I admire Mr. Kelp, he ain’t the best of us.
But he’s still one of the best liars around (he can even lie with the truth, as we saw in What’s The Worst That Could Happen?), and here’s the kicker–by the end of his tenure there, he’s actually starting to make progress. He figures out he just has to spread some of Monroe’s ample excess funds around in the right places–cash strapped charities, say–and he starts seeing results. His crowning ambition is to create a golf tourney going by the majestic moniker of the Monroe Hall Cup. You have to admit, there’s kind of a ring to it.
Given a bit more time, Mr. Blanchard might well have succeeded in at least partly rehabilitating the most loathed robber baron in America, re-imagining him as a penitent philanthropist who has suffered, without expending more than a small fraction of the boss’ ill-gotten gains. The secretary might have eaten the thief. The phrase “Money talks and bullshit walks” takes on a whole new meaning here. There’s no end of suckers out there who want to believe in Daddy Warbucks. That’s not Little Orphan Andy’s fault, folks. That’s on us.
But dinner’s on Tiny, as we learn in–
The Iron Chef:
The guys end up bunking together in a little green house on the estate, where Chester and his missus once dwelt in happier times, and there’s quite a nice kitchen there. Much to everyone’s confusion, mingled with apprehension, Tiny insists on cooking. You want to tell him he can’t? Maybe read this first.
They all trooped in, to view the unprecedented sight of Tiny in two aprons, overlapping, with a meat cleaver in one hand and a long wooden spoon in the other, with a lot of big pots and pans hissing and snarling on the stove. What he looked mostly like was some darker version of Maurice Sendak’s In the Night Kitchen. “Soup’s on at six,” he told them.
Not literally soup, he explains, just an expression. Dortmunder takes some Pepto-Bismol to prepare, but in fact the food is delicious, and wholesome, and quite different from anything any of them have had before, except Tiny. Like mother used to make, if your mother came from a fictitious country somewhere in the Carpathians.
And then it was good. It wasn’t your ordinary stuff, but it was good. Real tastes, but not too sweet, not too sour. There was lamb, in chunks; there was bacon, not too crisp; there were home-fried potatoes, with some kind of tasty oil on them; there was swiss chard, boiled up and spread with some kind of sauce that tasted sort of like chutney; there were biscuits, so light and fluffy you had to put butter on them to keep them from floating away. And there was not just beer, but stout, to tie it all together.
There was no talk at the table for quite some time. It was Kelp who first came up for air, saying “Tiny this is great. What is this? This is great.”
“It’s Tsergovian,” Tiny told him. “It’s from the old country. It’s how my people used to eat in the old days, when they had food.”
John said, through a full mouth, “Then I’m surprised they ever left.”
“Well, there were a lotta days,” Tiny said, “when they didn’t have food. So that’s why they come here, before my time. The food wasn’t as good over here, but it was around every day.”
And there’s pumpkin pecan pie for dessert, which I don’t associate with the Carpathians, but I could be wrong. They end up eating it for breakfast, because nobody has room for another mouthful. And this review has no more room to explain something the pleasures of which are self-explanatory. As I said in my review of Bad News, the late Dortmunders are about lagniappe. This is a fine example of that. Tiny, we hardly knew ye.
Something else you’d hardly know about, going by this review, is what’s going on elsewhere, as the gang gears up for the heist. Namely–
The B Plot:
Plot as in scheme, naturally. The very inorganic teaming of Mark and Os, the venture capitalists without capital (thanks to Monroe Hall), and Buddy, Mac, & Ace, the union guys without jobs or pension plans (ditto). Having agreed that they must find a way into the estate, grab Hall, and force him to cough up large quantities of offshore cash by way of electronic transfers, they are, all through the book, figuring out how to go about doing this. Then figuring out they shouldn’t have done it at all.
The scheme they eventually hit upon involves Flip Morriscone (I knew I’d have to type that name again), just as enraged by Monroe’s perfidy as they, because Monroe (who actually likes Flip) went and reported his off-the-books cash payments to Flip to the IRS, leading to substantial tax penalties for the latter (Monroe finds this very funny, tells a mildly reproving Alicia that it’s good for the lower orders to make up the revenue shortfall stemming from people like him, who know how to avoid taxation). So Flip is amenable to participating indirectly in their venture.
Monroe has mentioned to Flip that he wants to learn how to ride a horse, since he owns a bunch of them. It seems like a thing to do. Flip tells Monroe he knows an instructor, but the guy has to bring his own horse, specially trained as a practice mount. Mark and Os don’t have any money (Mark is actually sleeping in his mother and stepfather’s basement, all too aware of what a cliché that is), but they have credit, so they can rent all kinds of things, including a horse trailer. A Trojan horse trailer, if you will. (Mr. Westlake did so enjoy his implicit puns.)
The plan goes swimmingly, until they actually get through the gates, and Hall comes prancing out to greet them–with his butler in tow. Uh-oh. Dortmunder tries to explain he’s on their side–well, he’s not on Hall’s side, at least–but they can’t stop to listen, or leave any witnesses, so he gets scooped up and carted away in the Trojan horse trailer, fuming impotently at the ruination of his perfect plan by some unforeseen event, like that’s never happened before
So this is all perfectly sound comic capering, with a class-based satiric bite to it, and what’s the problem? The problem is that everybody likes Dortmunder & Co. better, including Westlake, who is giving them all the best material, see above.
There’s lots of good story material in the B Plot too; it’s just not quite as good. The voices of these one-shot characters are less well-defined, and with Westlake’s attentions divided about equally between the A and B Plots, not to mention the endless subplots, there isn’t enough space to refine them. Devout Dortmunderians understandably feel they are being deprived of more quality time with their beloved rogues, and their resentment predictably if unfairly falls upon the B Plotters.
But I think some of the more interesting moments in the book do, in fact, involve these auxiliary protagonists. Which I’ll get to in due course, but before I do–why on earth would Monroe drag poor old Rumsey out with him to greet some silly-ass riding instructor? What’s been going on between the Squire of Pennsylvania and his gentleman’s gentleman? A tale I shall plagiarously entitle–
‘Jeeves’ and the Lie That Binds:
Kelp loves being the personal secretary. Dortmunder hates being the butler. Hates. There could not, in all the world, be a job he is less well-suited for, all the more since it requires him to wear a suit. He goes through the motions as best he can, trying not to stick out too much, which only makes him stick out more. He opens endless doors for the master and mistress of the house, as he saw the movie butlers do; he says “Sur!” at every opportunity, and honestly, shouldn’t this Hall fella just be grateful anyone even wants to be his butler? I think we’ve already discussed Mr. Hall’s limited grasp of gratitude. All he’s mastered thus far is the ‘tude part.
In P.G. Wodehouse stories, ineffectual rich men are slaves to their unflappable butlers and their anal dress codes (Yes, Jeeves is a valet, I know, and so did Westlake, but to the world at large he’s a butler). Even if that was universally true for silly-ass English gentlemen with inherited incomes in the 1920’s (and I greatly misdoubt it), it’s not at all true of someone like Monroe Hall. To him, the whole point of having a gentleman’s gentleman is that he doesn’t have to behave like a gentleman himself, the moment even the least little thing is out of place. There’s a reason the wealthy here so often have to outsource this type of job to people they can have deported if need be. (Though be warned–that’s changing.)
(I should perhaps mention, my maternal grandfather, formerly of the county Limerick, was ‘in service’ for a time–chauffeur, mechanic, and general handyman to Ethel Barrymore. Yes, that one. Actors, even famous ones, are perhaps a tad less class conscious than your average rich person, less inclined to stand on ceremony, and I never heard any horror stories about his tenure there–I never heard any stories at all from him about that time in his life, since all we ever did together was dig potatoes in his garden–he was the first of my grandparents to pass, and I wasn’t yet old enough to be curious about who he’d been before he was grandpa. All I knew was my mom couldn’t stop crying for a while after he died.
He didn’t stay with the Barrymores all that long–married my grandma and got his own gas station in New York, during the Depression. The additives in the gas ultimately caused him to die a painful death by cancer, though at a fairly advanced age. And if he’d known that would happen, you think he’d have opted to remain in service? I’m sure he touched his cap with the best of them. A step up from tugging your forelock to a landlord back in Ireland. It’s a long hard climb. Don’t look down.)
For some reason, none of the films he’d studied explained to Dortmunder that one of a butler’s jobs is to polish the master’s shoes down in the pantry. Which is probably more of a valet’s job, or maybe a footman’s? (What is a footman, anyway? I know they started out as dogs, or lizards, or something, but that’s all I can remember from the Disney films. I’ll look it up later, maybe add a footnote.)
Monroe, formerly surrounded by underlings, has nobody to boss around now but the butler. So when he sees his unshined shoes gathering dust in the hallway, where he left them, he gets to enjoy the most important perk of being a rich bastard. Not having to pretend not to be a rich bastard.
Hall won’t even tell Dortmunder what he did wrong. He’s told to go and ask Alicia. Who is normally a pleasant enough person, but this Lord and Lady of the Manor thing can be contagious, and she’s almost as snippy. She explains to him that Monroe wants his shoes polished, how could a professional butler not know this to be one of his duties? Dortmunder makes up a story about how at the embassy there was a military orderly in charge of that kind of thing. (No one even suggests that Monroe might want to shine his own fucking shoes, or that it doesn’t matter if they’re shined or not, since he never leaves the grounds, or has any guests.)
In the event, he only had to go back twice to buff the shoes some more, even though he could see his reflection in them the first time he’d whacked them around. But three trips was all it took. While Kelp sat smug and amused in his office, Hall gave each shoe a long and critical once-over, and at last grudgingly said, “I suppose they’ll do. And do you know what to do with them next, Rumsey?
“Put em outside your door, sur. Where I got um.”
“Very good,” Hall told him. “We may make a third-rate butler of you yet.”
“Thank you, sur.”
It’s right after this that he tells Dortmunder to be so good as to come get him when the riding instructor arrives, and Dortmunder fondly imagines him riding head-first into a very thick heavy tree branch.
And you know, that wish does come true, after a fashion. Dortmunder is bad luck for rich bastards. God bless him. If the gap between the very wealthy and everybody else continues to grow (as it is doing in China, of all places, where butlering to newly minted millionaires is a vocation on the rise now), God bless us everyone. The Jeeves stories make for delightful fiction, precisely because they are a comic reversal of the normal order of things in a class-based society. The Lie that Binds is much closer to the mark, I think.
And speaking of getting closer to the Mark (God save him)–
If Only There Were Territories:
I have this sneaking feeling that, in the book this might have been if it hadn’t turned out to be a Dortmunder, Mark would have been co-protagonist with Mac–each serves as the POV character for his respective side. Each makes a claim on our sympathies, which is not to say those claims are equally valid.
Mark isn’t a real tycoon yet, just an aspiring one, though he already thinks of himself as a Master of the Universe, albeit one who moved back in with his mom and step-dad for lack of funds. He and Os (the more severe and formidable of the two, whose inner depths, if any, are never plumbed) basically looked around for investment opportunities, and sometimes they scored, and sometimes they didn’t. It wasn’t until they invested all they had in Somnitech that they found out what it means to lose everything. But they still had themselves. And their vendetta against the much richer man who conned them.
He’s not a bad guy, and he’s not a good guy. He’s just a guy on the make–a sort of Nephew figure, as is Mac. Each man is much more frightened by what he’s doing than he’s willing to admit . Mark’s goals are totally self-interested, Mac’s entirely altruistic. But in both cases, they can only get what they want via Monroe Hall. So they keep shoving that very justified fear back down into their guts, where it proceeds to ruin their digestion.
So now they have him. The wellspring of all their ills. Locked up in a remote hunting lodge, where they believe they can frighten him into coughing up the necessary funds. But you know that line from Prizzi’s Honor? About how Sicilian mobsters would rather eat their children than part with money, fond as they are of their children? All very rich people are Sicilian mobsters at heart. And Monroe recognized Mark’s voice, in spite of the silly Halloween mask Mark was wearing. He figures he just has to wait them out. Or escape.
Both Mark and Monroe, I’d say, are grown-up and corrupted versions of the title character from Jimmy the Kid. Resourceful, determined, deplorably admirable in their single-minded absorption in getting what they want. Mark was the main planner of the abduction, and Monroe uses a metal rod borrowed from the toilet in his room to break through the boarded up window of his makeshift cell, and scarper. But now that he has escaped, Mark and Mac both have to face up to the fact that they committed felony kidnapping.
Mark is particularly frightened, since it was his voice Monroe half-remembered, and will attach a name to eventually. Even before they find Monroe’s room empty, he’s remembering that line from Huckleberry Finn, Huck thinking about how he’s going to light out for the territories.
Isn’t that, after all, what it really means to be an American? All of the current resistance to a national identification card (and many years ago, for the same reason, to the Social Security number), all of the alarm about the threats to “privacy,” are based on the simple American conviction, from the very beginning of the immigrant experience, that it was the ultimate right of every American, if circumstances happened to call for such drastic measures, to turn himself into somebody new. The classless society was the ideal partly because, in a classless society, all identity is flexible. Mark, in his sleepless hours of not so much battling funk as welcoming funk aboard, had used every shred of schooling he could dredge out of memory to convince himself that at this point of crisis in his life, it would be not only acceptable, it would not be only guilt-free, but it would be damn near his patriotic duty, to run away and become somebody else.
But he tells himself it’s impossible–in this new modern age, there are no Territories to light out for anymore. Then Monroe disappears, the game is up, and he desperately thinks to himself, If only there were Territories!
Mac and his friends just want to get out of there. Os, the level-headed pragmatist, heartily agrees with this sentiment. None of them are really bad people, so they go to let Dortmunder (who they still think is the butler) out. Only not knowing he’s going to be let out, he hides behind the door and clubs Mark hard in the face. Later, he comes back to the abandoned lodge to get some food, and figures out how Monroe escaped. Hmm. Pretty good. He should have thought of that.
So in the hospital, his jaw swollen up, speaking with a ridiculous lisp, refusing to listen to his lawyer, and mentally speaking not at his very best, Mark plays what he thinks is the proper card in this game of Prisoner’s Dilemma he’s found himself in–be the first to confess. Only the detective, named Cohan, who showed up to question him had nothing on him. Until now.
Yes, they found Monroe Hall, but he seems to have developed permanent amnesia, due to severe head trauma (the price he paid for going out that window). Without Mark’s helpful confession, they would never have cracked the case. They’re grateful to him for ratting out Os, but seems like Mr. Faulk cagily planned in advance for such a dread contingency, and is now hiding on some tropic isle, under a new identity he’d worked out in advance. There really are Territories!
Mac and his buddies? They just went home. They thought about Territories and stuff, but here’s the thing–they are who they are. Just working stiffs, with families and friends, who hang out in each other’s basements, drink beer, sing union songs, and try to think up noble ways to help their fellow man. They never did it for themselves. They wouldn’t even ask for help from their union brothers and sisters, for fear of implicating them in the crime.
And thankfully, there’s nothing Mark can tell the law that will link them to the crime. Os could, but Os is gone, baby, gone. They failed to win their symbolic victory of a few thousand bucks for each member of the Amalgamated Conglomerated Workers Factory Floor Alliance (at least we finally find out what ACWFFA stands for). They don’t feel like they won. But they kinda did, anyway.
It was never their intent to harm Monroe Hall, much as they hated him (nor did they). It was never their intent to personally profit from his abduction (nor have they). And he’s still alive, reasonably healthy, back in the care of his loving if increasingly weary wife, who one suspects won’t ever be getting high-handed with the hired help again–and he’s wiped clean as a newborn babe. Tabula Rasa. Has no idea who he is, what he’s done, why anybody would dislike him, who the pretty blonde lady fussing over him might be.
Most of his money is gone, because only he knew the codes for the numbered overseas bank accounts–he didn’t even trust Alicia with them. There is no Monroe Hall anymore. The estate and all its furnishings is going to be sold off. And the valuable antique cars Dortmunder & Co. hoped to steal? Shipped to that museum in Florida Monroe donated them to earlier as a tax dodge. Gone, baby, gone.
(One is reminded of that scene in Memory, where the amnesiac protagonist goes to a priest for guidance, and instead of getting him to a doctor, the old man starts musing to himself about whether if you can’t remember any sins you committed, are you still guilty of them? Have you inadvertently entered a state of grace?
This could become a highly relevant theological/philosophical debate in the near future, if a certain President whose name I’m weary to my death of typing inherited the Alzheimer’s gene from his equally scurvy dad, and it’s looking quite likely this is the case. One way or another, he’s getting locked up. Whether we’ll still have a comfy basement den to go drink beer and sing union songs in after that happens remains an open question.)
I’m over 7000 words. I could go on like this for another 7000. There’s a lot in this book to talk about. So many good gags to mull over, and realize as we do, that there was much more to them than mere drollery. A fellow of infinite jest, was Mr. Westlake. But the jokes were never at our expense. They were for our edification. They were to try and wake us up. Not his fault we mainly prefer to go on sawing wood.
So yeah, it’s not a great Dortmunder novel, as such. Maybe it wasn’t originally going to be a Dortmunder at all. You can say that it’s too many mismatching (if delightful) bits and pieces, a patchwork quilt of criminal farce and social satire. I think Westlake himself had the last rueful word on its mixed merits, when he typed the final paragraph.
Yet one more running subplot–when Monroe is abducted, two detectives are assigned to the case. Lieutenant Orville, and his sidekick, who is named Wooster (but of course he is). They are not, shall we say, the brightest badges on the force, or at least one hopes not. Orville, in particular, comes in for more than his share of ribbing from the detective-mocking Westlake–seems he learned most of what he knows about police work from crime fiction–like those 87th Precinct novels (damn, those boys were good, he thinks to himself). Orville thinks in clichés, because he is one.
But he is not without certain constabulary instincts. He can sense that this Fred Blanchard fellow, the personal secretary with the guileless air about him, isn’t who he’s pretending to be. He thinks the kidnapping is an inside job, and Rumsey the butler was taken precisely because he’s in on it. Of course, there is an inside job, and Rumsey the butler is in on it, but they haven’t done it yet, and it’s not a kidnapping. Dortmunder had enough of that kind of gig to last him a lifetime, eight books ago.
And then, when somebody shows up trying to kill Fred Blanchard (thankfully for Kelp, his borrowed identity didn’t set off any alarm bells with the previous Blanchard’s enemies until they’d all gone back to their true selves)–Orville is even more convinced he’s on the right track. They arrest the baffled hitman from Votskojek (grrrrr?) who showed up a mite too late to do his job. Surely he shall provide them with clues as to the whereabouts of this so-called secretary! Fred Blanchard has disappeared without a trace, but he shall not forever escape the long arm of the law!
“I knew I was gonna get you, Fred Blanchard! You won’t hide from me! Nowhere on Earth, Fred Blanchard, will you be safe from Lieutenant Wilbur Orville! Let’s go, Bob. This is a wrap.”
This is almost a direct lift from the final lines of Bank Shot, the most dismally awful film ever made from a Dortmunder novel (if there’s something worse, please don’t tell me). A good satirist doesn’t exempt himself from the slings and arrows of his art. And in my estimation, Donald E. Westlake was one of the finest satirists his nation ever produced. If the nation but knew it. Well, the nation has other concerns at present time.
And just FYI, nation, the Road to Ruin is a cul-de-sac. Further down it you go, the longer the return trip will be. If you won’t believe Donald Westlake, will you believe a nice girl in a feather boa doing a wicked Mae West impression for Jesus?
The nation can attend to its own affairs (maybe). In the meantime, I have eleven very short reviews to write for next week. See you then.