What was going on? Was it a wake around here? Nobody wore a black armband, but the faces on the regulars were long enough. They, all of them, men and the women’s auxiliary, too, were hunched over their drinks with that thousand-yard stare that suggests therapy is no longer an option. In short, the place looked exactly like that section of the socialist realist mural where the workers have been utterly shafted by the plutocrats. Dortmunder looked up, half-expecting to see top hats and cigars in the gloom up there, but nothing.
“But first I wanna know,” Tiny said, “about the O.J.”
“Well,” Dortmunder said, “it’s a bust-out joint.”
“Shit,” Tiny commented.
Kelp said, “A nephew.”
“Not one of the better ones,” Dortmunder suggested.
Tiny rumbled, “There are good nephews?”
He would not fail her. She has faith in me as a con artist and a crook, he told himself, and I will not let her down.
Dortmunder said, “You think everything’s okay in life, and then something different happens.”
Kelp gave him a look. “John? On one beer you’re turning philosophical?”
“It’s the environment,” Dortmunder told him.
Okay, it’s like this.
I really wanted to do this review as a one-parter. I remembered the book–nearly every book I’ve reviewed on this blog, I read in its entirety before I created said blog–so there’s a pretty significant gap between readings by now. I remembered enjoying it, like I enjoy all these books, or what am I doing here. I also remembered being a mite underwhelmed. But I forgot most of it, because c’mon, that’s a lot of books. How do you retain all that? You’d need some kind of idiotic memory. That’s what a regular at the O.J. Bar and Grill told me it was called, right before another regular hit him with a beer bottle. Misunderstanding.
Even if I’d remembered it all, line for line, I had a lot less context back then–you learn as you go–so I picked up on things I missed last time, that I will be compelled to share now. Who knows what else I’d find if I reread and reviewed these books all over again from scratch? Maybe somebody better hit me with a beer bottle before that happens. Hey–that was a joke.
So the story is, there’s a lot more story than I remembered, a lot more I want to talk about, and I’ve managed to scrounge up four cover images–all of them lousy– look at the first edition; red/orange letters on a field of taxi-cab yellow, and it’s the pick of the litter. Rivages/Noir somehow got confused (no, you’re supposed to be watching your back, not some android strip-club waitress’s derriere, geez, how French can you get?) The two I’m using next time are even worse.
I did find some images I like, though. Well, I don’t relish those two photos up top, of the shuttered and derelict St. Nick’s Pub, and the now-demolished Lenox Lounge, historic Harlem jazz bars that fell prey to ‘progress.’ But they illustrate the point of this book much better than its own cover art. And what point is that?
On its face, this is yet another story about Dortmunder pulling yet another heist on yet another mendacious moneybags who has it coming, with interest. How many times has that happened now? I make this the sixth notch on Dortmunder’s lock pick (including one short story), and edifying as that may be, there can be too much of a good thing when it comes to watching rich bastards squirm like fat gasping orange carps on a hook. Like you needed me to tell you that. (Reel it in careful-like, Bob. Don’t want to lose this one. Or capsize the boat.)
But that is not what this book is about. The moneybags here isn’t the enemy. Mildly diverting at best, pointless padding at worst. A subplot that got out of control.
There’s also an organized crime angle (a first for Dortmunder; one was starting to wonder if maybe his universe was Cosa Nostra free). The Mob is not the real threat, either, and their subplot is something of a backhanded homage to David Chase. I think we can take it as a given that Mr. Westlake watched The Sopranos (being a great admirer of Chase’s work on The Rockford Files), and the storyline involving Tony’s old school chum Davey Scatino clearly caught his attention. As did the colorful but limited vocabulary of the Jersey mobsters on that show.
There’s two final ‘Nephews’ (and a strong textual hint that this is exactly how Westlake thought of them). One is only his own worst enemy. The other is the final addition to the gang and will be seen again in future. I’m on the fence about whether that’s a good thing, and so’s the gang. But he’s definitely not somebody you have to watch your back over.
No, the antagonist in this book is change. Unneeded, unwanted, and let’s face it, unstoppable. A river bursting its banks, oddly selective in what it sweeps away–mainly what you value most. Good change happens because we make it happen, because we’re paying close attention to our surroundings, performing needed adjustments. Bad change happens, too often, because we get careless; don’t see it coming until it’s upon us. By which time it’s usually too late to do anything but bitch and moan and move on. Assuming that’s an option, and we probably shouldn’t assume that.
Is there no champion we may call upon to save us from this entropic dreadnought, this devourer of dreams? Maybe one–if he can be sufficiently motivated to watch our backs for us, since we hoi polloi seem disinclined to do much of anything besides jaw to each other on our virtual barstools.
Change is going to try and take the O.J. Bar and Grill away from John Dortmunder. Change does not know who it’s fucking with.
Westlake begins by reminding us of what could be lost to world culture forever.
When John Dortmunder, a free man, not even on parole, walked into the O.J. Bar and Grill on Amsterdam Avenue that Friday night in July, just before ten o’clock, the regulars were discussing the afterlife. “What I don’t get,” said one of them, as Dortmunder angled toward where Rollo the bartender was busy with something far over to the right end of the bar, “is all these clouds.”
A second regular put down his foaming beerglass to say, “Clouds? Which clouds are these?”
“That’s what they’re sitting on!” The first regular waved an arm dangerously, but did no damage. “you look at all these pictures, Jesus sitting on a cloud, that other God sitting on a cloud, Mary sitting on a cloud–”
“A little lower down,” suggested a third.
“Well, yeah, but the point is, can’t Heaven come up with furniture?”
Dortmunder takes a break from this divine cabinetry conclave to note that Rollo the bartender is absorbed in making fancy drinks with fruit, arcane liqeurs, and tiny paper parasols–some ladies of a certain age have decamped for refreshment, and are looking around at their surroundings with an anthropologist’s guarded delight. The colloquy at the bar continues apace.
Another regular, meantime, was objecting to the concept of furniture in the beyond, saying, “Whadaya want with furniture? Heaven isn’t Westchester, you know..”
A fifth regular weighed in, saying, “Yeah? What about all those fields of plenty?”
“Land of milk and honey,” added the third regular, as though it were an indictment.
The first regular lifted a skeptical glass and a skeptical brow to say, “Do they give out overshoes?”
The learned debate then verges over into what had just recently become, under unfortunate circumstances, a much-discussed take on the afterlife, The one with the 72 virgins. To which one obvious cavil would be–
“There aren’t seventy-two virgins,” the first regular objected.
“Well no,” the second regular conceded, “not all at one time, but still, what kinda Heaven is this? It would be like being assigned to an all-girls high-school.”
“Ouch,” said the third regular.
“Can you imagine,” the second regular said, “what it sounds like in the cafeteria at lunchtime?”
The fourth regular, the one with something against Westchester, said, “Would you have to learn volleyball?”
Okay, fine, the Algonquin Round Table it’s not, but that lasted a bit over ten years, starting in 1919 then informally concluding in 1932, when Edna Ferber showed up and found a family from Kansas had foreclosed (the Gulch family, one supposes). The O.J. Regulars held court from 1970 to 2009, and that’s just what we know about. We’re going to know a lot more by the time this book is done.
Dortmunder is there for a meet in the back room, and as always, Rollo provides him with a bottle of Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon (“Our Own Brand”) and two glasses. Some question is raised in this narrative as to whether there is any such establishment, or if the bottling is done in the very bowels of the O.J.–but just FYI, at Amsterdam Ave. and 127th, at this precise moment in history–
(Ya gotta believe.)
Dortmunder is going to meet up with Ralph Winslow, or as Rollo knows him, ‘the rye and water, the one that tinkles his ice cubes all the time.’ He claims not to know any of their names, only their beverage preferences. Well, that would make things challenging for the D.A’s office, should Rollo ever be called upon to testify.
In the back room, Dortmunder finds the surprisingly (and delightedly) early Stan Murch (aka the beer and salt), expounding on how the Williamsburg Bridge is okay to drive on now that construction is finished, and Robert Moses didn’t need to build that mammoth expressway after all, the one he wanted to cut Manhattan in half with ‘like the Great Wall of China.’ He also mentions he’s on his second salt shaker, that’s how early he was this time, because traffic was so good on Canal and the West Side Highway. And yet he’s still on his first beer.
(Sidebar: How many of you reading this have actually tried sprinkling salt in your beer to bring back the head? Reading this at my local last Saturday, I was moved again to reach for the salt shaker behind the bar, and again found the results equivocal. Yes, you get a bit of a head back, with a few sprinkles and a bit of discreet agitation, but not a full head, and it doesn’t last long–well, neither does the beer. Unlike Stan, I’m not driving.
Stan needing more than one shaker’s worth to nurse along a single beer would suggest this method is more conducive to hypertension than anything else. Is kosher salt more efficacious? Sea salt? Do those folk of metaphoric legend, who are ever crying in their beers, know something we don’t? Please report your own findings in the comments section. Where I regret to say there is no beer or salt on offer, but I’m working on it.)
So the meet doesn’t pan out. Ralph maybe had something, but the cops pulled him in for something else, and until that gets resolved, he is incommunicado. He called Stan–has him on speed-dial on his cell. Stan asks if Dortmunder has a cell, so he can add him to his speed-dial. Dortmunder’s response is terse and in the negative. He’s not going to be on anyone’s speed dial. Something tells me he’s yet to fully recover from the untimely demise of the rotary dial.
So that’s Chapter One. The review is just over 2,000 words now. What was I worried about, this’ll be over in no time. Call it setting the scene, and let’s try being a bit more expeditious.
Dortmunder gets a call from Arnie Albright, the world’s least-loved fence of stolen goods. Not unpopular from any moral failing on his part (Dortmunder is not one to cast stones, his own house being glass), but rather from his general manner and physical appearance.
We are perpetually reminded of his non-pulchritudinous aspect (“He told me once, he finds himself so disgusting, he shaves with his back to the mirror.”), while he is being inflicted upon us in book after book, not to mention several short stories. One sometimes notes a barely-suppressed strain of sado-masochism in Mr. Westlake. And just for the record, compared to Jersey Josh Kuskiosko, the fence featured in Westlake’s Smoke, who shares many of the same quirks (probably because they were created around the same time), Arnie is Will Freakin’ Rogers.
Arnie’s family members recently did an intervention (referenced in the previous book), sending him to a Club Med, where he was supposed to learn to be a bit more of a person. It kind of worked. Well, he got a tan. He still insists on referring to Dortmunder by his full name all the time. And he still deals in stolen goods. The family didn’t object to that, man’s gotta make a living and all.
So he’s got a proposition he wants Dortmunder to hear, and Dortmunder would rather not, but then again, maybe he could get Kelp to come along, share the burden. Kelp is just then robbing a furrier, bringing the fruits of his labor back to Anne Marie, who proceeds to prance around in a sable jacket and nothing else, so distracting Andy that he agrees over the phone to meet Dortmunder at Arnie’s.
The proposition mingles those two great motivations in human affairs–profit and revenge. Whilst at Club Med, Arnie made the acquaintance of a certain involuntarily expatriate venture capitalist, one Preston Fareweather. Preston is not in exile due to any troubles with the law–well, not criminal law. Civil. If you want to call it that.
He has a lot of very attractive ex-wives, who he married for the sole purpose of bedding then discarding them. They all hate him. More even than they hate each other, and thus they have joined forces, they and their lawyers, in an attempt to attach his worldly goods. Process servers can go many places, but not, it would seem, a Club Med. (Pretty sure they can get into Mar-a-Lago just fine.)
Preston has personality issues that even Arnie finds hard to tolerate, and he’s been tolerating himself since birth. Not so much from his personal appearance as from his believing he and he alone is worthy of any consideration, and other people exist only to be insulted and abused and talked down to. (Is there any Trump in the mix here? No, probably too smart to be Trump-influenced.)
Point is, his contempt for Arnie, the smalltime crook, was not even thinly veiled, even while he entertained himself by hob-nobbing with his social (and no doubt criminal) inferior. Arnie, long inured to people not liking him, was unfamiliar with this specific form of pariah-dom the rich routinely heap upon everybody who isn’t, and thus developed a keen dislike for Preston.
And yet, he kept returning for more daily doses of derision–during which he learned everything he could about Preston’s luxurious duplex penthouse, located on Fifth Avenue and 68th. Full of so many valuable accoutrements. And this is where Dortmunder and Kelp come in. Literally.
Perhaps this schadenfreude shows a lack of gratitude on Arnie’s part, since as he explains, it was meeting Preston Fareweather that finally brought about the most sovereign remedy his own exile was meant to enact. (Translation: He’s a bit less obnoxious now.)
Kelp said “Preston cured you?”
“I watched him,” Arnie said. “I watched the people around him, how they acted, and I suddenly go tit, those are the expressions I used to see on the faces of people looking at me. I was never obnoxious in the same way as Preston, on purpose to hurt and embarrass other people, but it all comes down to the same place. ‘I don’t wanna be Preston Fareweather,’ I told myself, ‘not even by accident,’ so that was it. I called you, John Dortmunder, because here’s my proposition.
“I’m ready,” Dortmunder allowed.
“I’m sure you are. I despise that Preston so much, I put up with so much crap from that guy while I’m casing his apartment long-distance, that my reward is the thought of the expression on his face the next time he walks into his house.”
He’s offering seventy per cent of whatever he gets for whatever Dortmunder gets. Even allowing for some creative accounting on Arnie’s part, it’s a solid proposition. And Arnie, no heistman himself, still has a useful suggestion as to how they might proceed–Mr. Fareweather has his own private parking garage, to billet his own private BMW, and this comes with its own private elevator up to the penthouse. Take the Beemer out, put a truck in, Bob’s your uncle.
So what’s to lose? They walk across Central Park, and there it is, big as life, and surprisingly unglamorous. Well, you’re paying for the view out, I guess. Who cares what the wretches down in the park have to look at?
The building, up ahead, taller than its neighbors, built in the real-estate flush of the 1950s, when details and ornamentation and style and grace were considered old-fashioned and unprofitable, hulked like a stalker over the park, a pale gray stone structure pocked with balconies.
A pretty fair description of the general run of uber-pricey housing there (location, location, location). I’m guessing Preston’s building would be a composite (since non-fictional tycoons do get robbed sometimes, and their lawyers aren’t fictional either), but here’s a pretty fair example of the style. If you want to call it that. (Mr. Westlake’s architectural conservatism can be contagious at times.)
They agree to do another meet at the O.J., this time with Tiny, since there’s going to be a lot of heavy lifting if they pull this one. There follows a brief interlude with Stan Murch, just then in the process of stealing a Lincoln Navigator (one of the few legit car names in this book, but we’ll get to that next time), which he suddenly realizes comes equipped with the current bane of Stan’s existence, namely GPS. Not a bane so much because he wants to handle navigation himself, but because of what the letters GPS stand for. And they won’t stand for much.
That was the snag lately. If you grabbed some old clunker, it didn’t have enough resale value to be worth the risk involved in taking it away from its former owner, but a sh iny new, valuable piece of tin was more than likely to be leashed to a satellite. And there was no known way to jam a satellite.
That’s the problem, Stan thought. The law’s got all the labs.
He barely ditches the goods before the cops show up, drawn by the GPS signal like bees to nectar. They see him walking towards the subway, but he talks himself out of their tentative clutches, and boards the A train. Which we’re told has its northernmost terminus in the Bronx. Which has never been true, unless you consider North Manhattan part of the Bronx.
I can’t explain Westlake making such an egregious Gothamite gaffe. Unless he’s trying once again to avoid incurring the jealousy of the Navajo gods. This is a pretty good rug he’s weaving here, but a long way from perfect, so I don’t know why he’d bother. Explanation, Mr. Westlake? Oh right. Mystify us, why don’t you? Maybe he just forgot.
Next chapter takes us into the inquiring mind of Judson Blint, 19 years of age, just out of high school in Long Island, looking to make his mark (God save him). He has come to scale the Avalon State Bank Tower in search of J.C. Taylor. He’s hoping Mr. Taylor will give him a job with Allied Commissioner’s Courses, Inc.–the location of which is supposed to be a secret, but young Blint has tracked it to this location, using some of the very methods learned from their mail-order detective course.
Scanning the directory at the ground floor, he’s surprised to see just how many different businesses are headquartered in room 712–Intertherapeutic Research Service–Super Star Music Co.–and once he’s up on the seventh floor, he sees it’s also the home of the Maylohda Commercial Attaché. Maylohda. What was that, a country? Who was J.C. Taylor, anyway? He sees the answer before he recognizes it, when he goes in to speak to the receptionist.
Oh. My. God. She was something out of Judson’s dreams, but not the more soothing ones. No, more like the ones inspired by video games. In her thirties, she was a hard-looking brunette with gleaming eyes that caught the light, and a mouth that looked born to say no. Only louder than that.
She yanks him around a bit. You know our Josie (sadly rare as the occasions have been for us to gaze upon her in the last few books). She’s impressed with him, in spite of herself. He’s not a complete rube. He figured some stuff out (if not her correct gender) and he put together a résumé for himself that is pure uncut malarkey–and yet impossible to directly disprove. Kid’s got potential–and turns out she’s ready to ditch her old cons, since the being her own country thing is working out so well for her. Only so many hours in the day to fleece suckers.
Tiny comes in to see his beloved, gives Judson a narrow look. Judson blanches, and you’d be very lucky if that’s all you did. A conversation ensues, and the upshot is that she’ll give Judson a try–he can run the other mail order scams for her–she hates to let them go. It’s the sentimentalist in her. More on Master Blint later.
It’s at this point that Dortmunder returns to the O.J. Bar and Grill, only to discover (see up top) that something terrible has happened since his last visit. Rollo tells him the back room isn’t available. Dortmunder is given to understand it will never be available again. There are two questionably attired gentlemen there, tough-looking, both clearly heeled, in the meaning of that word that has nothing to do with footwear. Kelp saunters in, looks the first goombah over. “What flying saucer did this come out of?”
Rollo, knowing Tiny (or as he knows him, the red wine and vodka) will arrive at any moment, and how he tends to react to anyone with the temerity to try and intimidate him, begs Dortmunder and Kelp to leave, and gives them a complimentary bottle of Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon (they later comment that it does not travel well).
Murch, and Murch’s Mom, and Tiny, all arrive to find John and Andy on the sidewalk, bereft. They decide to meet at Dortmunder’s place, something nobody is happy about, least of all Dortmunder. The situation is explained. Tiny is mildly disappointed to have missed out on the chance to take the two wise guys at the O.J. apart at the garish seams, but it’s not like he owns the joint. They decide Arnie’s proposition has merit, and that John and Andy will look into the matter of the O.J.
When they get there, the situation has only gotten worse. The place is basically a walking corpse. Two different yet identical mob guys are keeping watch. Rollo is still at the bar, and Andy offers to buy Dortmunder a beer. Dortmunder may be more easy-going than Parker, but he has that same innate suspicion of even the most innocuous forms of altruism. Unlike Parker, his Handy McKay didn’t retire to Maine.
Dortmunder looked at him. “What are you up to?”
“What up to? I feel like I wanna buy you a beer. It happens, we have another one, then you buy for me. That’s how it works, John.”
Dortmunder said, “What if we only have the one?”
“My feeling is,” Kelp said, whipping out his wallet and putting cash money on the bar next to the glasses Rollo was putting down in front of them, “some day we’ll be in a bar again.”
Dortmunder could only agree with that. “You’ll keep track, I guess,” he said, as Rollo took Kelp’s money away to his open cash register and rummaged around in there a while.
“No problem,” Kelp assured him, and lifted his glass. “To crime.”
“Without punishment,” Dortmunder amended, and they both drank.
Rollo quietly tells them to watch out–these guys in the bar now are criminals. Dortmunder gently breaks it to him that he and Kelp are criminals. Rollo says yeah, but these other guys are organized. In a Westlake novel, this does not necessarily constitute an advantage, but Rollo’s main concern at this point is that nobody gets hurt.
They don’t like what they find, but they recognize it. More and more of the O.J., including their beloved back room, is taken up with merchandise from various businesses that supply bars. Ordered on the O.J.’s line of credit, invoices signed by a resigned and dismal Rollo. It’s a bust-out. The mob guys are going to keep ordering until the bar’s credit runs dry, then cart the goods away to sell at a (100%) profit. It’s a bit like that thing where the wasp lays its egg in the paralyzed cicada. I believe analogies have also been drawn regarding the financial sector. One might consider expanding that to encompass certain aspects of politics. It’s a rich tapestry.
They meet up with Tiny in a suitably capacious vehicle rented and driven by Judson, and he’s not happy about the O.J., but he figures none of his business, too late to do anything, focus on the heist. Not that they get very specific, with Judson there, but he reads between the lines, wants to help out, necessitating a somewhat nerve-wracking (for Judson) conversation about whether maybe this kid knows too much. The general consensus is he knows nothing (like all kids), but maybe he could learn (like some kids). As for the O.J., Dortmunder finds that he simply can’t let it go.
Chapter 15 somehow fails to open with “When Dortmunder broke into the O.J. Bar and Grill”, sticking with the more traditional opening, but that’s exactly what he’s done, for the purposes of gathering intelligence. He gets down into the basement, via a trap-door behind the bar. He finds records, dating back to founding of the O.J., forty-seven years before, by Otto Medrick and Jerome Hulve, and now we know why it’s called that. It seems to have had multiple prior incarnations. And who could possibly say how many prior Dortmunders?
Now he sees the problem–Otto Medrick bought his partner out thirty-one years ago. He retired to Florida a while back. And he transferred ownership to one Raphael Medrick, Otto’s nephew (always with the nephews). Who seems to have had, as they say, a troubled past, often involving ‘bad companions.’ Bingo. There were mob guys up there talking while he was down there reading, taking expensive liquor for their capo’s daughter’s wedding in New Jersey. Dortmunder helps himself to a stray bottle of Stoli on his way out. But he’s going to give something back for it.
Next thing, Dortmunder is meeting the gang at the appropriately named Twilight Lounge, on Forty-third Street. J.C. suggested it as an alternative to the O.J. It’s pretty clearly not going to work out. I mean, when Stan asks for salt, they give him a bowl of it. But Tiny insists there’s nothing to be done, they should focus on getting theirs. Nobody brings up that this is what Tiny said when those mercs had taken Dortmunder prisoner during the Avalon State Bank Tower heist, before J.C. shamed Tiny and the others into going up to rescue him, and you wouldn’t have brought that up to Tiny’s face either, so shaddap.
However, Tiny still wants to go see this nephew who has forced him to do meets at the Twilight Lounge, and so they head off to a not very nice section of Queens, where it turns out Raphael is completely unaware of anything that’s happening with his uncle’s bar, nor could he care less. He’s making music. Well, he’s taking other people’s music and making it into his own thing, with a lot of electronic equipment. That’s basically how he got in trouble last time, but he figures now everybody’s stealing music and selling it online (right at that moment, he’s creating an unholy amalgram of The Star Spangled Banner and Hey Jude), and at least he’s customizing it first. Westlake’s contempt for ‘sampling’ is palpable here.
So he looks up and there’s all these tough-looking guys standing there, like he’s done something to them. Tiny pings him with his thumb, just to get his attention. His attention gained, Raphael explains that Uncle Otto will get all the money, and it’s fine. He didn’t want to run the bar himself (and clearly he couldn’t run a popsicle stand in a heat wave).
Some lawyer told him nobody would buy the bar because the nabe had changed and it was too ‘down-market’. Which is bullshit, of course–a new owner could easily up-market it, all you need is a place with a liquor license, and frankly, it’s amazing nobody made the offer before then–The O.J. is at 96th and Amsterdam. By the early 21st, that’s the bleating heart of Yuppieville. The O.J. must be the last old school bluecollar joint left in that part of town.
Now we know why it’s still there–the real owner is in Florida, leaving Rollo in charge. The owner on paper is interested in nothing that doesn’t come out of his headphones, and this guy Mikey, that Raphael knows, fed Raphael a line of b.s. to make a nice score. As the now thoroughly depressed Dortmunder gang leaves this archangel of emptiness to his solipsistic universe, he thinks to himself, The O.J. Bar and Grill. Who cared? That was so yesterday, back when people used to leave their houses. Brave New World.
And Dortmunder still can’t give up on the O.J. How come? Yes, it was a nice place to hold meets, and Rollo is a lovely man (not physically, you know what I mean), the regulars are a kick, it’s a shame and all, but why? Why put himself out over a cheesy over-the-hill dive bar, that isn’t even walking distance from his apartment? When he’s got a penthouse full of goodies to steal, and there are Jersey boys with guns who would take offense at any eleventh hour intervention?
Should I do what I do when I review the Parkers, talk about some button in Dortmunder’s head, and once it’s pushed, he has to keep going until he’s achieved his end? No, because Parker wouldn’t care about some bar closing. Parker is big into non-attachment. The mere notion of there being a place you could hang out in and have a good chance of seeing him walk through the door would make him uneasy. Only reason he’s got that house in New Jersey is because of Claire. She’s more like Dortmunder, in this specific instance, than Parker ever could be.
Dortmunder lives in a world of change that he can’t control, and he hates it. So does Parker, but ever the instinctive existentialist, he shrugs and deals. Dortmunder can’t let it go. There’s so few constants in this whirling maelstrom we call a planet, so few things you can rely upon.
For him, there’s May, May’s tuna casserole, Kelp’s weird ideas (whether Dortmunder likes it or not), and New York itself, the only place he ever wants to live, even though he wasn’t born anywhere near it. Within New York (which as the saying goes, will be a nice town when it’s finished), there’s the O.J. Bar and Grill. His proprietary domain. He can’t afford to lose his point of orientation, his haven of respite. Who can? And who doesn’t?
The day my father died, last October, I had made plans to meet up with an old friend for lunch in midtown. I got the word while waiting for the train, and spent the ride soaking it in. I was not going to call off the lunch. I needed it more than ever. All the more because it was my favorite Chinese restaurant in the entire universe. Repeat. Was.
Nothing like it north of Chinatown, and I’d rate it over any Chinatown place I’ve ever tried. A vast baroque menu Westlake could have written odes to. Cash only, no plastic. No reservations, but you could always get a table after the peak lunch rush. Unpretentious decor, relaxed atmosphere. Always good jazz–real jazz–playing in the background–the owner must have been a fan. No liquor license–meaning you could bring your own beer, wine, whatever the hell else you wanted to drink. They’d put it on ice for you.
I could never describe the nuances of their hot and sour soup, their pork dumplings, their Phoenix Shredded Beef Min-Young–anyone who tells you Cantonese is bland has never really had it. I had it just a few years, after discovering it. If I was in that part of town, I’d find an excuse to eat there. Got so the staff knew me and my peculiarities (who else has German double bock with Chinese food?) That was nice.
But when I got there that day, I found a locked door with a notice on it. The landlord. The rent. Do I have to draw a picture? A thriving business with a devoted clientele has no guarantee of survival in any part of Manhattan. Not anymore. They’d have been better off dealing with the mafia. At least those people appreciate good food.
My friend showed up, and we wound up commiserating about current events over mediocre diner grub. She was sorry to hear about my dad. I was just grateful to have somebody to talk to. You think everything’s okay in life. And then something different happens. Change happens. The wrong kind of change. The change that comes when you don’t watch your back.
Change isn’t evil. That’s not the point here. Change is the source of everything anyone ever loved. Change created the O.J., as Dortmunder learned in that basement. Change created Chinese American cuisine (and Chinese Americans, even better). Change created these books we’re talking about. Change is the reason you look around and see something, instead of nothing. Change is why you’re here to look around. God is change. Octavia Butler wrote two whole novels about that.
And everything has a mortal span, all things must pass, certainly all earthly establishments. You can know all this and still know when something’s being taken away from you before its time. Before something equivalently good is ready to replace it. And if we lose too many things we value, too quickly, lose all our fixed points of reference, our sense of self can start to unravel pretty darn quick.
Okay, call it conservatism. I don’t care. I believe in conserving things that need conserving, and so did Donald E. Westlake, and so did John Dortmunder. Admittedly, I’m not much good at conserving words, when I write these reviews.
So to wrap things up until next week, Dortmunder knows what he’s got to do. And where he’s got to go. And who he’s got to see when he gets there. He’s not happy about it, but being who he is, knowing who he is, he’s got no choice. He asks the gang if any of them want to come with. He gets the answer he expected. If he were Parker, he’d probably make some sort of terse bloody-minded inspirational speech, but even that might not work in this case. You might follow someone to the very gates of hell, but Florida in the summertime? Pass.
Well, if it would have kept Phoenix Garden open, maybe. As for my dad, just as well he didn’t live to see some of the change happening now. Okay, fine, comedy, I know. We’ll get to the lighter side next week, okay? That’s when the all the people who have conspired to upset Dortmunder’s orientation suddenly find occasion to wax philosophic themselves. Well, they should have watched their backs.