Free Brass Go-Between by Ross Thomas

commitment to the museum.”
    He shrugged as if he had expected the answer, gave me another smile, and rose. “I was afraid that you would say that, Mr. St. Ives, but I had to try. I think you understand.”
    “I think so.”
    He moved toward the door, a brilliantly dressed black giant, with a winning smile and a losing country. He turned at the door and gave me the warm benefit of that smile again, but his eyes seemed sad and troubled. “You have been most gracious, Mr. St. Ives, and I want to thank you for your courtesy. And perhaps I can thank you best by warning you.”
    “About what?” I said.
    “When I was reciting the many virtues of us Komporeeneans, I neglected to mention one that is well known throughout West Africa, especially by the Jandolaeans.”
    “What’s that?”
    “We are among the most cunning thieves in the world. We will try to steal the shield from the thieves who stole it from the museum. Failing that, we shall surely steal it from you. Good night, Mr. St. Ives.”

CHAPTER SIX
    S OMEDAY, I FEAR, I shall live in a house in the suburbs with crab grass that I can mow, snow that I can shovel, tax assessments that I can rail against, and a next-door neighbor’s wife who will jump into bed of an afternoon, forty-five minutes before she has to pick up the kids at school. But all of this, like my death, is some time off, and though I view both events with equal trepidation, I meanwhile shall continue to live in the disintegrating inner core of the city and make the most of the privacy it affords, the services that it offers, and the rude wit that can be enjoyed while trying to cross almost any street against the red light. “Whassamattah, shithead, colahblind or sumpthin?” Stimulating.
    For nearly three years home had been the Adelphi, a medium-sized, medium-priced residential hotel that catered exclusively to anyone who could scrape up the monthly rent. I had what was known as a de luxe suite which meant that they installed a Pullman kitchen sometime in the 1950’s and the rent had been increased by fifty percent. In addition to daily maid service, the Adelphi offered a restaurant and bar that were steadfastly ignored by all the printed guides to New York, a cigar stand that was always running out of stamps, and a switchboard answering service which got the messages right at least a third of the time. Two aging bellhops, one during the day and the other from four till midnight, ran a small book along with whatever errands the guests might have in mind.
    After the shuttle from Washington finally quit circling LaGuardia and the pilot brought the plane in only forty-five minutes late, I took a cab to the Adelphi. The phone rang while I was unpacking and when I answered it, Myron Greene wanted to know what had happened.
    “I got the job,” I said.
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    “They paid me half in advance.”
    “Go on.”
    “The Washington cops figure that it was an inside job and the inside man’s already been killed. His wife hung herself. They were both heroin addicts. Or so the Washington cops say.”
    “Jesus!” Myron Greene said.
    “It gets better,” I said. “You’ll like the next part.”
    “Just tell what happened.”
    “Well, I got a call from a woman who said she’s representing the thieves. Somebody’s supposed to call me here in New York either today or tomorrow. Then there was Conception Mbwato, a representative of Komporeen which, he says, is the rightful owner of the shield. He offered me fifty thousand to hand the shield over to him, once I get it back. I turned him down—reluctantly, I might add—and he promised to steal it—either from me or from whoever’s got it now. And I asked Frances Wingo to have a drink, but she refused.”
    “You’d better mail me the check,” Myron Greene said, “and I’ll have Spivack deposit it for you.”
    “If they have any stamps,” I said.
    “Who?”
    “The cigar stand.”
    “You’re dissembling again,” Myron