Donald Westlake - The Hot Rock

Dortmunder sighed.

"Nice doggy," Dortmunder said.

The German shepherd wasn't buying any. He stood in front of the stoop, head down, eyes up, jaws slightly open to show his pointy teeth, and said, "Rrrrrr," softly in his throat every time Dortmunder made a move to come down off the porch. The message was clear. The damn dog was going to hold him here until somebody in authority came home.

"Look, doggy," Dortmunder said, trying to be reasonable, "all I did was ring the bell. I didn't break in, I didn't steal anything, I just rang the bell. But nobody's home, so now I want to go to some other house and ring the bell."

"Rrrrrr," said the dog.

Dortmunder pointed to his attache case. "I'm a salesman, doggy," he said. "I sell encyclopedias. Books. Big books. Doggy? Do you know from books?"

The dog didn't say anything. He just kept watching.

"All right now, dog," Dortmunder said, being very stern. "Enough is enough. I have places to go, I don't have the time to fool around with you. I've got to make my rent money. Now, I'm leaving here and that's all there is-" He took a firm step forward.

"Rrrrrrrr!" said the dog.

Dortmunder took a quick step back. "God damn it, dog!" he cried. "This is ridiculous!"

The dog didn't think so. He was one of those by-the-book dogs. Rules were rules, and Dortmunder didn't rate any special favors.

Dortmunder looked around, but the neighborhood was as empty as the dog's mind. It was not quite two o'clock in the afternoon, September the seventh - three weeks and two days since the raid on the police station - and the neighborhood children were all in school. The neighborhood fathers were all at work, of course, and God alone knew where all the neighborhood mothers were. Wherever they were, Dortmunder was alone, trapped by a stupid overzealous dog on the porch of a middle-aged but comfortable home in a middle-aged but comfortable residential section of Long Island, about forty miles from Manhattan. Time was money, he had none to spare of either, and the damn dog was costing him both.

"There ought to be a law against dogs," Dortmunder said darkly. "Dogs like you in particular. You ought to be locked up somewhere."

The dog was unmoved.

"You're a menace to society," Dortmunder told him. "You're damn lucky if I don't sue you. Your owner, I mean. Sue the hell out of him."

Threats had no effect. This was clearly the kind of dog that would accept no responsibility. "I was just following orders," that would be his line.

Dortmunder looked around, but the porch was unfortunately shy of lengths of two-by-four with which to beat the dog into his master's seeded lawn. "God damn it!" Dortmunder said again.

Movement attracted his attention, and he looked down the block to see a brown Checker sedan with MD plates rolling slowly in his direction. Could it possibly be the owner of dog and house? If it wasn't, would it do any good for Dortmunder to holler help? He would feel foolish, calling for help in the middle of all this suburban peace and calm, but if it would do any good-

The Checker's horn honked. An arm waved from its side window. Dortmunder squinted, and there was Kelp's head, also sticking out the side window. Kelp shouted, "Hey, Dortmunder!"

"Right here!" Dortmunder shouted. He felt like a sailor stranded on a desert island for twenty years when a ship finally heaves to just offshore. He waved his attache case over his head to attract Kelp's attention, even though Kelp obviously already knew who and where he was. "Here I am!" he shouted. "Right here!"

The Checker heaved to just offshore, and Kelp called, "Come on over here, I got news for you."

Dortmunder pointed at the dog. "Dog," he said.

Kelp frowned. The sun was in his eyes out there, so he shaded them with one hand and called, "What was that?"

"This dog here," Dortmunder called. "He won't let me off the porch."

"How come?"

"How do I know?" Dortmunder said in irritation. "Maybe I look like Sergeant Preston."

Kelp got out of the car, and on the other side Greenwood climbed out, and the two of them slowly approached. Greenwood called, "Did you try ringing the doorbell?"

"That's what started it," Dortmunder said.

The dog had become aware of the new arrivals. He backed in a quarter circle, till he could watch everybody, and remained wary.

Kelp said, "Did you do something to him?"

"All I did," Dortmunder insisted, "was ring the doorbell."

"Usually," Kelp said, "unless you actually do something to a dog, scare it or something, it-"

"Scare it? Me? '

Greenwood pointed at the dog and said, "Sit."

The dog cocked his head, puzzled.

More firmly, Greenwood said, " Sit. "

The dog lifted out of his crouch and stood looking at Greenwood in a fair imitation of His Master's Voice. Who, he was clearly thinking, was this stranger who knew how to speak Dog?

"I told you to sit," Greenwood said, "and I mean sit. "

The dog could almost be seen to shrug. When in doubt, obey orders. It sat.

"Come on," Greenwood said to Dortmunder. "He won't bother you now."

"He won't?" Giving the dog mistrustful glances, Dortmunder started down off the porch.

"Don't act afraid of him," Greenwood said.

Dortmunder said, "It isn't an act," but he tried to look braver.

The dog wasn't sure. He looked at Dortmunder, at Greenwood, at Dortmunder, at Greenwood.

"Stay," said Greenwood.

Dortmunder stopped.

"Not you," Greenwood said. "The dog."

"Oh." Dortmunder came on down the rest of the stoop and walked on by the dog, who glowered at his left knee as though to be sure he'd remember it the next time they met.

"Stay," said Greenwood again, pointing at the dog, and then he turned around and followed Dortmunder and Kelp down the walk to the street and the Checker.

All three got aboard, Dortmunder in back, and Kelp drove them away from there. The dog, still sitting in the same place on the lawn, watched them carefully until they were out of sight. Possibly memorizing the license plate.

"I appreciate that," Dortmunder said. He was leaning forward with his forearms on the top of the front seat.

"Any time," Kelp said airily.

"What are you two doing out here anyway?" Dortmunder asked him. "I thought you were still working the smack."

"We're looking for you," Kelp said. "Last night you said you'd probably hit this neighborhood today, so we took a chance."

"I'm glad you did."

"Because we've got news for you. Anyway, Greenwood has."

Dortmunder turned his head to look at Greenwood. "Good news?"

"The best," Greenwood said. "Remember that emerald job?"

Dortmunder sat back as though the front seat had suddenly filled with snakes. "That again?"

Greenwood half turned in the seat to look back at him. "We can still get it," he said. "We've still got a shot at it."

"Take me back to the dog," Dortmunder said.

Kelp, looking at him in the rearview mirror, said, "Naw, listen to this. This is pretty good."

"Back to the dog," Dortmunder said. "I know when I'm well off."

"I don't blame you," Greenwood said. "I almost feel the same way. But God damn it, I've put so much effort into that stinking emerald, I hate to give up now. I had to pay out of my own pocket for a complete line of new identity papers, renounce an entire bookful of telephone numbers, give up a really good apartment at the kind of rent you can't get anymore in New York, and we still don't even have the emerald."

"That's the whole point," Dortmunder told him. "Look what's happened to you already. You really want to go back for more?"

"I want to finish the job," Greenwood said.

"It'll finish you," Dortmunder said. "I'm not usually what you'd call the superstitious type, but if ever there was a jinx job this one is it."