Donald Westlake - Bank Shot

“You want to come along to the 0. J?”

“Naw, you go ahead.”

“The other night, Murch brought his Mom.”

“I’d rather go home.”

Dortmunder shrugged. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

“See you later.”

She slopped away down the street, and Dortmunder headed the other way. He still had time, so he decided to walk, which meant going through Central Park. He walked along the cinder path alone, and under a street light a shifty-eyed stocky guy in a black turtle-neck sweater came out of nowhere and said, “Excuse me.”

Dortmunder stopped. “Yeah?”

“I’m taking a survey,” the guy said. His eyes danced a little, and he seemed to be grinning and yet not to be grinning. It was the same kind of expression most of the people in the movie had had. He said, “Here you are, you’re a citizen, you’re walking along in the park at night. What would you do if somebody came along and mugged you?”

Dortmunder looked at him. “I’d beat his head in,” he said. The guy blinked, and the almost grin disappeared. He looked slightly confused, and he said, “What if he had, uh, well, what if he was …” Then he shook his head, waggled both hands and backed off, saying, “Nah, forget it. Doesn’t matter, forget it.”

“Okay,” Dortmunder said. He walked on through the park and over to Amsterdam and up to the 0. J. When he went in, Rollo was having a discussion with the only two customers, a pair of overweight commission salesmen in the auto-parts line, about whether sexual intercourse after a heavy meal was medically good or medically bad. They were supporting their arguments mostly with personal anecdotes, and Rollo obviously had trouble breaking himself free from the conversation. Dortmunder waited at the end of the bar, and finally Rollo said, “Now, hold it now, hold it a second. Don’t start that yet. I’ll be right back.” Then he came down the bar, handed Dortmunder the bottle called Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon — “Our Own Brand” plus two glasses, and said, “All that’s here so far is the draft beer and salt. His mother let him out by himself tonight.”

“There’ll be more coming,” Dortmunder said. “I don’t know how many.”

“The more the merrier,” Rollo said sourly and went back to his discussion.

In the back room, Murch was sprinkling salt in his beer to restore the head. He looked up at Dortmunder’s entrance and said, “How you doing?”

“Fine,” Dortmunder said. He put the bottle and glasses on the table and sat down.

“I made better time tonight,” Murch said. “I tried a different route.”

“Is that right?” Dortmunder opened the bottle.

“I went down Flatlands and up Remsen,” Murch said. “Not Rockaway Parkway, see? Then I went over Empire Boulevard and up Bedford Avenue all the way into Queens and took the Williamsburg Bridge over into Manhattan.”

Dortmunder poured. “Is that right?” he said. He was just waiting for Murch to stop talking, because he had something to say to him.

“Then Delancey and Allen and right up First Avenue and across town at Seventy-ninth Street. Worked like a dream.”

“Is that right?” Dortmunder said. He sipped at his drink and said, “You know, Rollo’s kind of unhappy about you.”

Murch looked surprised, but eager to please. “Why? Cause I parked out front?”

“No. A customer that comes in and nurses one beer all night long, it doesn’t do too much for his business.”

Murch glanced down at his beer, and then looked very pained. “I never thought of that,” he said.

“I just figured I’d mention it.”

“The thing is, I don’t like to drink and drive. That’s why I space it out.”

Dortmunder had nothing to say to that.

Murch pondered and finally said hopefully, “What if I bought him a drink? Would that do it?”

“Could be.”

“Let me give it a try,” Murch said, and as he got to his feet the door opened and Kelp and Victor came in. The room was very small and very full of table anyway, so it took a while to bring Kelp and Victor in while getting Murch out, and during that time Dortmunder brooded at Victor. It seemed to him that Victor was becoming more and more an accepted part of this job, which he didn’t much like but couldn’t quite find the way to stop. Kelp was doing it, but he was doing it in such a sneaky quiet fashion that Dortmunder never had a clear moment when he could say, “Okay, cut it out.” But how could anybody expect him to go steal a bank with some clown smiling at him all the time?

Murch finally shot himself out of the room, like a dollop of toothpaste squeezed out of a tube, and Kelp said, “I see Herman isn’t here yet.”

“You talked to him?”

“He’s interested.”

Dortmunder brooded some more. Kelp himself was all right, but he tended to surround himself with people and operations that were just a little off. Victor, for instance. And now bringing in some guy named Herman X. What could you hope for from somebody named Herman X? Had he ever done anything in this line? If he was going to turn out to be another smiler, Dortmunder was just going to have to put his foot down. Enough smiling is enough.

Sitting down next to Dortmunder and reaching for the bourbon bottle, Kelp said, “We got the financing set.”

Victor had taken the spot directly across from Dortmunder. He was smiling. Shading his eyes with his hand, Dortmunder ducked his head a little and said to Kelp, “You got the full four grand?”

“Every penny. The light too bright for you?”

“I just went to a movie.”

“Oh, yeah? What’d you see?”

Dortmunder had forgotten the title. “It was in color,” he said.

“That narrows it. Probably a pretty recent one, then.”

“Yeah.”

Victor said, “I’m drinking tonight.” He sounded very pleased.

Dortmunder ducked his head a little more and looked at Victor under his fingers. He was smiling, of course, and holding up a tall glass. It was pink. Dortmunder said, “Oh, yeah?”

“A sloe-gin fizz,” Victor said.

“Is that right?” Dortmunder readjusted head and fingers — it was like putting down venetian blinds — and turned firmly back to Kelp. “So you got the whole four thousand,” he said.

“Yeah. A funny thing about that.”

The door opened and Murch came back in. “It’s all set,” he said. He was smiling, too, but it was easier to live with than Victor’s. “Thanks for setting me straight,” he said.

“Glad it worked out,” Dortmunder said.

Murch sat down in front of his beer and carefully salted it. “Rollo’s okay when you get to know him,” he said.

“Sure he is.”

“Drives a Saab.”

Dortmunder had known Rollo for years but hadn’t known about the Saab. “Is that right?” he said.

“Used to drive a Borg-Ward. Sold it because he couldn’t get parts when they stopped making the car.”

Kelp said, “What kind of car is that?”

“Borg-Ward. German. Same company that makes Norge refrigerators.”

“They’re American.”

“The refrigerators, yeah. The cars were German.”

Dortmunder finished his drink and reached for the bottle, and Rollo opened the door and stuck his head in to say, “There’s an Old Crow on the rocks out here asking for Kelp.”

“That’s him now,” Kelp said.

“A darkish fella.”

“That’s him,” Kelp said. “Send him on in.”

“Right.” Rollo gave a bartender’s glance around the table. “Everybody set?”

They all murmured.

Rollo cocked an eye at Murch. “Stan, you got enough salt?”

“Oh, sure,” Murch said. “Thanks a lot, Rollo.”

“Any time, Stan.”

Rollo went away. Dortmunder glanced at Murch, but didn’t say anything, and a minute later a tall lean guy with dark-brown complexion and a very modest Afro came into the room. What he looked most like was an Army second lieutenant on leave. He was nodding slightly and grinning slightly as he came in and shut the door, and Dortmunder wondered at first if he was on something; then he realized it was just the self-protective cool of somebody meeting a group of people for the first time.