Read Online Bank Shot by Donald E. Westlake - Free Book Online Page A

dinner party, Susan and the other three couples all being black. George was on O.E.O. somewhere – not in fund disbursement, unfortunately – but it was Linda that Herman had his eyes on. He still hadn’t made up his mind whether he would finish this evening in bed with Linda Lachine or Rastus Sharif, whether he felt tonight straight or gay, and the suspense was delicious. Also the fact that neither of them had shared his bed before, so it would be a new adventure in any case.
    Susan gave George an arch look and said, ‘I know your kind. Grab all you can get.’ Herman thought it unlikely that Susan really wanted George; she was probably just trying to make Linda angry, since she knew Herman’s intentions in that area.
    And she was succeeding. While George looked flustered and flattered, Linda gave Susan a tight-lipped look of hate. But she was too cool, Herman noticed, to say anything right now. That pleased him; people being themselves always pleased him. ‘A dinner party,’ he had once said, ‘should be nothing but undercurrents.’
    This one was. Of the ten people present, practically everybody had been to bed at one time or another with everybody else – excluding the Lachines, of course, who were in process of being drawn in right now.
    And himself and Rastus. How had he let that fail to happen for so long? Herman glanced over at Rastus now and saw him indolently whispering something to Diane, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Rastus Sharif; he’d chosen the name himself, of course, as representative of the full range of his heritage, both slave and African, and in doing so had made himself a walking insult to practically everybody he met. Black and white alike had trouble bringing themselves to call him ‘Rastus’. Looking at him, Herman thought the delay had probably been caused by his own admiration and envy; how could he go to bed with the only person on earth he didn’t feel superior to?
    Mrs Olaffson suddenly appeared in the living-room door-way. ‘Telephone, sir.’
    He sat up. ‘My call from the Coast?’ He was aware of the conversations halting around him.
    Mrs Olaffson knew her part: ‘Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Be right there.’ Standing, he said, ‘Sorry, people, this may take a while. Try to have fun without me.’
    They made ribald comments in return, and he grinned as he loped from the room. He had given it out that he was employed in ‘communications’, sometimes making it seem as though he meant book publishing and sometimes motion pictures. Vague but glamorous, and no one ever inquired more closely.
    Mrs Olaffson had preceded him to the kitchen, and on the way through he said, ‘Study door locked?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Mind the fort.’ He patted her pink cheek, went out the apartment’s rear door and down the service stairs two at a time.
    As usual, Mrs. Olaffson’s timing had been perfect. Just as Herman stepped out onto the sidewalk of Central Park West the grimy green-and-white Ford rolled in to the curb by the fire hydrant. Herman pulled the rear door open and slid in beside Van; as he shut the door, Phil, the driver, started the car moving again.
    â€˜Here you go,’ Van said and handed him his mask and gun.
    â€˜Thanks,’ he said and held them in his lap as the Ford headed south toward midtown.
    There was no conversation in the car, not even from the fourth man, Jack, who was the newest, on only his second caper. Driving along, Herman looked out the side window and thought about his dinner party, the people there, the way he would spend the latter part of the night, and the menu for dinner.
    He had planned the menu with the greatest of care. The cocktails to begin had been Negronis, the power of the gin obscured by the gentleness of vermouth and Campari. The caviar and pitted black olives to nosh on while drinking. Then, at the table, the meal itself would