were stealing it for Iko,” Dortmunder said. “He’s black.”
“Yeah, but nobody knows that.”
“All you have to do is look at him,” Dortmunder said.
Kelp shook his head. “I mean, nobody knows about him being behind the heist.”
“Oh.” Dortmunder walked around the room, gnawing the knuckle of his right thumb. It was what he did when thinking. He said, “Where is he, then? What jail is he in?”
“You mean Greenwood?”
Dortmunder stopped pacing and looked at him. “No,” he said heavily. “I mean King Farouk.”
Kelp looked bewildered. “King Farouk? I haven’t heard of him in years. Is he in the can somewhere?”
Dortmunder sighed. “I meant Greenwood,” he said.
“What’s this about —”
“It was sarcasm,” Dortmunder said. “I won’t do it again. What jail is Greenwood in?”
“Oh, some dinky can out on Long Island.”
Dortmunder studied him suspiciously. Kelp had said that too offhand, he’d thrown it away a little too casually. “Some dinky can?” he said.
“It’s a county jug or something,” Kelp said. “They’re holding him there till the trial.”
“Too bad he couldn’t get bail,” Dortmunder said.
“Maybe the judge could read his mind,” Kelp said.
“Or his record,” Dortmunder said. He walked around the room some more, gnawing his thumb, thinking.
Kelp said, “We get a second shot at it, that’s all. What’s to worry about?”
“I don’t know,” Dortmunder said. “But when a job turns bad, I like to leave it alone. Why throw good time after bad?”
“Do you have anything else on the fire?” Kelp asked him.
“No.”
Kelp gestured, calling attention to the room. “And from the looks of things,” he said, “you ain’t flush. At the very worst, we go back on Iko’s payroll again.”
“I guess so,” Dortmunder said. The doubts still nagged him, but he shrugged and said, “What have I got to lose? You got a car with you?”
“Naturally.”
“Can you operate this one?”
Kelp was insulted. “I could operate that Caddy,” he said indignantly. “The damn thing wanted to operate itself, that was the trouble.”
“Sure,” said Dortmunder. “Help me pack.”
Chapter 2
----
Major Iko sat at his desk, shuffling dossiers. There was the dossier on Andrew Philip Kelp, the first one he’d had drawn up at the very beginning of this affair, and there was the dossier on John Archibald Dortmunder, drawn up when Kelp first suggested Dortmunder to head the operation. There was also the dossier on Alan George Greenwood, which the Major had requested the instant he’d learned the man’s name in the course of television reports of the robbery. And now there was the fourth dossier to be added to what was becoming a bulging file, the Balabomo File, the dossier on Eugene Andrew Prosker, attorney at law.
Greenwood’s attorney, in fact. The dossier described a fifty–three–year–old lawyer with his own one–man office in a sagging building way downtown near the courts and with a large home on several wooded acres in an extremely expensive and restricted area of Connecticut. E. Andrew Prosker, as he called himself, had all the appurtenances of a rich man, including in a Long Island stable, two racing horses of which he was part owner, and in an East 63rd Street apartment a blond mistress of whom he thought himself sole owner. He had a reputation for shadiness in the Criminal Courts Building, and his clients tended to be among the more disreputable of society’s anti–bodies, but no public complaint had ever been lodged against him and within certain specific boundaries he did appear to be trustworthy. As one former client reportedly had said of Prosker, “I’d trust Andy alone with my sister all night long, if she didn’t have more than fifteen cents on her.”
The three photos in the dossier showed a paunchy, jowly sort of a man with a loose cheery smile that implied laxness of mind and body. The eyes
“Yeah, but nobody knows that.”
“All you have to do is look at him,” Dortmunder said.
Kelp shook his head. “I mean, nobody knows about him being behind the heist.”
“Oh.” Dortmunder walked around the room, gnawing the knuckle of his right thumb. It was what he did when thinking. He said, “Where is he, then? What jail is he in?”
“You mean Greenwood?”
Dortmunder stopped pacing and looked at him. “No,” he said heavily. “I mean King Farouk.”
Kelp looked bewildered. “King Farouk? I haven’t heard of him in years. Is he in the can somewhere?”
Dortmunder sighed. “I meant Greenwood,” he said.
“What’s this about —”
“It was sarcasm,” Dortmunder said. “I won’t do it again. What jail is Greenwood in?”
“Oh, some dinky can out on Long Island.”
Dortmunder studied him suspiciously. Kelp had said that too offhand, he’d thrown it away a little too casually. “Some dinky can?” he said.
“It’s a county jug or something,” Kelp said. “They’re holding him there till the trial.”
“Too bad he couldn’t get bail,” Dortmunder said.
“Maybe the judge could read his mind,” Kelp said.
“Or his record,” Dortmunder said. He walked around the room some more, gnawing his thumb, thinking.
Kelp said, “We get a second shot at it, that’s all. What’s to worry about?”
“I don’t know,” Dortmunder said. “But when a job turns bad, I like to leave it alone. Why throw good time after bad?”
“Do you have anything else on the fire?” Kelp asked him.
“No.”
Kelp gestured, calling attention to the room. “And from the looks of things,” he said, “you ain’t flush. At the very worst, we go back on Iko’s payroll again.”
“I guess so,” Dortmunder said. The doubts still nagged him, but he shrugged and said, “What have I got to lose? You got a car with you?”
“Naturally.”
“Can you operate this one?”
Kelp was insulted. “I could operate that Caddy,” he said indignantly. “The damn thing wanted to operate itself, that was the trouble.”
“Sure,” said Dortmunder. “Help me pack.”
Chapter 2
----
Major Iko sat at his desk, shuffling dossiers. There was the dossier on Andrew Philip Kelp, the first one he’d had drawn up at the very beginning of this affair, and there was the dossier on John Archibald Dortmunder, drawn up when Kelp first suggested Dortmunder to head the operation. There was also the dossier on Alan George Greenwood, which the Major had requested the instant he’d learned the man’s name in the course of television reports of the robbery. And now there was the fourth dossier to be added to what was becoming a bulging file, the Balabomo File, the dossier on Eugene Andrew Prosker, attorney at law.
Greenwood’s attorney, in fact. The dossier described a fifty–three–year–old lawyer with his own one–man office in a sagging building way downtown near the courts and with a large home on several wooded acres in an extremely expensive and restricted area of Connecticut. E. Andrew Prosker, as he called himself, had all the appurtenances of a rich man, including in a Long Island stable, two racing horses of which he was part owner, and in an East 63rd Street apartment a blond mistress of whom he thought himself sole owner. He had a reputation for shadiness in the Criminal Courts Building, and his clients tended to be among the more disreputable of society’s anti–bodies, but no public complaint had ever been lodged against him and within certain specific boundaries he did appear to be trustworthy. As one former client reportedly had said of Prosker, “I’d trust Andy alone with my sister all night long, if she didn’t have more than fifteen cents on her.”
The three photos in the dossier showed a paunchy, jowly sort of a man with a loose cheery smile that implied laxness of mind and body. The eyes
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