Read Online The Hot Rock by Donald Westlake - Free Book Online Page A

were too shadowed for their expression to be seen clearly in any of the pictures. It was hard to gibe that happy–go–lucky school’s–out smile with the facts in the dossier.

    The dossiers pleased the Major. He liked to touch them, to shuffle them around, re–read documents in them, study photos. It gave him a feeling of solidity, of doing the familiar and the known. The dossiers were like a security blanket, in that they were not functional in the normal sense. They didn’t keep the Major physically warm, they just soothed his fear of the unknown by their presence.

    The secretary, light reflecting from his glasses, opened the door and said, “Two gentlemen to see you, sir. Mr. Dortmunder and Mr. Kelp.”

    The Major tucked the dossiers away in a drawer. “Show them in,” he said.

    Kelp seemed unchanged when he came somewhat jauntily in, but Dortmunder seemed thinner and more tired than before, and he’d been both thin and tired to begin with. Kelp said, “Well, I brought him.”

    “So I see.” The Major got to his feet. “Good to see you again, Mr. Dortmunder,” he said. He wondered if he should offer to shake hands.

    “I hope it’s good,” Dortmunder said. He gave no indication he expected a handshake. He dropped into a chair, put his hands on his knees, and said, “Kelp tells me we get another chance.”

    “More than we anticipated,” the Major said. Kelp had also taken a seat now, so the Major sat down again behind the desk. He put his elbows on the desk and said, “Frankly, I had suspected you of perhaps taking the emerald yourself.”

    “I don’t want an emerald,” Dortmunder said. “But I’ll take some bourbon.”

    The Major was surprised. “Of course,” he said. “Kelp?”

    “I don’t like to see a man drink alone,” Kelp said. “We both like it with a little ice.”

    The Major reached out to ring for his secretary, but the door opened first and the secretary came in, saying, “Sir, a Mr. Prosker is here.”

    “See what he’ll have to drink,” said the Major.

    The secretary reflected blank light. “Sir?”

    “Bourbon and ice for these two gentlemen,” said the Major, “and a strong Scotch and water for me.”

    “Yes, sir,” said the secretary.

    “And send Mr. Prosker in.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    The secretary withdrew and the Major heard a voice boom, “Jack Daniels!” He was about to reach for his dossiers when he remembered that Jack Daniels was a kind of American whiskey.

    An instant later Prosker came striding in, smiling, carrying a black attache case, saying, “Gentlemen, I’m late. I hope this won’t take long. You’re Major Iko, I take it.”

    “Mr. Prosker.” The Major got to his feet and took the lawyer’s outstretched hand. He recognized Prosker from the dossier photos, but now he saw what the photos hadn’t been able to show, the thing that bridged the gulf between Prosker’s easygoing appearance and rough–riding record. It was Prosker’s eyes. The mouth laughed and said words and lulled everybody, but the eyes just hung back and watched and made no comment at all.

    The Major made the introductions, and Prosker handed both Dortmunder and Kelp his business card, saying, “In case you’re ever in need, though of course we hope it won’t come to that.” And chuckled, and winked. Then they all sat down again and were about to get to it when the secretary came back in with their drinks on a tray. But that, too, was finally taken care of, the secretary retired, the door was shut, and Prosker said, “Gentlemen, I rarely give my clients advice that doesn’t come out of the law books but, with our friend Greenwood, I made an exception. ‘Alan,’ I said, ‘my advice to you is tie some bedsheets together and get the hell out of here.’ Gentlemen, Alan Greenwood was caught green–handed, as you might say. They didn’t find this emerald of yours on him, but they didn’t need to. He was trotting around the Coliseum in a guard uniform