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Authors: Donald Westlake
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gents.”
“I’ll watch your beer,” Kelp offered.
“Thank you.”
Dortmunder circled the clustered regulars and went around the end of the bar and down the hall past POINTERS and SETTERS, noticing that beneath SETTERS was a thumb–tacked handwritten OUT OF ORDER notice, and past the entry–to–the–universe phone booth, and stopped at the open green door at the very end of the hall.
And there was the back room, where so often they had met in the past, and which was now transformed. It was so jam–packed full of stuff you couldn’t even see the round table in the middle of it any more, let alone the chairs around it. The bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling was partially blocked by all the materiel that had been introduced into the place. Liquor cartons were stacked everywhere, along with new barstools with their plastic wrapping still on them, at least half a dozen cash registers, a complete mini pool table, and boxes and boxes of pretzels and Slim Jims.
“Help you, Mac?”
It was Puce, following Dortmunder down the hall. He had an aggressive swagger in his shoulders, as though he felt it was a little past time to start sparring with somebody.
“Gents,” Dortmunder told him, calm about it.
“Pointers,” Puce told him, and pointed at it.
“Thanks,” Dortmunder said, and went into POINTERS, where the aroma immediately reminded him why generally he did not go into POINTERS. He stayed the minimum time plausible, flushed, washed his hands as the grimy sign said, and went out to the hall, which was now empty.
It wasn’t a surprise that the door to SETTERS was locked. Dortmunder headed for the bar, and on the way he passed the deliveryman, wheeling another quintet of cases, this one all rum.
Puce was back in his booth, muttering at his pal in plum, and Kelp was where he had been, at the bar. Dortmunder joined him, and Kelp raised an eyebrow as Dortmunder raised his glass. Dortmunder shook his head, drank, and the deliveryman came back, the dolly empty. This time he went around to extend a clipboard toward Rollo and say, “Sign it there, okay?”
“Sure.”
Rollo, in the manner of someone signing his own commitment papers, signed the form on the clipboard, and the deliveryman and his dolly went away.
Dortmunder finished his beer. “Maybe,” he said, “I’ll buy you that round next time.”
Chapter 14
----
“Make the left on Fifth,” Tiny said from the backseat. “Okay,” Judson said, stopped the rented black Lexus Dzilla at the traffic light, and signaled for the left.
This was their third time around the block, over Sixty–ninth Street, down Fifth, over Sixty–eighth, up Madison, over Sixty–ninth, on and on. And Tiny never said, “Circle the block”; he always just gave the next turn, as though he hoped Judson wouldn’t notice or remember the route.
Well, Judson did notice and remember the route, and he had even figured out what it was they were looking at. “Very slow here,” Tiny would say every time they made the left turn from Fifth Avenue to Sixty–eighth Street, and every time Judson watched in the rearview mirror to see what Tiny was focused on, and every time it was the first house on the right after the big apartment building on the corner. There was something about that house that interested Tiny a whole lot.
“Make the left on Sixty–eighth.”
“Okay.”
Waiting for the green light, Judson could look diagonally across at that house, an old town house with what looked like a more recent garage cut into it on the right. Glancing once more at Tiny’s reflection in the mirror, he could see Tiny frown at the house, as though something about it troubled or baffled him.
Green light. As Judson made the turn, Tiny said, “Stop on the right. At the driveway.”
Directly in front of the house, in other words. So this was something new.
Judson had to watch what he was doing when he parked, because this SUV was really big, but once
“I’ll watch your beer,” Kelp offered.
“Thank you.”
Dortmunder circled the clustered regulars and went around the end of the bar and down the hall past POINTERS and SETTERS, noticing that beneath SETTERS was a thumb–tacked handwritten OUT OF ORDER notice, and past the entry–to–the–universe phone booth, and stopped at the open green door at the very end of the hall.
And there was the back room, where so often they had met in the past, and which was now transformed. It was so jam–packed full of stuff you couldn’t even see the round table in the middle of it any more, let alone the chairs around it. The bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling was partially blocked by all the materiel that had been introduced into the place. Liquor cartons were stacked everywhere, along with new barstools with their plastic wrapping still on them, at least half a dozen cash registers, a complete mini pool table, and boxes and boxes of pretzels and Slim Jims.
“Help you, Mac?”
It was Puce, following Dortmunder down the hall. He had an aggressive swagger in his shoulders, as though he felt it was a little past time to start sparring with somebody.
“Gents,” Dortmunder told him, calm about it.
“Pointers,” Puce told him, and pointed at it.
“Thanks,” Dortmunder said, and went into POINTERS, where the aroma immediately reminded him why generally he did not go into POINTERS. He stayed the minimum time plausible, flushed, washed his hands as the grimy sign said, and went out to the hall, which was now empty.
It wasn’t a surprise that the door to SETTERS was locked. Dortmunder headed for the bar, and on the way he passed the deliveryman, wheeling another quintet of cases, this one all rum.
Puce was back in his booth, muttering at his pal in plum, and Kelp was where he had been, at the bar. Dortmunder joined him, and Kelp raised an eyebrow as Dortmunder raised his glass. Dortmunder shook his head, drank, and the deliveryman came back, the dolly empty. This time he went around to extend a clipboard toward Rollo and say, “Sign it there, okay?”
“Sure.”
Rollo, in the manner of someone signing his own commitment papers, signed the form on the clipboard, and the deliveryman and his dolly went away.
Dortmunder finished his beer. “Maybe,” he said, “I’ll buy you that round next time.”
Chapter 14
----
“Make the left on Fifth,” Tiny said from the backseat. “Okay,” Judson said, stopped the rented black Lexus Dzilla at the traffic light, and signaled for the left.
This was their third time around the block, over Sixty–ninth Street, down Fifth, over Sixty–eighth, up Madison, over Sixty–ninth, on and on. And Tiny never said, “Circle the block”; he always just gave the next turn, as though he hoped Judson wouldn’t notice or remember the route.
Well, Judson did notice and remember the route, and he had even figured out what it was they were looking at. “Very slow here,” Tiny would say every time they made the left turn from Fifth Avenue to Sixty–eighth Street, and every time Judson watched in the rearview mirror to see what Tiny was focused on, and every time it was the first house on the right after the big apartment building on the corner. There was something about that house that interested Tiny a whole lot.
“Make the left on Sixty–eighth.”
“Okay.”
Waiting for the green light, Judson could look diagonally across at that house, an old town house with what looked like a more recent garage cut into it on the right. Glancing once more at Tiny’s reflection in the mirror, he could see Tiny frown at the house, as though something about it troubled or baffled him.
Green light. As Judson made the turn, Tiny said, “Stop on the right. At the driveway.”
Directly in front of the house, in other words. So this was something new.
Judson had to watch what he was doing when he parked, because this SUV was really big, but once
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