Read Online Why Me? by Donald E. Westlake - Free Book Online Page A

Credit Jewelers, plus another nice clear color photo of the Byzantine Fire on a background of black velvet, plus a superimposition of the special police number (which would be dialed by a lot of giggling 12-year-olds), and the whole thing was ready just in time for the six o’clock news.
    A very attractive little scoop.
    14
    It’s a pity Dortmunder watched the wrong channel. At six-oh-three, while Jack Mackenzie was describing Dortmunder’s most recent exploit (anonymously) to several hundred thousand more or less indifferent viewers, his potentially most rapt audience was a bare few clicks away along the dial, watching something called “file film” of people in white dresses running around a sunny broad tree-lined street amid the pop-chatter of small arms fire, as a voice-over announcer stated that fighting between government troops and rebels had broken out yet again. Where this fighting had broken out Dortmunder wasn’t sure, not having paid that close attention to the voice-over voice. On the other hand, he didn’t much care, either; if a lot of people in white dresses wanted to run around a sunny broad tree-lined street while being shot at, that was up to them. Dortmunder was mostly brooding about his own problems: drinking beer, paying minimal attention to the six o’clock news, and brooding.
    May came home while the sports news was being given its usual exhaustive airing, a subject in which Dortmunder’s lack of interest was so profound that he hadn’t waited until the commercial to go get another beer. Returning to the living room with the new beer, he saw May walk in the front door and switched off the TV set just as the post-sports commercial was starting. Which was also unfortunate, because right after that commercial the hot news about the Byzantine Fire was going to be broadcast by the (helplessly furious at both Mackenzie and Mologna) police beat reporter for this channel, a man blamelessly suffering because his Irish name— Costello—sounded Italian.
    â€œLet me take one of those,” Dortmunder said, and took her left-hand grocery sack.
    â€œThanks.” The cigarette bobbled in the corner of her mouth.
    It was May’s belief that her activities as a cashier down at the Safeway made her in a way a member of the Safeway family, and how could the family begrudge her a little for herself? So every day she came home with a couple of full grocery sacks, which was very helpful for their domestic economy.
    They carried today’s groceries to the kitchen, with May saying along the way, “Somebody’s passing fake food stamps.”
    â€œCounterfeit?”
    â€œIt’s the noncash economy you read about,” May said. “Credit cards, checks, food stamps. People don’t deal in money any more.”
    â€œUm,” said Dortmunder. The noncash economy was one of his major career problems. No cash payrolls, no cash deliveries, no cash anywhere.
    â€œThey’re nice, too,” May said. “Very good plates. The only trouble is, the paper’s different. Thinner. You can feel the difference.”
    â€œNot smart,” Dortmunder said.
    â€œThat’s right. Does a cashier look at all that paper? No. But you touch every piece that comes by.”
    â€œFood stamps.” Dortmunder leaned against the sink, slurping at his beer while May put the groceries away. “You wouldn’t think it’d be worth it.”
    â€œOh, no? With prices the way they are? You just don’t know, John.”
    â€œI guess not.”
    â€œIf I didn’t have the job at the Safeway, I wouldn’t mind some queer food stamps myself.”
    â€œBig operation,” Dortmunder mused. “You’ve got your printer, you’ve got your salesmen on the street.”
    â€œI was thinking,” May said. “I could maybe be a salesman. Right there at the register.”
    Dortmunder frowned at her. “I don’t know,