The Hot Rock

by Donald E. Westlake

  Dortmunder frowned. “Where is he?”

  “In jail,” Kelp said.

  “I know that,” Dortmunder said. “I mean, which jail? The Tombs?”

  “Naw. There was trouble, so they moved him out of Manhattan.”

  “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

  “Well, we were white men stealing the black man’s emerald, so a lot of excitable types from Harlem took the subway downtown and made a fuss. They wanted to lynch him.”

  “Lynch Greenwood?”

  Kelp shrugged. “I don’t know where they learn stuff like that,” he said.

  “We 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.”

  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 areas 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 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, reread 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 attaché 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 finall
y 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 lawbooks, 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 and he was identified by half a dozen guards as being one of the men spotted in the vicinity of the Balabomo Emerald at the time of the robbery. They have Greenwood cold, there isn’t a thing I can do for him, and I told him so. His only hope is to depart the premises.”

  Dortmunder said, “What about the emerald?”

  Prosker spread his hands. “He says he got away with it. He says your associate Chefwick handed it to him, he says he hid it on his person before being captured, and he says it is now hidden away in a safe place that no one knows about but him.”

  Dortmunder said, “And the deal is, we break him out and he hands over the emerald for everybody to split again, same as before.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And you’ll be liaison.”

  Prosker smiled. “Within limits,” he said. “I do have to protect myself.”

  Dortmunder said, “Why?”

  “Why? Because I don’t want to be arrested, I don’t want to be disbarred, I don’t want to be occupying the cell next to Greenwood.”

  Dortmunder shook his head. “No, I mean why be liaison at all. Why stick your neck out even a little bit?”

  “Oh, well.” Prosker’s smile turned modest. “One does what one can for one’s clients. And, of course, if you do rescue young Greenwood he’ll be able to afford a much stiffer legal fee, won’t he?”

  “Sort of an illegal fee, this time,” Kelp said and cackled.

  Dortmunder turned to the Major. “And we go back on the payroll, is that right?”

  The Major nodded reluctantly. “It’s becoming more expensive than I anticipated,” he said, “but I suppose I have to go on with it.”

  “Don’t strain yourself, Major,” Dortmunder said.

  The Major said, “Perhaps you don’t realize, Dortmunder, but Talabwo is not a rich country. Our gross national product has only recently topped twelve million dollars. We cannot afford to support foreign criminals the way some countries can.”

  Dortmunder bristled. “What countries, Major?”

  “I name no names.”

  “What are you hinting at, Major?”

  “Now, now,” Prosker said, being jolly, “let’s not have displays of nationalism. I’m sure we’re all of us patriots in our various ways, but the important thing at the moment is Alan Greenwood and the Balabomo Emerald. I have some things…” He picked up his attaché case, put it in his lap, opened the snaps, and lifted the lid. “Shall I give these to you, Dortmunder?”

  “What have you got?”

  “Some maps that Greenwood made up of the interior of the prison. Some photos of the outside that I took myself. A sheet of suggestions from Greenwood, concerning guard movements and so on.” Prosker took three bulky manila envelopes from his attaché case and handed them over to Dortmunder.

  There was a little more talk after that, mostly killing time while they killed their drinks, and then everybody stood up and shook hands and they all left, and Major Iko stayed in his office and chewed the inside of his cheek, which is what he frequently did when he was angry at himself or worried.

  At the moment he was angry at himself and worried. That had been a slip, to tell Dortmunder how poor Talabwo was. Dortmunder had been distracted by chauvinism at the time, but would he remember it later and begin to wonder? Begin to put two and two together?

  The Major went over to the window and looked down at Fifth Avenue and the park. Usually that view gave him pleasure, knowing just how expensive it was and how many millions of human beings the world over could not possibly afford it, but at the moment he was too troubled to enjoy selfish pleasures. He saw Dortmunder and Kelp and Prosker emerge from the building, saw them stand talking briefly on the sidewalk, saw Prosker laugh, saw them all shake hands, saw Prosker flag a cab and be driven away, saw Dortmunder and Kelp cross the street and enter the park. They walked slowly away along a blacktop path, coveys of children ebbing around them as they talked together, Dortmunder carrying the three bulky manila envelopes in his left hand. Major Iko watched them till they were out of sight.

  3

  “Nice place,” Kelp said.

  “It’s not bad,” Dortmunder admitted. He shut the door and pocketed the key.

  It wasn’t bad. It was a lot better than the place in Trenton. This one, a furnished one-and-a-half on West 74th Street half a block from the park, was a long step up from the place in Trenton.

  To begin with, there wasn’t any bed. The room in Trenton had been half the size of this room, and the available space had been dominated by a heavy old brass bed with a faded blue cotton spread on it. Here there was no visible bed at all, only a tasteful sofa that opened up at night into a comfortable double bed.

  But the improvements over Trenton didn’t stop there. Where in Trenton Dortmunder had had a hotplate, here he had an honest-to-God kitchenette, with a stove and a refrigerator and cabinets and dishes and a drain rack. Where in Trenton his one window had looked out on a narrow airshaft, here his two windows looked out on the rear of the building, so he could lean out if he wanted and see a couple of small trees way down to the right, some bushes and grass in various back yards, a barbecue pit off to the left, some deck chairs with occasional occupants, all sorts of interesting things. And a fire escape, in case there was ever a reason why he didn’t want to leave through the front door.

  But the main thing that this apartment had over the place in Trenton was air conditioning. The unit was built right into the wall under the left-hand window, and Dortmunder kept it going night and day. Outside, New York City was suffering July, but in here it was perpetual May. And a lovely May, at that.

  Kelp commented on it right away, saying, “Nice and cool in here.” He wiped sweat from his forehead onto the back of his hand.

  “That’s what I like about it,” Dortmunder said. “Drink?”

  “You bet.”

  Kelp followed him to the kitchenette and stood in the doorway while Dortmunder got out ice cubes, glasses, bourbon. Kelp said, “What do you think of Prosker?”

  Dortmunder opened a drawer, reached into it, held up a corkscrew, looked at Kelp, put the corkscrew away again.

  Kelp nodded. “Me too. That’s a geometric figure, that bird, he don’t exist without an angle.”

  “Just so it’s Greenwood he puts it to,” Dortmunder said.

  “You think that’s what it is? We get the rock, get paid, he turns Greenwood back in and takes the thirty grand for himself.”

  “I don’t know what he’s up to,” Dortmunder said. “Just so he isn’t up to it with me.” He handed Kelp his drink and they went back to the living room and sat on the sofa.

  Kelp said, “We’ll need them both, I suppose.”

  Dortmunder nodded. “One to drive, one to open locks.”

  “You want to call them, or you want me to?”

  “This time,” Dortmunder said, “I’ll call Chefwick and you call Murch.”

  “Fine. Shall I go first?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The phone had come with the apartment and was on the stand next to Kelp. He looked up Murch’s number in his little book, dialed, and Dortmunder faintly heard two rings and then clearly heard what sounded like the Long Island Expressway.

  Kelp said, “Murch?” He looked at Dortmunder, baffled, and then louder he said, “Murch?” He shook his head at Dortmunder and shouted into the phone, “It’s me! Kelp! Kelp!” He kept shaking his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I said yeah! Go ahead!” Then he cupped the mouthpiece and said to Dortmunder, “Is it a phone in his car?”

&nb
sp; “It’s a record,” Dortmunder said.

  “It’s a what?”

  Dortmunder heard the sudden silence from the phone. “He turned it off,” he said.

  Kelp took the phone away from his head and studied it as though the thing had just bit him on the ear. A tinny voice came from it, saying, “Kelp? Hello?”

  Kelp, a bit reluctantly, put the phone against his head again. “Yeah,” he said doubtfully. “That you, Stan?”

  Dortmunder got to his feet and went out to the kitchenette and began to put cheese spread on Ritz Crackers. He did about a dozen of them, put them on a plate, and brought them back in to the living room, where Kelp was just finishing up the conversation. Dortmunder put the plate of crackers on the coffee table, Kelp hung up the phone, Dortmunder sat down, and Kelp said, “He’ll meet us at the O. J. at ten.”

  “Good.”

  “What kind of a record?”

  “Car noises,” Dortmunder said. “Have some cheese and crackers.”

  “How come car noises?”

  “How do I know? Hand me the phone, I’ll call Chefwick.”

  Kelp handed him the phone. “At least Chefwick doesn’t make car noises,” he said.

  Dortmunder dialed Chefwick’s number, and his wife answered. Dortmunder said, “Is Roger there? This is Dortmunder.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Dortmunder spent the time eating cheese and crackers, washing them down with bourbon on the rocks. After a while, faintly, he could hear a voice saying, “Toot toot.” He looked at Kelp, but he didn’t say anything.

  The toot-toot voice came closer, then stopped. There was the sound of the phone being picked up, and then Chefwick’s voice said, “Hello?”

  Dortmunder said, “You know that idea we had that didn’t work out?”

  “Oh, yes,” Chefwick said. “I remember it well.”

  “Well, there’s a chance we can make it work after all,” Dortmunder said. “If you’re still interested.”