Hot Rock

by Donald E. Westlake

Greenwood went in, his machine gun carried casually in his left hand, and headed directly to the rear wall, brushing by the old man, who kept blinking at everybody and pointing at himself.

  The side walls of the cell were metal and the front was composed of bars, but the rear wall, being the outer wall of the building, was stone. Greenwood stood on tiptoe, reached up to just under the ceiling, and plucked out a small piece of stone that didn’t look any different from any other part of the wall. He then reached in behind where the stone had been.

  Kelp and Dortmunder meantime had hustled the three cops into the detention block and were waiting just outside the cell to put the cops in there when Greenwood came out.

  Greenwood, his fingers in the hole in the wall, looked around at Dortmunder and gave a very glassy smile.

  Dortmunder went over to the cell doorway. “What’s the matter?”

  —“I don’t under—” Greenwood’s fingers were scrabbling around in the hole like spiders. Faintly from outside they could hear detonator caps going off.

  Dortmunder said, “It isn’t there?”

  The old man, looking from face to face, said, “Me fellows?”

  Greenwood looked at him in sudden suspicion. “You? Did you take it?”

  The old man suddenly looked astonished in a fearful way. “Me? Me?”

  “He didn’t take it,” Dortmunder said. “Look at him. He couldn’t reach up there, for one thing.”

  Greenwood was beginning to get wild. “Who, then?” he said. “If not him, who?”

  “The thing was there almost two months,” Dortmunder said. He turned to Kelp. “Ungag one of them.”

  Kelp did so, and Dortmunder said to him, “When did this bird take occupancy?”

  “Three a.m. this morning.”

  Greenwood said to Dortmunder, “I swear I put it—”

  “I believe you,” Dortmunder said. He sounded tired. “Somebody found it, that’s all. Let’s get out of here.” He walked out of the cell, a troubled Greenwood coming frowning behind him.

  The old man said, “What about me, fellows? You’re takin’ me along, ain’tcha, fellows?”

  Dortmunder looked at him, then turned to the ungagged cop and said, “What’s he in for?”

  “Exposing himself in Lord and Taylor.”

  “It’s a frame-up!” cried the old man. “I never—”

  “He’s still in his working clothes,” the cop said. “Have him open his raincoat.”

  The old man began to fuss and fidget. “That don’t mean anything,” he said.

  Dortmunder said, “Open your raincoat.”

  “It don’t mean a thing,” the old man insisted.

  “Open your raincoat,” Dortmunder said.

  The old man, hesitant, muttering, opened his raincoat and spread it wide. Underneath, he wasn’t wearing brown trousers after all. He was wearing cut-off trouser legs that extended up to just above the knee, where they were held on with garters. Above that, he wore nothing under the raincoat at all. He needed a bath.

  Everybody looked at him. The old man giggled.

  Dortmunder said, “Maybe you ought to stay here.” He turned to the cops. “Go on in there with him.”

  The cops went in, Chefwick locked the door, and they left. There was no one at all at the head of the stairs, down past the last gate, but they tossed two more tear gas grenades down that way anyway. The hurried up the stairs to the roof, following the getaway plan just as though the Balabomo Emerald had been there where Greenwood left it, and at the top Dortmunder dropped three detonators down the stairwell and shut the door.

  Murch was already in the helicopter, and when he saw them coming he started the engine. The rotors began to spin and roar, and Dortmunder and the others ran through the wind to the side of the helicopter and climbed in.

  Down on the first floor, the lieutenant paused in his supervising of the handing out of riot guns to cock a head and listen to the unmistakable chuff-chuff of a nearby helicopter. “My God!” he wispered. “They must be supplied by Castro!”

  As soon as everybody was aboard, Murch lifted the helicopter into the air and swung them away north into the night. They ran without lights, curving north and west over Harlem again, then dropping low over the Hudson River and heading south.

  Murch was the only one who didn’t know about the missing emerald, but when he saw that no one else was happy he began to understand that something must have gone wrong. He kept trying to find out what, paying no attention to the controls or the dark water rushing by just below the flimsy craft they were in, so Dortmunder finally put his cupped hands against Murch’s ear and bellowed the facts into his head. Murch then wanted to turn it into a conversation, but when Dortmunder pointed at the tanker they were about to crash into in Upper Bay, Murch went back to his knitting.

  They were on the ground again at the starting point at ten past eight. In the humming silence that followed Murch’s shutting off of the engine no one said anything at first, until Murch commented sadly, “I’d been thinking about buying one of these. It beats even the Belt Parkway, you know?”

  Nobody answered him, They all climbed down to the ground, all feeling stiff, and walked over to the Lincoln, now less lavender in the darkness.

  There was very little talk on the drive back to Manhattan. They let Dortmunder off at his apartment and he went upstairs, made himself a bourbon on the rocks, sat down on the sofa, and looked at his briefcase full of encyclopedia brochures.

  Dortmunder sighed.

  ONE

  “NICE DOGGY,” Dortmunder said.

  The German shepherd wasn’t buying any. He stood in front of the stoop, head down, eyes up, jaws slightly open to show his pointy teeth, and said, “Rrrrrr,” softly in his throat every time Dortmunder made a move to come down off the porch. The message was clear. The damn dog was going to hold him here until somebody in authority came home.

  “Look, doggy,” Dortmunder said, trying to be reasonable, “all I did was ring the bell. I didn’t break in, I didn’t steal anything, I just rang the bell. But nobody’s home, seo now I want to go to some other house and ring the bell.”

  “Rrrrrr,” said the dog.

  Dortmunder pointed to his attaché case. “I’m a salesman, doggy,” he said. “I sell encyclopedias. Book. Big books. Doggy? Do you know from books?”

  The dog didn’t say anything. He just kept watching.

  “All right now, dog,” Dortmunder said, being very stern. “Enough is enough. I have places to go, I don’t have the time to fool around with you. I’ve got to make my rent money. Now, I’m leaving here and that’s all there is—” He took a firm step forward.

  “Rrrrrrrr!” said the dog.

  Dortmunder took a quick step back. “God damn it, dog!” he cried. “This is ridiculous!”

  The dog didn’t think so. He was one of those by-the-book dogs. Rules were rules, and Dortmunder didn’t rate any special favors.

  Dortmunder looked around, but the neighborhood was as empty as the dog’s mind. It was not quite two o’clock in the afternoon, September the seventh—three weeks and two days since the raid on the police station—and the neighborhood children were all in school. The neighborhood fathers were all at work, of course, and God alone knew where all the neighborhood mothers were. Wherever they were, Dortmunder was alone, trapped by a stupid overzealous dog on the porch of a middle-aged but comfortable home in a middle-aged but comfortable residential section of Long Island about forty miles from Manhattan. Time was money, he had none to spare of either, and the damn dog was costing him both.

  “There ought to be a law against dogs,” Dortmunder said darkly. “Dogs like you in particular. You ought to be locked up somewhere.”

  The dog was unmoved.

  “You’re a menace to society,” Dortmunder told him. “You’re damn lucky if I don’t sue you. Your owner, I mean. Sue the hell out of him.”

  Threats had no effect. This was clearly the kind of dog that would accept no responsibility. “I was j
ust following orders,” that would be his line.

  Dortmunder looked around, but the porch was unfortunately shy of lengths of two-by-four with which to beat the dog into his master’s seeded lawn. “God damn it!” Dortmunder said again.

  Movement attracted his attention, and he looked down the block to see a brown Checker sedan with MD plates rolling slowly in his direction. Could it possibly be the owner of dog and house? If it wasn’t, would it do any good for Dortmunder to holler help? He would feel foolish, calling for help in the middle of all this suburban peace and calm, but if it would do any good—

  The Checker’s horn honked. An arm waved from its side window. Dortmunder squinted, and there was Kelp’s head, also sticking out the side window. Kelp shouted, “Hey, Dortmunder!”

  “Right here!” Dortmunder shouted. He felt like a sailor stranded on a desert island for twenty years when a ship finally heaves to just offshore. He waved his attaché case over his head to attract Kelp’s attention, even though Kelp obviously already knew who and where he was. “Here I am!” he shouted. “Right here!”

  The Checker heaved to just offshore, and Kelp called, “Come on over here, I got news for you.”

  Dortmunder pointed at the dog. “Dog,” he said.

  Kelp frowned. The sun was in his eyes out there, so he shaded them with one hand and called, “What was that?”

  “This dog here,” Dortmunder called. “He won’t let me off the porch.”

  “How come?”

  “How do I know?” Dortmunder said in irritation. “Maybe I look like Sergeant Preston.”

  Kelp got out of the car, and on the other side Greenwood climbed out, and the two of them slowly approached. Greenwood called, “Did you try ringing the doorbell?”

  “That’s what started it,” Dortmunder said.

  The dog had become aware of the new arrivals. He backed in a quarter circle, till he could watch everybody, and remained wary.

  Kelp said, “Did you do something to him?”

  “All I did,” Dortmunder insisted, “was ring the door bell.”

  “Usually,” Kelp said, “unless you actually do something to a dog, scare it or something, it—”

  “Scare it? Me?”

  Greenwood pointed at the dog and said, “Sit.”

  The dog cocked his head, puzzled.

  More firmly, Greenwood said, “Sit.”

  The dog lifted out of his crouch and stood looking at Greenwood in a fair imitation of His Master’s Voice. Who, he was clearly thinking, was this stranger who knew how to speak Dog?

  “I told you to sit,” Greenwood said, “and I mean sit.”

  The dog could almost be seen to shrug. When in doubt, obey orders. It sat.

  “Come on,” Greenwood said to Dortmunder. “He won’t bother you now.”

  “He won’t?” Giving the dog mistrustful glances, Dortmunder started down off the porch.

  “Don’t act afraid of him,” Greenwood said.

  Dortmunder said, “It isn’t an act,” but he tried to look braver.

  The dog wasn’t sure. He looked at Dortmunder, at Greenwood, at Dortmunder, at Greenwood.

  “Stay,” said Greenwood.

  Dortmunder stopped.

  “Not you,” Greenwood said. “The dog.”

  “Oh.” Dortmunder came on down the rest of the stoop and walked on by the dog, who glowered at his left knee as though to be sure he’d remember it the next time they met.

  “Stay,” said Greenwood again, pointing at the dog, and then he turned around and followed Dortmunder and Kelp down the walk to the street and the Checker.

  All three got aboard, Dortmunder in back, and Kelp drove them away from there. The dog, still sitting in the same place on the lawn, watched them carefully until they were out of sight. Possibly memorizing the license plate.

  “I appreciate that,” Dortmunder said. He was leaning forward with his forearms on the top of the front seat.

  “Any time,” Kelp said airily.

  “What are you doing out here anyway?” Dortmunder asked him. “I thought you were still working the smack.”

  “We’re looking for you,” Kelp said. “Last night you said you’d probably hit this neighborhood today, so we took a chance.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Because we’ve got news for you. Anyway, Greenwood has.”

  Dortmunder turned his head to look at Greenwood. “Good news?”

  “The best,” Greenwood said. “Remember that emerald job?”

  Dortmunder sat back as though the front seat had suddenly filled with snakes. “That again?”

  Greenwood half turned in the seat to look back at him. “We can still get it,” he said. “We’ve still got a shot at it.”

  “Take me back to the dog,” Dortmunder said.

  Kelp, looking at him in the rearview mirror, said, “Naw, listen to this. This is pretty good.”

  “Back to the dog,” Dortmunder said. “I know when I’m well off.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Greenwood said. “I almost feel the same way. But God damn it, I’ve put so much effort into that stinking emerald, I hate to give up now. I had to pay out of my own pocket for a complete line of new identity papers, renounce an entire bookful of telephone numbers, give up a really good apartment at the kind of rent you can’t get anymore in New York, and we still don’t even have the emerald.”

  “That’s the whole point,” Dortmunder told him. “Look what’s happened to you already. You really want to go back for more?”

  “I want to finish the job,” Greenwood said.

  “It’ll finish you,” Dortmunder said. “I’m not usually what you’d call the superstitious type, but if ever there was a jinx job this one is it.”

  Kelp said, “Will you at least listen to what Greenwood has to say? Give him the courtesy and listen for a minute.”

  “What can he say that I don’t already know?”

  “Well, that’s kind of the point,” Kelp said. He glanced in the rearview mirror again, then back at the street. He made a left turn and said, “It seems he held out on us a little.”

  “I didn’t hold out,” Greenwood said. “Not exactly. The thing was, I was embarrassed. I got played for a sucker, and I hated to tell anybody about it until I could make up for it. You know what I mean?”

  Dortmunder looked at him. “You told Prosker,” he said.

  Greenwood hung his head. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he mumbled. “He was my attorney and all. And the way he explained it, if something went wrong while you guys were springing me, he could anyway get his hands on the emerald and turn it over to Iko and use the money to try to spring the whole bunch of us.”

  Dortmunder made a sour face. “He didn’t sell you any gold mine stock, did he?”

  “It seemed reasonable,” Greenwood said plaintively. “Who knew he’d turn out to be a thief?”

  “Everybody,” Dortmunder said.

  “That isn’t the point,” Kelp mentioned. “The point is, now we know who has the emerald.”

  “It’s been over three weeks,” Dortmunder said. “How come it took so long to deliver the news?”

  Greenwood said, “I wanted to try to get the emerald back myself. I figured you guys did enough, you went through three operations, you sprang me out of prison, I owed it to you to get the emerald back from Prosker myself.”

  Dortmunder gave him a cynical look.

  “I swear,” Greenwood said. “I wasn’t going to keep it for myself, I was going to turn it over to the group.”

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Kelp said. “The point is, we know Prosker’s got it. We know he didn’t turn it over to Major Iko, because I checked with the Major this morning, which means he’s holding on to it till the heat’s off and then he’ll peddle it to the highest bidder. So all we got to do is go take it away from Prosker, turn it over to Iko, and we’re back in business.”

  “If it was that easy,” Dortmunder said, “Greenwood wouldn’t b
e here without the emerald.”

  “You’re right,” Greenwood said. “There’s a little problem.”

  “A little problem,” said Dortmunder.

  “After we didn’t find the emerald at the police station,” Greenwood said, “naturally I went looking for Prosker.”

  “Naturally,” said Dortmunder.

  “He disappeared,” Greenwood said. “He was away from the office on vacation, nobody knew when he was due back. His wife didn’t know where he was, she thought he was off shacked up with somebody’s secretary. That’s what I’ve been doing the last three weeks, trying to find Prosker.”

  Dortmunder said, “So now you want the rest of us to help you look.”

  “No,” said Greenwood. “I found him. Two days ago, I found out where he was. The problem is, he’s going to be a little bit difficult to get at. It’s going to take more than one man.”

  Dortmunder lowered his head and put a hand over his eyes. “You might as well go ahead and tell me,” he said.

  Greenwood cleared his throat. “The same day we knocked over the police station,” he said, “Prosker committed himself to an insane asylum.”

  There was a long silence. Dortmunder didn’t move. Greenwood watched him worriedly. Kelp alternatively watched Dortmunder and the traffic.

  Dortmunder sighed. He lowered the hand from his eyes, lifted his head. He looked very tired. He reached forward and tapped Kelp on the shoulder. “Kelp,” he said.

  Kelp looked in the rearview mirror. “Yeah?”

  “Please take me back to the dog. Please.”

  TWO

  DORTMUNDER’S New York probation officer was an overworked and undermotivated balding man named Steen. Two days after Dortmunder was rescued from the dog by Greenwood and Kelp, he sat for one of his regular interviews in Steen’s office and Steen said, “Well, it looks as though you’re really going straight this time, Dortmunder. That’s very good.”

  “I’ve learned my lesson,” Dortmunder said.

  “It’s never too late to learn,” Steen agreed. “But let me give you one little piece of friendly advice. In my experience, on the experience of this office and generally, the thing you’ve got to look out for most of all is bad companions.”