Hot Rock

by Donald E. Westlake

  Dortmunder looked at him. “Is that right?”

  “In the daytime that way’s better,” Murch said. “But at night the city streets are just as good. Better.”

  “That’s interesting,” Dortmunder said and sat down.

  The door opened and Rollo came in with a glass and a bottle of something that called itself Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon—“Our Own Brand.” Rollo put the glass and the bottle down in front of Dortmunder and said, “There’s a fellow outside I think is maybe with you. A sherry. Want to give him the double-o?”

  Dortmunder said, “Did he ask for me?”

  “Asked for a fellow name of Kelp. That the Kelp I know?”

  “The same,” Dortmunder said. “He’ll be one of ours, send him on in.”

  “Will do.” Rollo looked at Murch’s glass. “Ready for a refill?”

  “I’ll string along with this for a while,” Murch said.

  Rollo gave Dortmunder a look and went out, and a minute later Chefwick came in, carrying a glass of sherry. “Dortmunder!” he said in surprise. “It was Kelp I talked to on the phone, wasn’t it?”

  “He’ll be here in a minute,” Dortmunder said. “You know Stan Murch?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Stan’s our driver. Stan, this is Roger Chefwick, he’s our lockman. Best in the business.”

  Murch and Chefwick nodded to each other, mumbling words, and Chefwick sat down at the table. “Will there be any more of us?” he said.

  “Just two,” Dortmunder said, and Kelp came in, carrying a glass. He looked at Dortmunder and said, “He said you had the bottle.”

  “Sit down,” Dortmunder invited. “You all know each other, don’t you?”

  They did. Everybody said hello, and Kelp poured bourbon into his glass. Murch took a tiny sip of beer.

  The door opened and Rollo stuck his head in. “There’s a Dewar’s and water out here that asked for you,” he said to Dortmunder, “but I don’t know about him.”

  Dortmunder said, “Why not?”

  “I don’t think he’s sober.”

  Dortmunder made a face. “Ask him if he calls himself Greenwood,” he said, “and if he does sent him on in here.”

  “Right.” Rollo looked at Murch’s beer. “You all set?” he said.

  “I’m fine,” Murch told him. His glass was still one-quarter full, but the beer didn’t have any head any more. “Unless I could have some salt,” he said.

  Rollo gave Dortmunder a look. “Sure,” he said and went out.

  A minute later Greenwood came in, a drink in one hand and a salt shaker in the other. “The barman said the draft beer wanted this,” he said. He looked high, but not drunk.

  “That me,” Murch said.

  Murch and Greenwood had to be introduced, and then Greenwood sat down and Murch sprinkled a little salt into his beer, which gave it some head. He sipped at it.

  Dortmunder said, “Now we’re all here.” He looked at Kelp. “You want to tell the story?”

  “No,” said Kelp. “You do it.”

  “All right,” Dortmunder said. He told them the story, and then said, “Any questions?”

  Murch said, “We get a hundred fifty a week until we do the job?”

  “Right.”

  “Then why do it at all?”

  “Three or four weeks is all we’d get out of Major Iko,” Dortmunder said. “Maybe six hundred apiece. I’d rather have the thirty thousand.”

  Chefwick said, “Do you want to take the emerald from the Coliseum or wait till it’s on the road?”

  “We’ll have to decide that,” Dortmunder said. “Kelp and I went over there today and it looked well guarded, but they might be even more security-conscious on the road. Why don’t you go over tomorrow and see how it looks to you?”

  Chefwick nodded. “Fine,” he said.

  Greenwood said, “Once we get this emerald, why turn it over to the good Major at all?”

  “He’s the only buyer,” Dortmunder said. “Kelp and I have already been through all the switches we might want to pull.”

  “Just so we’re flexible in our thinking,” Greenwood said.

  Dortmunder looked around. “Any more questions? No? Anybody want out? No? Good. Tomorrow you all drift over to the Coliseum and take a look at our prize, and we’ll meet back here tomorrow night at the same time. I’ll have the first week’s living expenses from the Major by then.”

  Greenwood said, “Couldn’t we make it earlier tomorrow night? Ten o’clock breaks into my evening pretty badly.”

  “We don’t want it too early,” Murch said. “I don’t want to get caught in that rush hour traffic.”

  “How about eight?” Dortmunder said.

  “Fine,” said Greenwood.

  “Fine,” said Murch.

  “Perfectly all right with me,” said Chefwick.

  “Then that’s it,” said Dortmunder. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “We’ll meet back here tomorrow night.”

  Everybody stood. Murch finished his beer, smacked his lips, and said, “Aaaahhh!” Then he said. “Anybody want a lift anywhere?”

  TEN

  IT was ten minutes to one of a weeknight, and Fifth Avenue across from the park was deserted. An occasional cab showing its off-duty sign rolled south, but that was about it. A spring drizzle was leaking out of the black sky, and the park across the way looked like the middle of a jungle.

  Kelp rounded the corner and headed up the block for the embassy. He’d left the cab on Madison Avenue, but with the misty rain oozing inside his coat collar he was beginning to think he’d been overcautious. He should have had the cab drop him at the embassy door and to hell with cover. He’d concerned himself with the wrong kind of cover, a night like this.

  He trotted up the embassy steps and rang the bell. He could see lights behind the first-floor windows, but it took a long while for someone to come open the door, and then it was a silent black man who motioned Kelp in with long slim fingers, shut the door after him, and led him away through several opulent rooms before finally leaving him alone in a bookcase-lined den with a pool table in its middle.

  Kelp waited three minutes, standing around doing nothing, and then decided the hell with it. He got the rack from under the table, racked up the balls, selected a cue, and began to play a little rotation with himself.

  He was just about to sink the eight when the door opened and Major Iko came in. “You’re later than I expected,” he said.

  “I couldn’t find a cab,” Kelp said. He put down the cue, patted various pockets, and came up with a crumpled sheet of lined yellow paper. “This is the stuff we need,” he said and handed the Major the sheet of paper. “You want to give me a ring when it’s ready?”

  “Stay a moment,” the Major said. “Let me look this over.”

  “Take your time,” Kelp said. He went back to the’ table and picked up the cue and sank the eight ball. Then he walked halfway around the table and dropped the nine and—on ricochet—the thirteen. The ten was already gone, so he tried for the eleven, but it glanced off the fifteen and wound up in bad position. He hunkered down, shut one eye, and began to study various lines of sight.

  The Major said, “About these uniforms—”

  “Just a minute,” Kelp said. He sighted a little more, then stood, aimed carefully, and shot. The cue ball bounced off two cushions, grazed the eleven, and rolled into the pocket.

  “Hell,” Kelp said. He put the cue down and turned to Iko. “Anything wrong?”

  “The uniforms,” the Major said. “It says here four uniforms, but it doesn’t say what kind.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot.” Kelp pulled some Polaroid prints from another pocket. They showed guards at the Coliseum from various angles. “Here’s some pictures,” Kelp said, handing them over. “So you’ll know what they look like.”

  The Major took the prints. “Good. And what are these numbers on the paper?”

  “Everybody’s suit size,
” Kelp said.

  “Naturally. I should have realized.” The Major tucked the list and prints into his pocket and smiled crookedly at Kelp. “So there really are three other men,” he said.

  “Sure,” Kelp said. “We weren’t gonna do it just the two of us.”

  “I realize that. Dortmunder forgot to tell me the names of the other three.”

  Kelp shook his head. “No, he didn’t. He told me you tried to pump him on that, and he said you’d probably try with me too.”

  The Major, in sudden irritation, said, “Damn it, man, I ought to know who I’m hiring. This is absurd.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Kelp said. “You hired Dortmunder and me. Dortmunder and me hired the other three.”

  “But I need to check them out,” the Major said.

  “You already talked this over with Dortmunder,” Kelp said. “You know what his attitude is.”

  “Yes, I know,” said the Major.

  Kelp told him anyway. “You’ll start makin’ up dossiers on everybody. You make up enough dossiers, you’ll attract attention, maybe tip the whole thing.”

  The Major shook his head. “This goes against my training,” he said, “against everything I know. How can you deal with a man if you don’t have a dossier on him? It isn’t done.”

  Kelp shrugged. “I don’t know. Dortmunder says I should pick up this week’s money.”

  “This is the second week,” the Major said.

  “That’s right.”

  “When are you going to do the job?”

  “Soon as you get us the stuff.” Kelp spread his hands. “We weren’t just sittin’ around for a week, you know. We earned our money. Go to the Coliseum every day, sit around and work out plans every night, we’ve been doin’ that for a week now.”

  “I don’t begrudge the money,” the Major said, though it was clear he did. “I just don’t want it to drag on too long.”

  “Get us the stuff on that list,” Kelp said, “and we’ll get you your emerald.”

  “Good,” said the Major. “Shall I see you to the door?”

  Kelp glanced longingly at the pool table. “Would you mind? I’m sort of set up for the twelve, and then there’s only two more balls after that.”

  The Major seemed both surprised and irritated, but he said, “Oh, very well. Go ahead.”

  Kelp smiled. “Thanks, Major.” He picked up the cue, sank the twelve, sank the fourteen, took two shots to sink the fifteen, and finished off by sinking the cue ball on a three cushion rebound. “There,” he said and put up the cue.

  The Major let him out, and he stood ten minutes in the rain before he got a cab.

  ELEVEN

  THE NEW YORK COLISEUM stands between West 58th Street and West 60th Street facing Columbus Circle on the southwest corner of Central Park in Manhattan. The Coliseum faces the park and the Maine Monument and the statue of Columbus and Huntington Hartford’s Gallery of Modern Art.

  On the 60th Street side, midway along the beige brick wall, there is an entrance surmounted by a large chrome number 20, and 20 West 60th Street is the address of the Coliseum staff. A blue-uniformed private guard is always on duty inside the glass doors of this entrance, day and night.

  One Wednesday night in late June, at about three-twenty in the morning, Kelp came walking eastward along West 60th Street wearing a tan raincoat, and when he was opposite the Coliseum entrance he suddenly had a fit. He went rigid, and then he fell over, and then he began to thrash around on the sidewalk. He cried, “Oh! Oh!” several time, but in a husky voice that didn’t carry far. There was no one else in sight, no pedestrians and no moving automobiles.

  The guard had seen Kelp through the glass doors before the fit started, and knew that Kelp had not been walking as though drunk. He had in fact been walking very calmly until he had his fit. The guard hesitated a moment, frowning worriedly, but Kelp’s thrashing seemed to be increasing, so at last the guard opened the door and hurried out to see what he could do to help. He squatted beside Kelp, put a hand on Kelp’s twitching shoulder, and said, “Is there anything I can do, Mac?”

  “Yes,” Kelp said. He stopped thrashing and pointed a .38 Special Colt Cobra revolver at the guard’s nose. “You can stand up very slow,” Kelp said, “and you can keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The guard stood up and kept his hands where Kelp could see them, and out of a car across the street came Dortmunder and Greenwood and Chefwick, all dressed in uniforms exactly like the one the guard was wearing.

  Kelp got to his feet, and the four marched the guard into the building. He was taken around the corner from the entrance and tied and gagged. Kelp then removed his raincoat, showing yet another uniform of the same type, and went back to take the guard’s place at the door. Meanwhile Dortmunder and the other two stood around and looked at their watches. “He’s late,” Dortmunder said.

  “He’ll get there,” Greenwood said.

  Around at the main entrance there were two guards on duty, and at this moment they were both looking out at an automobile that had suddenly come out of nowhere and was hurtling directly toward the doors. “No!” cried one of the guards, waving his arms.

  Stan Murch was behind the wheel of the car, a two-year-old Rambler Ambassador sedan, dark green, which Kelp had stolen just this morning. The car had different plates now, and other changes had also been made.

  At the last possible second before the impact Murch pulled the pin on the bomb, shoved the door open, and leaped clear. He landed rolling, and continued to roll for several seconds after the sounds of the crash and the explosion.

  The timing had been beautiful. No eyewitness—there were none but the two guards—would have been able to say for sure that Murch had leaped before the crash rather than been thrown clear because of it. And no one would have supposed that the sheet of flame that suddenly erupted from the car as it crashed to a stop halfway through the glass doors was not the result of the accident but had been made by the small incendiary bomb with the five-second fuse whose pin Murch had pulled just before his exit.

  Nor would anyone suppose that the stains and smears on Murch’s face and clothing had been carefully applied almost an hour ago in a small apartment on the Upper West Side.

  The crash, at any rate, was magnificent. The car had leaped the curb, had seemed to bound twice in crossing the wide sidewalk, and had lunged into and through the glass doors on the rise, thudding to a grinding halt, half in and half out, and then bursting at once into flame. Within seconds the fire reached the gas tank—it was supposed to, having been assured by some alterations Much had made this afternoon—and the explosion shattered what glass the car had missed.

  No one in the building could have failed to hear Murch’s arrival. Dortmunder and the others heard it, and they smiled at one another and moved out, leaving Kelp behind to guard the door.

  Their route to the exhibit area was roundabout, involving several corridors and two flights of stairs, but when they at last opened one of the heavy metal doors leading to the second floor exhibit area, they saw their timing had been perfect. There wasn’t a guard in sight.

  They were all out front, by the fire. Several of them were clustered around Murch, whose head was in a guard’s lap and who was obviously in shock, lying there twitching, muttering, “It wouldn’t steer … it wouldn’t steer …” and moving his arms vaguely, like a man trying to turn a steering wheel. Some of the other guards were standing around the blazing car, telling one another what a lucky guy that lucky guy was, and at least four of them were at four different telephones, calling hospitals and police stations and fire departments.

  Inside, Dortmunder and Chefwick and Greenwood made their way quickly and silently through the exhibits toward the Akinzi display. Only a few lights were on, and in the semi-dark some of the exhibits they moved among tended toward the startling. Devil masks, warriors in spear and costume, even wildly designed tapestries, all were a lot more effective now than during normal visiting hours, with all the lights
lit and lots of other people around.

  When they reached the Akinzi display they went immediately to work. They’d studied this for a week now, they knew what to do and how.

  There were four locks to be undone, one in the middle of each side of the glass cube, down at the base, in the steel rim between glass and floor. Once these locks were opened the glass cube could be lifted out of the way.

  Chefwick had with him a small black bag of the sort country doctors used to favor, and this he now opened, revealing many slender metal tools of the sort most country doctors never saw in their lives. While Greenwood and Dortmunder stood on either side of him, watching the exit doors on the far walls and the railing of the third-floor balcony overlooking this area and the stairs and escalator toward the front of the building, where they could see the reflected red glow from the fire down in the lobby, while they kept careful watch on all this, Chefwick went to work on the locks.

  The first one took three minutes, but after that he knew the system and he did all the other three in less than four minues more. But still, seven minutes was a long time. The red glow was fading, and the noise from downstairs was ebbing; soon the guards would be coming back to their duties. Dortmunder refrained from telling Chefwick to hurry, but with difficulty. Still, he knew Chefwick was doing the best he could.

  At last Chefwick whispered a shrill “Done!” Still kneeling at the last breached lock, he hurriedly put his tools back into his bag.

  Dortmunder and Greenwood got on opposite sides of the glass cube. It weighed close to two hundred pounds, and there was no way for them to get a really good grip on it. They could only press their palms against it at the edges and lift. Straining, sweating, they did so, gazing at each other’s tense face through the glass, and when they got it up two feet Chefwick slid under and grabbed the emerald.

  “Hurry up!” Greenwood said, his voice hoarse. “It’s slipping!”