Free Good Behavior by Donald E. Westlake

Murch’s Mom, a feisty little woman in a cloth cap, this being her cab and that being what she did for a living, insisting on her independence and not wanting to be a burden on her son, Stanley, who made his living by, among other occupations, collecting things with Tiny Bulcher.
    Murch’s Mom was calling out her other-side window and up to her son, saying, “I’m glad I caught you. See? I told you, it’s always a good thing to tell me where you’ll be.”
    There was a passenger in the back of the cab, a stout man in a dark suit and loud tie. And loud voice: “Say, there, driver,” he said loudly, “I have an appointment.”
    â€œHi, Mom,” Stan was saying. “What’s up?”
    â€œDriver, what is this delay?”
    Tiny opened the rear door and showed his unsmiling countenance to the passenger. “Shut up,” he suggested.
    The passenger blinked a lot. He clutched his attaché case with both hands. Tiny shut the door.
    Murch’s Mom said, “John Dortmunder called, just after you left. He says he’s got something.”
    â€œGood,” said Stan.
    â€œFor Tiny, too,” Murch’s Mom said.
    â€œNaturally,” Tiny said. (A disbelieving voice from the back-seat of the cab said, “Tiny?” but then shut up when Tiny rolled an eye in that direction.)
    â€œHe says,” Murch’s Mom went on, “would you meet tonight at ten at the OJ.”
    â€œSure thing,” said Stan.
    Murch’s Mom gestured at the three cars on the back of the truck. “You taking those down to your guy in Brooklyn?”
    â€œYeah. Going right now.”
    â€œWell, don’t take the Battery Tunnel,” she advised him, “there’s some kind of congestion there.”
    â€œNo, I figured I’d go down Ninth to Fourteenth and over to Second Avenue,” Stan said, “take the Williamsburg Bridge, and then Rutledge and Bedford.”
    â€œThat’s good,” Murch’s Mom said. “Or you could also take the Manhattan Bridge, Flatbush and on down Fulton Street.”
    â€œOh, really ,” grumbled the passenger. Tiny looked in at him, and the fellow busily riffled through the papers in his attaché case, looking for something very important.
    â€œI figure I’ll just play it by ear,” Stan told his mom, “adapt to circumstances on the street.”
    â€œThat’s a good boy.”
    The cab went away. Tiny tidied the Renault and got back in beside Stan, and they headed downtown. “I wonder what Dortmunder’s got,” Stan said. “Something rich, I hope.”
    â€œDortmunder’s an amusing fella,” Tiny said. His tree-trunk head nodded. “He makes me laugh,” he said.
    Stan glanced at him. “Sure,” he said.

13
    When Dortmunder walked into the OJ Bar & Grill on Amsterdam Avenue at ten that night a few of the regulars were draped against the bar discussing the weather or something. “It’s ‘Red star at night, Sailor take fright,’” one of them was saying.
    â€œWill you listen to this crap,” a second regular said. “Will you just listen?”
    â€œI listened,” a third regular assured him.
    â€œWho asked you? ” the second regular wanted to know.
    â€œIt’s a free country,” the third regular told him, “and I listened, and you ,” he told the first regular, “are wrong.”
    â€œWell, yes,” the second regular said. “I didn’t know you were gonna be on my side.”
    â€œIt’s ‘Red star in the morning ,’” the third regular said.
    â€œ Another idiot,” said the second regular.
    The first regular looked dazzled with disbelief at the wrong-headedness all around him. “How does that rhyme?” he demanded. “‘Red star in the morning, Sailor take fright’?”
    â€œIt isn’t star ,” the second regular announced,