Free Good Behavior by Donald E. Westlake Page B

there, put the tray to his right, poured some brown stuff into one of the glasses, and was raising it when the door opened and Stan Murch came in, carrying a glass of beer in one hand and a salt shaker in the other. “The damnedest thing,” he said, closing the door behind himself, “I took the road through Prospect Park, you know, on account of the Prospect Expressway construction, and when I came out on Grand Army Plaza they were digging up Flatbush Avenue , if you’ll believe it, so I ran down Union Street to the BQE and here I am.”
    â€œHiya, Stan,” Dortmunder said. “How you doin?”
    â€œTurning a dollar,” Stan said, and sat down with his beer and his salt as the door opened again and Tiny Bulcher came in, turning sideways to squeeze through the doorway. Somewhere down inside his left fist was a glass containing something that looked like, but was not, cherry soda. “Some clown out there wants to know was I in the Navy,” Tiny said, “so I decked him.” He shut the door and came over and sat facing Dortmunder; Tiny didn’t mind if his back was to the door. “Hello, Dortmunder,” he said.
    â€œHello, Tiny.”
    Tiny looked around, heavy head moving like a wrecker’s ball. “Am I waiting for somebody?”
    â€œAndy Kelp.”
    â€œAm I early, or is he late?”
    â€œHere he is now,” Dortmunder said, as Kelp came in, looking chipper but confused. Dortmunder motioned to him, saying, “Come sit down, Andy.”
    â€œYou know what there is out there,” Kelp said, shutting the door. “There’s a guy laying on the bar, had some sort of accident—”
    â€œHe asked Tiny a question,” Dortmunder said.
    â€œHe got personal with me,” Tiny said.
    Kelp looked at Tiny, and his smile flickered like faraway summer lightning. “Whadaya say, Tiny?”
    â€œI say siddown,” Tiny said, “and let’s get to it.”
    â€œOh, sure.” Coming around the table to sit at Dortmunder’s right and pour himself a glass of Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon, Kelp said, “Anyway, the other guys out there are trying to decide, is it a service-connected disability?”
    â€œIt’s a brain-connected disability,” Tiny said. “What have you got, Dortmunder?”
    â€œWell,” Dortmunder said, “I have a building.”
    Tiny nodded. “And a way in?”
    â€œA way in.”
    â€œAnd what is in this building?”
    â€œA bank. Forty-one importers and wholesalers of jade and ivory and jewels and other precious items. A dealer in antique silver. Two stamp dealers.”
    â€œAnd a partridge in a pear tree,” Kelp finished, grinning happily at everybody.
    â€œHoly Toledo,” Stan Murch said.
    Tiny frowned. “Dortmunder,” he said, “in my experience, you don’t tell jokes. At least, you don’t tell me jokes.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Dortmunder said.
    â€œThis isn’t a building you’re talking about,” Tiny said. “This is the big rock candy mountain.”
    â€œAnd it’s all ours,” Dortmunder said.
    â€œHow? You won the lottery?”
    Dortmunder shook his head. “I got somebody on the inside,” he said. “I got the specs on every bit of security in the building. I got two great big looseleaf books this thick, all about the building. I got more information than I can use .”
    Stan said, “How secure is this information? How sure are you of the inside guy?”
    â€œOne hundred percent,” Dortmunder said. “This person does not tell lies.”
    â€œWhat is it, a disgruntled employee?”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    Tiny said, “I would need to talk to this person myself.”
    â€œI definitely plan to arrange that,” Dortmunder told him.
    Stan said, “So what’s the idea? We back up a truck, go in, empty everything we can, drive