Free The Hot Rock by Donald Westlake

talked together, Dortmunder carrying the three bulky manila envelopes in his left hand. Major Iko watched them till they were out of sight.

Chapter 3
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    “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 hot plate, 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 air shaft, 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?”

    “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?