Free The Hot Rock by Donald Westlake Page A

Hello?”

    Kelp, a bit reluctantly, put the phone against his head again. “Yeah,” he said doubtfully. “That you, Stan?”

    Dortmunder got to his feet and went out to the kitchenette and began to put cheese spread on Ritz Crackers. He did about a dozen of them, put them on a plate, and brought them back in to the living room, where Kelp was just finishing up the conversation. Dortmunder put the plate of crackers on the coffee table, Kelp hung up the phone, Dortmunder sat down, and Kelp said, “He’ll meet us at the O.J. at ten.”

    “Good.”

    “What kind of a record?”

    “Car noises,” Dortmunder said. “Have some cheese and crackers.”

    “How come car noises?”

    “How do I know? Hand me the phone, I’ll call Chefwick.”

    Kelp handed him the phone. “At least Chefwick doesn’t make car noises,” he said.

    Dortmunder dialed Chefwick’s number, and his wife answered. Dortmunder said, “Is Roger there? This is Dortmunder.”

    “One moment, please.”

    Dortmunder spent the time eating cheese and crackers, washing them down with bourbon on the rocks. After a while, faintly, he could hear a voice saying, “Toot toot.” He looked at Kelp, but he didn’t say anything.

    The toot–toot voice came closer, then stopped. There was the sound of the phone being picked up, and then Chefwick’s voice said, “Hello?”

    Dortmunder said, “You know that idea we had that didn’t work out?”

    “Oh, yes,” Chefwick said. “I remember it well.”

    “Well, there’s a chance we can make it work after all,” Dortmunder said. “If you’re still interested.”

    “Well, I’m intrigued, naturally,” Chefwick said. “I suppose it’s too complicated to go into over the phone.”

    “It sure is,” Dortmunder said. “Ten o’clock at the O.J.?”

    “That will be fine,” Chefwick said.

    “See you.”

    Dortmunder hung up and handed the phone back to Kelp, who put it back on its stand and said, “See? No car noises.”

    “Have some cheese and crackers,” Dortmunder said.

Chapter 4
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    Dortmunder and Kelp walked into the O.J. Bar and Grill at one minute after ten. The same regular customers were draped in their usual positions on the bar, watching the television set, looking not quite as real as the figures in a wax museum. Rollo was wiping glasses with a towel that once was white.
    Dortmunder said, “Hi,” and Rollo nodded. Dortmunder said, “Anybody else here yet?”

    “The beer and salt is back there,” Rollo said. “You expecting the sherry?”

    “Yeah.”

    “I’ll send him along when he comes in. You boys want a bottle and glasses and some ice, right?”

    “Right.”

    “I’ll bring it on in.”

    “Thanks.”

    They walked on into the back room and found Murch there reading his Mustang owner’s manual. Dortmunder said, “You’re early again.”

    “I tried a different route,” Murch said. He put the owner’s manual down on the green felt tabletop. “I went over to Pennsylvania Avenue and up Bushwick and Grand and over the Williamsburg Bridge and straight up Third Avenue. It seemed to work out pretty well.” He picked up his beer and drank three drops.

    “That’s good,” Dortmunder said. He and Kelp sat down, and Rollo came in with the bourbon and glasses. While he was putting them down, Chefwick came in. Rollo said to him, “You’re a sherry, right?”

    “Yes, thank you.”

    “Done.”

    Rollo went out, not bothering to ask Murch if he was ready for another, and Chefwick sat down, saying, “I’m certainly intrigued. I don’t see how the emerald job can come back to life again. It’s lost, isn’t it?”

    “No,” Dortmunder said. “Greenwood hid it.”

    “In the Coliseum?”

    “We don’t know where. But he clouted it somewhere, and that means we can get back on the track.”

    Murch said, “There’s a gimmick in this somewhere, I can smell it.”

    “Not a gimmick exactly,” Dortmunder said. “Just another heist. Two for the