Free What's So Funny by Donald Westlake

“played James Bond? ”

    “I think that was him,” said the second regular, showing a rare moment of regular doubt.

    “Fine,” said Rollo, and went away to prepare a tray containing two glasses with ice cubes and a full bottle bearing a label that read Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon — ‘Our Own Brand’. “Drink it in good health,” he said, and pushed the tray across the genie.

    “Thanks.”

    Dortmunder turned around, carrying the tray, looked to choose just the right booth, and Kelp appeared in the bar doorway. He entered, saw Dortmunder, gazed around the room, and pointed at the booth next to him, the one where last night — just last night! — Dortmunder had met his personal ex–cop doom.

    The same booth? Well, the farther from the Bondsmen the better. Dortmunder shrugged: Okay.

    Once they were seated facing one another and their glasses were no longer empty, Kelp said, “This is about that cop.”

    “You know it. Johnny Eppick For Hire.”

    “How much of that is his name?”

    “The front half.”

    “So he used to be a cop,” Kelp suggested, “and now he’s a private eye.”

    “Or whatever. He’s working for a rich guy that wants this valuable heavy golden chess set that just happens to be in a sub–basement bank vault in midtown.”

    “Forget it,” Kelp advised.

    “I’d like to,” Dortmunder said. “Only he’s got pictures of me in a compromising position.”

    “Oh, yeah?” Kelp seemed very interested. “What, is he gonna show them to May?”

    “Not that kind,” Dortmunder said. “The kind he could show to the cops that didn’t retire yet.”

    “Oh.” Kelp nodded. “Miami could be nice, this time of year.”

    “I was thinking Chicago. Only, Eppick thought of it, too. He says, him and the Internet and his cop buddies would find me anywhere I went, and I believe him.”

    “How much time you got?”

    “Before my arrest, arraignment, plea bargain, and bus ride north?” Dortmunder shrugged. “I can stall a little, I guess. But Eppick is leaning, and the guy he works for is old and sick and wouldn’t be interested in any long–term plans.”

    “Sheesh.” Kelp shook his head. “I hate to say this, but better you than me.”

    “Don’t hate to say it,” Dortmunder advised him, “because you’re already kinda involved.”

    Kelp didn’t like that. “You two’ve been talking about me?”

    “He already knows you,” Dortmunder said. “He researched me or something. Last night, when he left here, he looked down toward you and said, ‘Give my hello to Andy Kelp’. He knows about Arnie Albright. He knows us all.”

    “I don’t like this,” Kelp said. “I don’t like your friend Eppick even thinking about me.”

    “Oh, is that how it is?” Dortmunder wanted to know. “Now he’s my friend?”

    “You know what I mean.”

    “I’m not sure I do.”

    Kelp looked around the room, as though to fix the location more securely in his mind. “You asked me to meet you here tonight,” he said. “Now I get it, you asked me here because you want me to help. So when are you gonna ask me to help?”

    “There is no help,” Dortmunder said.

    Kelp slowly sipped some of his bourbon, while gazing at Dortmunder over the glass. Then he put the glass down and continued to gaze at Dortmunder.

    “Okay,” Dortmunder said. “Help.”

    “Sure,” Kelp said. “Where is this bank vault?”

    “C&I International, up on Fifth Avenue.”

    “That’s a big bank,” Kelp said. He sounded faintly alarmed.

    “It’s a big building,” Dortmunder said. “Underneath it is a sub–basement, and in the sub–basement is the chess set that’s out to ruin my life.”

    “I could go up tomorrow,” Kelp offered, “and take a look.”

    “Well,” Dortmunder said, “I’d like you to do something else tomorrow.”

    Looking hopeful, Kelp said, “You already got a plan?”

    “No, I already got a disaster.” Dortmunder drank some of his own bourbon, more