Free Bank Shot by Donald E. Westlake Page B

and said, ‘Yes!’
    â€˜Hello, Herman?’
    â€˜Yeah, that’s right. Who’s this?’
    â€˜Kelp.’
    Herman’s spirits suddenly lifted. ‘Well, hello,’ he said. ‘Been a long time.’
    â€˜You sound like you got a cold.’
    â€˜No, I just hit my nose.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Never mind,’ Herman said. ‘What’s happening?’
    â€˜Depends,’ Kelp said. ‘You available?’
    â€˜Never better.’
    â€˜This is still a maybe.’
    â€˜Which is better than a nothing,’ Herman said.
    â€˜That’s true,’ Kelp said with some surprise, as though he’d never thought that out before. ‘You know the O. J. Bar?’
    â€˜Sure.’
    â€˜Tomorrow night, eight-thirty.’
    Herman frowned. There was a screening he’d been invited to … No. As he’d told his guests, he had expensive tastes, and as he’d told Kelp, a maybe was better than a nothing. ‘I’ll be there,’ he said.
    â€˜See you.’
    Herman hung up and reached for a Kleenex. Smiling, he wiped the tears from his eyes, then carefully unlocked the study door and went out to the hall, where Mrs. Olaffson greeted him with ‘Dinner is ready, sir.’
    â€˜And so am I,’ he said.

10
    Victor stood smiling in the elevator. This building, on Park Avenue in the seventies, had been built at the turn of the century, but the elevator dated from 1926 and looked it. Victor had seen identical elevators in old movies – the dark wood, the waist-high brass rail, the smoke-tinted mirror, the corner light fixtures like brass skyscrapers upside down. Victor felt embraced by the era of the pulps and gazed around with a happy smile as he and his uncle rode up to the seventeenth floor.
    Kelp said, ‘What the hell you grinning at?’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ Victor said contritely. ‘I just liked the looks of the elevator.’
    â€˜This is a medical doctor we’re going to,’ Kelp said. ‘Not a psychiatrist.’
    â€˜All right,’ Victor said soberly.
    â€˜And remember to let me do the talking.’
    Earnestly, Victor said, ‘Oh, I will.’
    He was finding this whole operation fascinating. Dortmunder had been perfect, Murch and his Mom had been perfect, the back room of the O. J. Bar and Grill had been perfect, and the steps being taken to put the job together were perfect. Even Dortmunder’s obvious reluctance to let Victor participate was perfect; it was only right that the old pro wouldn’t want to work with the rank amateur. But Victor knew that by the finish he would have had opportunity to demonstrate his value. The thought made him smile again, until he felt Kelp’s eyes on him, when he immediately wiped the smile away.
    â€˜It’s unusual that I’d even bring you along,’ Kelp said as the elevator door opened and they stepped out together into the seventeenth-floor foyer. The doctor’s door, with a discreet name plate, was to the left. Kelp said, ‘He might not even want to talk in front of you.’
    â€˜Oh, I hope not,’ Victor said, laughing boyishly.
    â€˜If he does,’ Kelp said, ‘you go right back to the waiting room. Don’t argue with him.’
    â€˜Oh, I wouldn’t,’ Victor said sincerely.
    Kelp grunted and went in, Victor following.
    The nurse was behind a partition on the right. Victor stayed in the background while Kelp talked to her, saying, ‘We have an appointment. Charles Willis and Walter Mc-Lain.’
    â€˜Yes, sir. If you’ll just take a seat …’ She pushed a buzzer that let them through the interior door.
    The waiting room looked like the scale model of a Holiday Inn lobby. A stout lady looked up from her copy of Weight Watchers and gave them the glance of anonymous hostility with which people always look at one another in doctors’ waiting rooms. Kelp and Victor pawed