Free What's The Worst That Could Happen by Donald Westlake Page A

some difficulty to the responsibilities of host, he said, “You want a bourbon?”

    “Thanks for asking, John,” Andy said, “but I’ll just stick to beer.”

    So they went their separate ways, Dortmunder settling himself into his own chair in his living room, tasting the bourbon, and finding it every bit as satisfying as he’d hoped. Then Andy came in with his beer, sat on the sofa, put the beer and the shoulderbag on the coffee table, reached for the shoulderbag’s flap, and Dortmunder said, “Before you do that, whatever it is, lemme ask you a question.”

    “Sure,” Andy said. His hand, en route, made a left turn and picked up the beer instead.

    “Who do you know in Washington?”

    Andy drank beer. “The president,” he said. “That senator, whatsisname. An airline stewardess named Justine.”

    Dortmunder tasted bourbon; that was still good, anyway. “Who do you know,” he amended, “that isn’t a civilian?”

    Andy looked alert. “You mean, somebody in our line of work? Oh, I see, to be the local for when you do the Watergate.”

    “May says, probably there’ll be enough stuff in the guy’s place to make it worth somebody’s while.”

    “That’s true, judging from last time. Lemme think about it,” Andy decided, and leaned forward, putting down his beer. “In the meantime,” he said, reaching again for the shoulderbag, “here’s the reason I’m here.”

    “Uh huh.” Dortmunder held tight to his bourbon.

    Andy flipped back the shoulderbag’s flap, and pulled out a smallish black metal box with a telephone receiver on one side of it. “I’m gonna have to unplug your phone for a few minutes,” he said.

    Dortmunder glared at the box. “Is that an answering machine? I told you before, Andy, I don’t want —”

    “No no, John, I told you, I gave up on you with technology.” Grinning in an amiable way, Andy shrugged and spread his hands, saying, “I understand you now. The only reason you’re willing to travel in cars is because there’s no place in an apartment to keep a horse.”

    “Was that sarcasm, Andy?”

    “I don’t think so. What this is,” Andy said, “is a fax. You’ve seen them around.”

    Well, that was true. A fax was something you picked up and carried to the fence. In the straight world, they were yet another way to tell people things and have them tell you things back. Since telling people things and hearing what bad news they had to impart had never been high among Dortmunder’s priorities, he didn’t see where the fax figured into his own lifestyle. If he had a fax, who would he send a message to? What would it say? And who would send a message to him, that they couldn’t send by telephone or letter or over a beer at the O.J. Bar & Grill on Amsterdam Avenue?

    Andy carried this black box of his over to the telephone on its end table, hunkered down beside it, and briskly unhooked the phone from the wall outlet so he could hook up his fax instead, while Dortmunder said, “Why do I have this, all of a sudden? And how long am I gonna have it?”

    “The thing about a fax, John,” Andy explained, “it’s harder to bug. It isn’t impossible, the feds got a machine that can pick up a fax and it still goes on to the regular party, without anybody being the wiser, but it isn’t routine, not yet, not like a phone call. Just a minute.” Andy picked up the phone part of the fax and started tapping out a number.

    Dortmunder said, “Is that a local call?”

    “No, it isn’t.” Andy listened, then said, “Hi, it’s Andy. Go ahead,” and hung up.

    “Don’t mind me,” Dortmunder said. His bourbon glass was almost empty, except for ice.

    Hunkering beside the fax, Andy swiveled around to Dortmunder and said, “Wally called me. He’s got news, but none of us wants him to tell me on the phone. So he’s —”

    The phone rang. Dortmunder said, “Get that, will you? You’re right there.”

    “No, no, this is Wally,” Andy said, and