Free Watch Your Back by Donald Westlake Page A

seat next to Judson while the gloomy one got some of the seat next to Tiny.

    “Drive on,” said Tiny. So Judson drove on, and Tiny said, “Dortmunder,” meaning the one in back, “and Kelp,” for the one in front, “this is Judson Blint. He’s Josey’s office manager now.”

    “Harya.”

    “Hello.”

    Tiny said, “He says I can boost him up to the alarm. I didn’t ask him, he just says it.”

    Judson felt many eyes on him, but didn’t dare look back at anybody. I’m being taken for a ride, he thought. No, I’m taking myself for a ride.

    Kelp, the one in front, with a pleasant manner Judson didn’t at all believe, said, “Judson? You like to volunteer?”

    “Oh, no,” Judson said. “No, I just thought — I don’t know, I must have been wrong.”

    “I knew a guy wanted to volunteer once,” Tiny said. Judson sighed, and Tiny went on, “We were in a thing together where the cops took an interest, and he thought it would be a good thing if he rolled over first.”

    Interested, half–turned around in the seat, Kelp said, “What happened?”

    “He rolled off a roof instead,” Tiny said. “Keep going across Seventy–second,” he told Judson.

    The red light at Central Park West was ahead. “As soon as the light changes,” Judson promised.

    “Maybe he’s some kinda burglar.” That was the other one back there — Dortmunder.

    “You think so?” Tiny asked. “Judson, is that it? You a burglar?”

    “Not me,” Judson said, and drove forward under the green light.

    He could sense Tiny looming behind him, larger than ever, but refused to look in the mirror. Lots of traffic to look at, two–way traffic. Very dangerous out here.

    “Or maybe,” Tiny said, “it’s your idea I’m some kind of burglar.”

    “Oh, no, sir.”

    The one called Dortmunder said, “Tiny? What does J.C. think of him?”

    “What, this driver here?” Tiny chuckled. “She thinks he’s a good scam artist.”

    Kelp, still friendly and amiable, said, “That doesn’t make him a good burglar.”

    Dortmunder said, “But what you’re saying is, J.C. trusts him.”

    “In her business.” To Judson he said, “Head up for the Boat Basin.”

    “Yes, sir,” Judson said, and over the next several minutes, while they kept on with their conversation, he traversed West Seventy–second Street, Broadway, and West Seventy–ninth Street, headed for the West Seventy–ninth Street Boat Basin, where you could launch your boat, or some people kept their yachts or their houseboats, or conceivably you could drop an unwanted volunteer into the river and let him drift out to sea. Judson drove well, breathed shallowly, and didn’t say a word.

    “So I looked at this thing,” Tiny said, “and maybe so.”

    “Good,” Dortmunder said.

    “But first I wanna know,” Tiny said, “about the O.J.”

    “Well,” Dortmunder said, “it’s a bust–out joint.”

    “Shit,” Tiny commented.

    “You should see it in there, Tiny,” Kelp said.

    “Maybe I should.”

    “No, you shouldn’t,” Dortmunder said. “It’s too late for anything like that. Tiny, they’re already muscling the customers out. The back room is full of merchandise. The ladies’ room is locked, so it must be full, too.”

    “If they’re busting out,” Tiny said, “how come they don’t just do it?”

    Dortmunder said, “You know those guys, Tiny, they’re greedy. One way or another, they got control of the O.J. —”

    “Usually,” Kelp said, “the owner’s some kind of dumbass gambler.”

    “Something like that,” Dortmunder said. “But they got their hands on this legit business, good line of credit, they’re not just gonna bounce in, bounce out, Tiny, they’re gonna use up that credit until it’s gone. Buy buy buy, fill the booths up next, lock the men’s room —”

    “Not too soon for that one,” Kelp commented.

    “No,” Dortmunder agreed. “But the thing is, Tiny, they’re not gonna move the stuff out