Bank Shot

“They patrol weekends, too.”

“No,” Dortmunder said. “What about guards on the weekends? Saturday afternoon, for instance. The thing’s empty then?”

“Sure,” Victor said. “With so many shoppers going by on Saturday, what do they need with guards?”

“All right,” Dortmunder said. He turned back to Murch and said, “Can we get wheels someplace?”

“Sure,” Murch said. No hesitation at all.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely positive. There is totally nothing in the automotive line that I can’t get you.”

Dortmunder said, “Good. Can we get wheels that will lift the damn thing up off those concrete blocks?”

“We may have to rig something,” Murch said. “They’ve got those walls up pretty high. There may not be any wheels-and-axle combination that big. But we could attach the axle to a kind of platform and then attach the platform to the bottom of the trailer.”

“What about jacks?”

Murch shook his head. “What about them?”

“We can get heavy enough jacks to lift that thing?”

“We don’t have to,” Murch said. “It has its own jacks, four of them, built up into the undercarriage.”

Victor said, “Excuse me, Mr. Murch, but how did you —”

“Call me Stan.”

“Thank you. I’m Victor. How did you —”

“Hello. How did you find out about the jacks? Did you crawl under the bank and look?”

Murch gri

“I never did,” Victor said. He sounded impressed.

“It’s a little silver plate near the back,” Murch said. “Near Kresge’s.”

His Mom said, “Stan has a wonderful eye for detail.”

“So we went to a place that sells them,” Murch said, “and I took a look at the same kind of model.”

“With wheels,” Kelp said. He was still taking the business of the wheels as a personal insult.

Murch nodded. “With wheels.”

“They’re really very nice inside,” his Mom said. “More roomy than you’d think. I liked the one with the French Provincial motif.”

“I like where we live now,” Murch said.

“I’m not saying buy one. I just said I liked it. Very clean, very nice. And you know what I thought of that kitchen.”

Dortmunder said, “If we got wheels on it, could you drive it away from there?”

Murch’s beer was only half gone, but the head was gone entirely. Musing, he shook a little salt into the glass, which restored some head, and passed the shaker to his mom. “Not with a car,” he said. “It’s too heavy for that. With a truck. The cab of a tractor-trailer — that would be best.”

“But it could be done.”

“Oh, sure. I’d have to stick to main streets, though. You’ve got a twelve-foot width. That’s pretty wide for going down back roads. Cuts your possibilities for a getaway route.”

Dortmunder nodded. “I figured that.”

“Also time of day,” Murch said. “Late at night would be best, when there’s not so much traffic around.”

“Well, we’d figure to do it then anyway,” Dortmunder said.

“A lot depends,” Murch said, “on where you want to take it.”

Dortmunder glanced at Kelp, who looked very defensive and said, “We can work that out, we can work it out. Victor and me.”

Dortmunder grimaced and looked back at Murch. “Would you be willing to try it?”

“Try what?”

“Driving the bank away.”

“Sure! Naturally, that’s what I’m here for.”

Dortmunder nodded and sat back in his chair. He didn’t look specifically at anybody, but brooded at the green felt tabletop. Nobody spoke for half a minute or so, and then Victor said, “Do you think we can do it, Mr. Dortmunder?”

Dortmunder glanced at him, and the intense look was still there. This was originally Victor’s notion, of course, so it was only natural he wanted to know if he had a workable idea or not. Dortmunder said, “I don’t know yet. It begins to look as though we can take the thing away, but there’s still a lot of problems.”

Kelp said, “But we can go forward, right?”

Dortmunder said, “You and Victor can look for a place to stash the bank while —” He stopped and shook his head. “A place to stash the bank. I can’t believe I’m saying a thing like that. Anyway, you two do that, Murch sets up wheels and a truck or whatever, and —”

“There’s the question of money,” Murch said. “We’re go

“That’s my department,” Kelp said. “I’ll take care of that.”

“Good,” Dortmunder said.

Murch’s Mom said, “Is this meeting over? I got to get home and get this brace off.”

“We’ll be in touch with each other,” Dortmunder said.

Kelp said, “You want me to call Herman X?”

Murch said, “Herman X?”

“Sure,” Dortmunder said. “Give him a call. But tell him it isn’t a definite set-up yet.”

Murch said, “Herman X?”

“You know him?” Kelp said. “A lockman, one of the best.”

Victor suddenly jumped to his feet and extended his ginger-ale glass over the table. “A toast!” he cried. “One for all and all for one!”

There was a stu

One by one the others also stood. Nobody wanted to embarrass Victor. They clinked their glasses together over the middle of the table, and again Victor said, loud and clear, “One for all and all for one!”

“One for all and all for one,” everybody mumbled.

9

Herman X spread black caviar on black bread and handed it across the coffee table to Susan. “I know I have expensive tastes,” he said, flashing his frankest smile at his guests, “but the way I think, we pass this way but once.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” George Lachine said. He and his wife Linda were the token whites at this di

Susan gave George an arch look and said, “I know your kind. Grab all you can get.” Herman thought it unlikely that Susan really wanted George; she was probably just trying to make Linda angry, since she knew Herman’s intentions in that area.

And she was succeeding. While George looked flustered and flattered, Linda gave Susan a tight-lipped look of hate. But she was too cool, Herman noticed, to say anything right now. That pleased him; people being themselves always pleased him. “A di

This one was. Of the ten people present, practically everybody had been to bed at one time or another with everybody else — excluding the Lachines, of course, who were in process of being drawn in right now.

And himself and Rastus. How had he let that fail to happen for so long? Herman glanced over at Rastus now and saw him indolently whispering something to Diane, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Rastus Sharif; he’d chosen the name himself, of course, as representative of the full range of his heritage, both slave and African, and in doing so had made himself a walking insult to practically everybody he met. Black and white alike had trouble bringing themselves to call him “Rastus.” Looking at him, Herman thought the delay had probably been caused by his own admiration and envy; how could he go to bed with the only person on earth he didn’t feel superior to?

Mrs. Olaffson suddenly appeared in the living-room doorway. “Telephone, sir.”

He sat up. “My call from the Coast?” He was aware of the conversations halting around him.