Bank Shot

The hairdo nodded. She kept typing.

“Why,” Herman said, “from the outside it looks like any other garage.”

Victor nodded, smiling. “I thought you’d like it,” he said.

Dortmunder came out of the bedroom wearing black sneakers, black trousers and a long-sleeved black shirt. In one hand he was holding a black cap, and over his forearm hung a black leather jacket. May, who was hemming curtains, looked up and said, “You off?”

“Be back pretty soon.”

“Break a leg,” May said and went back to her sewing.

14

The railroad-station parking lot had cars in it all night long on weekends, and this was Friday night, so there was no problem. Victor and Herman arrived in Victor’s Packard, parked it and strolled over to the waiting room. This was the Long Island Railroad, which had been the best in the world since November of 1969. The waiting room was open and lit, since late trains came out here from the city on Friday nights, but the ticket office was closed. Victor and Herman wandered around the empty waiting room reading the notices until they saw headlights; then they went back outside.

It was the Javelin, growling contentedly to itself as though it had just eaten a Pinto. Murch was driving and Dortmunder was beside him. Murch slipped the Javelin into a parking space — it was done like a samurai sheathing his sword, the same sense of ceremony — and then he and Dortmunder got out and walked over to join the other two.

Dortmunder said, “Kelp isn’t here yet?”

Victor said, “Do you suppose he had some trouble?”

“Here he comes,” Herman said.

“I wonder what he brought me,” Murch said as the truck headlights made the turn into the parking lot.

The town all around them was fairly well lit but basically empty, like a movie set. Traffic was light to moderate with people homeward bound from their Friday-night outings, and the occasional Nassau County police car was interested in drunken drivers, automobile accidents and potential burglary of downtown stores, not vehicles moving in and out of the railroad-station parking lot.

Kelp pulled to a stop next to the waiting men. His style of driving was in deep contrast with Murch, who seemed to do no physical labor at all but to operate his cars by thought control. Kelp, on the other hand, even after the truck had come to a stop, could still be seen in there for several seconds turning the wheel and shifting the gears, pushing and pulling and shoving and only gradually himself coming to a stop, like a radio that keeps broadcasting for a few seconds after you switch it off, while the tubes cool.

“Well,” said Murch, in the ma

It was a good-sized truck, a Dodge, with a box about fifteen feet long. The doors and sides carried the company name: Laurentian Paper Mills. In addition, the doors bore the names of two cities: “Toronto, Ontario — Syracuse, New York.” The cab was green, the box dark brown, and it had New York plates. Kelp had left the motor ru

Now, as Kelp opened the door and climbed down to the pavement, carrying a brown shopping bag, Murch said to him, “What was it attracted you to this thing? In particular, I mean.”

“The fact that it was empty,” Kelp said. “We don’t have to unload any paper.”

Murch nodded. “Well,” he said, “it’ll do.”

“There was an International Harvester I saw,” Kelp told him, “with a nice racing stripe on it, but it was full of model cars.”

“This one’ll do,” Murch said.

“If you want, I’ll go back and get that one.”

“No,” Murch said judiciously, “this one will do just fine.”

Kelp looked at Dortmunder and said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever met such an ingrate in my life.”

“Let’s go,” Dortmunder said.

Dortmunder and Kelp and Victor and Herman got up into the back of the truck, and Murch closed the van doors after them. Now the interior was pitch-black. Dortmunder felt his way to the side wall and sat down, as the others were already doing. A second later, the truck lurched forward.

The worst moment was the bump coming out of the parking lot. After that, Murch moved them along pretty smoothly.

In the dark, Dortmunder wrinkled his nose and sniffed. “Somebody’s been drinking,” he said.

Nobody answered.

“I can smell it,” Dortmunder said. “Somebody had a drink.”

“I can smell it, too,” Kelp said. From the sound of his voice, he was just across the way.

Victor said, “Is that what that is? A fu

Herman said, “Smells like whiskey. Not Scotch, though.”

“Not bourbon either,” Kelp said.

“The question is,” Dortmunder said, “who’s been drinking?” Because it was a very bad idea to drink while out on a job.

“Not me,” Kelp said.

Herman said, “That’s not my style.”

There was a little silence, and suddenly Victor said, “Me? Heck, no!”

Dortmunder, said, “Well, somebody’s been drinking.”

Herman said, “What do you want to do, smell everybody’s breath?”

“I can smell it from here,” Dortmunder said.

“The air is full of it,” Kelp said.

All at once Herman said, “Wait a second. Wait a second, I think I know… Just wait a second.” From the scrambling sound, he was getting to his feet, moving along the wall. Dortmunder waited, squinting his eyes in the darkness but still unable to see a thing.

A thudding. Herman: “Oops.”

Victor: “Ow!”

Herman: “Sorry.”

Victor (garbled a bit, as though he had fingers in his mouth): “That’s okay.”

Then there was a hollow drumming sound, and Herman laughed. “Sure!” he said, obviously pleased with himself. “You know what it is?”

“No,” Dortmunder said. He was getting very irritated that the drinker wouldn’t own up to what he’d done and starting to suspect it was Herman, now trying to distract them all from the question with a lot of foolishness.

Herman said, “It’s Canadian!”

Kelp sniffed loudly and said, “By God, I think you’re right. Canadian whiskey.”

More hollow drumming, and Herman said, “This is a fake wall. Up here behind the cab, it’s a fake wall. We’re in a goddam smuggler’s truck!”

Dortmunder said, “What?”

“That’s where the smell’s coming from, back there. They must have broken a bottle.” Dortmunder said, “Smuggling? Prohibition’s over.”

“By golly, Herman,” Victor said excitedly, “you’ve stumbled on something important!” Never had he sounded more like an FBI man.

Dortmunder said, “Prohibition’s over.”

“Import duties,” Victor explained. “That isn’t directly the Bureau’s responsibility, that’s Treasury’s department, but I do know a bit about it. There are outfits like this strung all across the border. They smuggle Canadian whiskey into the States and American cigarettes up into Canada, and they make a pretty profit in both directions.”

“Well, I’ll be,” said Kelp.

“Uncle,” Victor said, “where exactly did you get this truck?”

Kelp said, “You’re not in the Bureau any more, Victor.”

“Oh,” Victor said. He sounded slightly confused. Then he said, “Of course not. I was just wondering.”

“In Greenpoint.”

“Of course,” Victor said musingly. “Down by the piers.”

There was another thud, and Herman cried, “Ouch! Son of a bitch!”

Dortmunder called, “What happened?”

“Hurt my thumb. But I figured out how to get it open.”

Kelp said, “Any whiskey in there?”

Dortmunder said warningly, “Wait a minute.”

“For later,” Kelp said.

A match flared. They could see Herman leaning through a narrow partition in the front wall, holding the match ahead of himself so they could make him out only in silhouette.