Jimmy The Kid

“Yeah, but I don’t have a license.”

“Wonderful,” Dortmunder said, and the policeman leaned down to look in Murch’s window and say, “What are you parked here for, anyway?”

Murch said, “I got a dizzy spell coming through the tu

The policeman said, “Dizzy spell, huh? Let’s see your—”

“Your horse,” Dortmunder said loudly.

The policeman looked past Murch at Dortmunder. “What?”

“Your horse,” Dortmunder said, “is shitting on our car.”

The policeman leaned inand looked through the windshield at his horse. “Son of a bitch,” he said. He removed his head from the car, went around front, grabbed the reins, and led the horse away from the car.

“Get us out of here,” Dortmunder said.

“Right.” Murch put the Renault in gear again and angled out away from the curb and around the policeman and his horse. Moving slowly by, he called to the policeman, “Thank you, officer. I feel a lot better now.”

The horse apparently preferred walking to standing still when relieving itself, and was now walking slowly up Dyer Avenue, plopping contentedly behind itself, and ignoring the policeman’s efforts to make it stop. “Yeah yeah,” the policeman said, nodding in distraction at Murch, and to the horse said, “Stop there, Abner, stop there.”

Up at Forty-second Street the light was against them. They stopped, and Dortmunder said, “Goddam it to hell and goddam it back again.”

“So we’ll try it again Friday,” Murch said.

“The horse’ll shit in the window next time.”

The light turned green and Murch made a left. “You want me to take you home?”

“Might as well.”

At Tenth Avenue the light was against them. Murch said, “I threw out the cigar, did you notice?”

“I told you it stunk.”

“Friday we’ll wait around the corner on Forty-second. You can park there.”

“Sure,” Dortmunder said.

The light remained red. Murch looked thoughtful. He said, “Listen, you in a hurry?”

“In a hurry for what?”

“Let’s take a little drive, okay?”

Dortmunder shrugged. “Do what you want.”

“Fine,” Murch said. The light turned green and he headed up Tenth Avenue.

Dortmunder brooded for forty blocks, as Tenth Avenue changed its name to Amsterdam Avenue and its language to Spanish, but as they crossed Eighty-sixth Street he finally sat up, looked out at the world, and said, “Where we going?”

“Up to Ninety-sixth,” Murch said, “and over to Central Park West, and then down. After that I’ll take you home.”

“What’s the idea?”

Murch shrugged, and seemed slightly embarrassed. “Well, you never know,” he said.

“You never know what?”

“In the hook, the car goes to Central Park West.”

Dortmunder stared at him. “You think the Caddy’s going to be on Central Park West because the car in the book was on Central Park West?”

March showed increasing discomfort. “I figured,” he said, “what the hell, it won’t cost us anything. Besides, in the book the kid’s coming in for special speech therapy, right? So this kid, in the Caddy, he’s got to be coming in to see some specialist like that, too, and Central Park West is full of those guys.”

“So’s Park Avenue,” Dortmunder said. “So’s a lot of other places, all over town.”

“If you don’t want to do it,” Murch said, “it’s okay with me. I just figured, what the hell.”

Dortmunder looked at the sign for the cross street they were passing: Ninety-fourth. “You want to go to Ninety-sixth, and then down?”

“Right.”

“Well, we’re here already, so go ahead.”

“It probably won’t come out to anything,” Murch said, “but the way I figured, what—”

“Yeah, I know,” Dortmunder said. “You figured, what the hell.”

“That’s the way I figured,” Murch said, and made the turn on Ninety-sixth Street. They traveled two blocks to Central Park West, turned right again, and headed south, with the park on their left and the tall apartment buildings on their right. They traveled south for twenty-five blocks, Murch looking more and more awkward and Dortmunder feeling more and more fatalistic, when all of a sudden Murch slammed on the brakes and shouted, “Son of a bitch!”

A cab behind them honked, squealed its brakes, and twisted on around them with various words shouted out into the air. Dortmunder looked where Murch was pointing, and he said, “I just don’t believe it.”

The Caddy. Silver-gray, whip ante

Murch found a space in front of a fire hydrant in the next block. He was gri

“Yeah,” Dortmunder said.

“You get things like that sometimes,” Murch said. “It’s just a hunch you get, they come on you sometimes.”

Dortmunder nodded, heavily. “We’ll pay for this later on,” he said, and got out of the car, and walked back up toward the Cadillac. It was parked facing this way, and the chauffeur’s head was hidden behind his open newspaper.

Dortmunder didn’t look right on Central Park West, and he knew it. He felt eyes on him, mistrusting him. It seemed to him that doormen, as he walked by, glared at him and clutched their whistles. Cruising cabs accelerated. Dog walkers stood closer to their Weimaraners and Schnauzers. And old men in wheelchairs, being pushed by stout black ladies in white uniforms, scrabbled at their blankets.

Dortmunder walked slowly by the Cadillac. The back seat was empty and the side windows were open, but it was very hard to see inside. Aware of being an alien here, still feeling the eyes on him, Dortmunder didn’t want to stop, so he kept on walking even though he didn’t know if there was a telephone in the limousine or not.

Well, he couldn’t keep walking north forever. At the next corner he stopped, looked indecisive, then patted himself all over, pantomiming a search for some small but necessary object. In a large elaborate movement, he snapped his fingers, suggesting the sudden realization that the small but necessary object had been left behind; at home, perhaps. He then turned around and walked the other way.

The Cadillac was getting closer. Coming from behind it he had a clearer view of the interior, but it still wasn’t good enough. He walked more and more slowly, squinting, trying to see into the damn car.

Well, screw it. He went over to the Cadillac, leaned down, stuck his head in the open window by the back seat, and saw that indeed there was a telephone mounted on the back of the front seat. He nodded in satisfaction. The chauffeur remained inside his newspaper.

Dortmunder got his head out of the Cadillac and walked briskly on down to the Renault. He opened the Renault door, but before getting in he looked back up at the Cadillac. The chauffeur still hadn’t moved, but as Dortmunder watched he suddenly jumped, yanked the newspaper down into his lap, spun around and stared at the empty hack seat. He then faced front again, looking baffled. He turned his head this way and that, staring suspiciously all around. His eyes met Dortmunder’s, and he frowned, deeply.

Dortmunder got into the Renault. He arranged his feet as best he could, closed the door, and said, “The amazing thing is, there’s a goddam telephone in there.”

Murch was still gri