Murch sat down in front of his beer and carefully salted it. “Rollo’s okay when you get to know him,” he said.
“Sure he is.”
“Drives a Saab.”
Dortmunder had known Rollo for years but hadn’t known about the Saab. “Is that right?” he said.
“Used to drive a Borg-Ward. Sold it because he couldn’t get parts when they stopped making the car.”
Kelp said, “What kind of car is that?”
“Borg-Ward. German. Same company that makes Norge refrigerators.”
“They’re American.”
“The refrigerators, yeah. The cars were German.”
Dortmunder finished his drink and reached for the bottle, and Rollo opened the door and stuck his head in to say, “There’s an Old Crow on the rocks out here asking for Kelp.”
“That’s him now,” Kelp said.
“A darkish fella.”
“That’s him,” Kelp said. “Send him on in.”
“Right.” Rollo gave a bartender’s glance around the table. “Everybody set?”
They all murmured.
Rollo cocked an eye at Murch. “Stan, you got enough salt?”
“Oh, sure,” Murch said. “Thanks a lot, Rollo.”
“Any time, Stan.”
Rollo went away. Dortmunder glanced at Murch, but didn’t say anything, and a minute later a tall lean guy with dark-brown complexion and a very modest Afro came into the room. What he looked most like was an Army second lieutenant on leave. He was nodding slightly and grinning slightly as he came in and shut the door, and Dortmunder wondered at first if he was on something; then he realized it was just the self-protective cool of somebody meeting a group of people for the first time.
“Hey, Herman,” Kelp said.
“Hey,” agreed Herman quietly. He closed the door behind him and stood there jiggling ice in his old-fashioned glass, like an early arrival at a cocktail party.
Kelp made the introductions: “Herman X, this is Dortmunder, that’s Stan Murch, that’s my nephew Victor.”
“How are ya.”
“Hello, Mr. X.”
Dortmunder watched Herman frown slightly at Victor and then glance at Kelp. Kelp, however, was busy being host, saying, “Take a seat, Herman. We were just talking about the situation.”
“That’s what I want to hear about,” Herman said. He sat down to Dortmunder’s right. “The situation.”
Dortmunder said, “I’m surprised I don’t know you.”
Herman gave him a grin. “We probably travel in different circles.”
“I was just wondering what your experience is.”
Herman’s grin broadened into a smile. “Well, now,” he said. “One doesn’t like to talk about one’s experiences in front of a whole room of witnesses.”
Kelp said, “Everybody’s okay in here. But, Dortmunder, Herman really does know his business.”
Dortmunder continued to frown at Herman. It seemed to him there was something of the dilettante about this guy. Your ordinary run-of-the-mill heavy could be a dilettante, but a lockman was supposed to be serious, he was supposed to be a man with a craft, with expertise.
Herman glanced around the table with an ironic smile, then shrugged, sipped at his drink and said, “Well, last night I helped take away the Justice receipts.”
Victor, looking startled, said, “From the Bureau?”
Herman looked baffled. “From the bureau? It was on tables; they were counting it.”
Kelp said, “That was you? I read about that in the paper.”
So had Dortmunder. He said, “What locks did you open?”
“None,” Herman said. “It wasn’t that kind of a job.”
Victor, still trying to work it all out, said, “You mean down at Foley Square?”
This time, Herman’s frown was deep and somewhat hostile. “Well, the FBI is down there,” he said.
“The Bureau,” said Victor.
Kelp said, “Later, Victor. You’re confused.”
“They don’t have any receipts at the Bureau,” Victor said. “I should know. I was an agent for twenty-one months.”
Herman was on his feet, the chair tipping over behind him. “What’s going on here?”
“It’s all right,” Kelp said, fast and soothing. He patted the air in a gesture of reassurance. “It’s all right. They fired him.”
Herman, in his mistrust, was trying to look in seven directions at once; his eyes kept almost crossing. “If this is entrapment —” he said.
“They fired him,” Kelp insisted. “Didn’t they, Victor?”
“Well,” Victor said, “we sort of agreed to disagree. I wasn’t exactly fired precisely, not exactly.”
Herman had focused on Victor again, and now he said, “You mean it was political?”
Before Victor could answer, Kelp said smoothly, “Something like that. Yeah, it was political, wasn’t it, Victor?”
“Uh. Sure, yeah. You could call it … I guess you could call it that.”
Herman shrugged his shoulders inside his sports jacket, to adjust it. Then he sat down again with a relieved smile, saying, “You had me going there for a minute.”
Dortmunder had learned patience at great cost. The trial and error of life among human beings had taught him that whenever a bunch of them began to jump up and down and shout at cross-purposes, the only thing a sane man could do was sit back and let them sort it out for themselves. No matter how long it took. The alternative was to try to attract their attention, either with explanations of the misunderstanding or with a return to the original topic of conversation, and to make that attempt meant that sooner or later you too would be jumping up and down and shouting at cross-purposes. Patience, patience; at the very worst, they would finally wear themselves out.
Now, he looked around the table at everybody smiling in new comprehension — Murch was salting his beer again — and then he said, “What we had in mind for this job was a lockman.”
“That’s what I am,” Herman said. “Last night, I was just filling in. You know, helping out. Usually I’m a lockman.”
“For instance.”
“For instance the People’s Co-operative Supermarket on Sutter Avenue about three weeks ago. The Lenox Avenue office of the Tender Loving Care Loan Company a couple weeks before that. Smilin Sam Tahachapee’s safe in the horse room behind the Fifth of November Bar and Grill on Linden Boulevard two days before that. The Balmy Breeze Hotel safe in Atlantic City during the Retired Congressmen’s Convention the week before that. The Open Hand Check Cashing Agency on Jerome Avenue the —”
“You don’t need work,” Kelp said. He sounded awed. “You got all the work you can handle.”
“Not to mention money,” Murch said.
Herman shook his head with a bitter smile. “The fact is,” he said, “I’m broke. I really need a score.”
Dortmunder said, “You must run through it pretty quick.”
“Those are Movement jobs,” Herman said. “I don’t get to keep any of it.”
This time Victor was the only one who understood. “Ah,” he said. “You’re helping to finance their schemes.”
“Like the free-lunch program,” Herman said.
Kelp said, “Wait a minute. These are Movement jobs, so you don’t get to keep the money. What does that mean exactly? Movement jobs. You mean they’re like for practice? You send the money back?”
Victor said, “He gives the money to the organization he belongs to.” Mildly, he said to Herman, “Which movement do you belong to, exactly?”
“One of them,” Herman said. To Kelp he said, “I don’t set any of those things up. These people that I believe in —” with a glance at Victor — “that your nephew would know about, they set them up, and they put together the group that does the job. What we say is, we’re liberating the money.”