“I think of it the other way around,” Kelp said. “I think of it that I’m capturing the money.”
Dortmunder said, “What was the last job you did on your own? Where you got to keep the loot?”
“About a year ago,” Herman said. “A bank in St. Louis.”
“Who’d you work with?”
“Stan Devers and Mort Kobler. George Cathcart drove.”
“I know George,” Kelp said.
Dortmunder knew Kobler. “All right,” he said.
“Now,” Herman said, “let’s talk about you boys. Not what you’ve done, I’ll take Kelp’s word for that. What you want to do.”
Dortmunder took a deep breath. He wasn’t happy about this moment. “We’re going to steal a bank,” he said.
Herman looked puzzled. “Rob a bank?”
“Steal a bank.” To Kelp he said, “You tell him.”
Kelp told him. At first Herman sort of grinned, as though waiting for the punch line. Then, for a while, he frowned, as though suspecting he was surrounded by mental cases. And finally he looked interested, as though the idea had caught his fancy. At the end he said, “So I can take my time. I can even work in daylight if I want.”
“Sure,” Kelp said.
Herman nodded. He looked at Dortmunder and said, “Why is it still just a maybe?”
“We don’t have any place to put it,” Dortmunder said. “Also, we have to get wheels for it.”
“I’m working on that,” Murch said. “But I may need some help.”
“A whole bank,” Herman said. He beamed. “We’re gonna liberate a whole bank.”
Kelp said, “We’re gonna capture a whole bank.”
“It comes to the same thing,” Herman told him. “Believe me, it comes to the same thing.”
12
Murch’s Mom stood smiling and blinking in the sunlight in front of Kresge’s holding her purse strap with both hands, arms extended down and in front of her so that the purse dangled at her knees. She was wearing a dress with horizontal green and yellow stripes which did nothing to improve her figure, and below that yellow vinyl boots with green laces all the way up. Above the dress she wore her neck brace. The purse was an ordinary beige leather affair, which went much better with the neck brace than with the dress and boots.
Standing next to a parking meter, peering at Murch’s Mom’s image in an Instamatic camera, was May, dressed in her usual fashion. The original idea was that May would be the one in the fancy clothes and Murch’s Mom would take the pictures, but May had absolutely refused to buy the kind of dress and boots Dortmunder had in mind. It also turned out that Murch’s Mom was one of those people who always take pictures low and to the left of what they were aiming at. So the roles had been reversed.
May kept frowning into the camera, apparently never being quite content with what she saw — which was perfectly understandable. Shoppers would come along the sidewalk, see Murch’s Mom posing there, see May with the camera, and would pause a second, not wanting to louse up the picture. But then nothing would happen except that May would frown some more and maybe take a step to the left or right, so the shoppers would all finally murmur, “Excuse me,” or something like that, and duck on by.
At last May looked up from the camera and shook her head, saying, “The light’s no good here. Let’s try farther down the block.”
“Okay,” said Murch’s Mom. She and May started down the sidewalk together, and Murch’s Mom said under her breath, “I feel like a damn fool in this get-up.”
“You look real nice,” May said.
“I know what I look like,” Murch’s Mom said grimly. “I look like the Good Humor flavor of the month. Lemon pistachio.”
“Let’s try here,” May said. Coincidentally, they were in front of the bank.
“Okay,” Murch’s Mom said.
“You stand against the wall in the sunlight,” May said.
“Okay.”
Murch’s Mom backed up slowly across the brick rubble toward the trailer, and May backed up against the car parked there. This time, Murch’s Mom held the purse at her side, and her back was against the trailer wall. May took a fast picture, then stepped forward two paces and took a second one. With the third, she was at the inner edge of the sidewalk — too close to get all of Murch’s Mom in the picture and with the camera angled too low to include her head.
“There,” May said. “I think that’s got it.”
“Thank you, dear,” Murch’s Mom said, smiling, and the two ladies walked around the block.
13
Dortmunder and Kelp quartered around the remoter bits of Long Island like a bird dog who’s lost his bird. Today’s car was an orange Datsun 40Z with the usual MD plates. They drove around under a sky that kept threatening rain but never quite delivered, and after a while Dortmunder began to grouse. “In the meantime,” he said, “I’m not making any income.”
“You’ve got May.”
“I don’t like living on the earnings of a woman,” Dortmunder said. “It isn’t in my makeup.”
“The earnings of a woman? She’s not a hooker, she’s a cashier.”
“The principle’s the same.”
“The interest isn’t. What’s that over there?”
“Looks like a barn,” Dortmunder said, squinting.
“Abandoned?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“Let’s take a look.”
They looked that day at seven barns, none of them abandoned. They also looked at a quonset hut that had most recently contained a computer-parts factory which had gone broke, but the interior was a jumble of desks and machinery and parts and junk, too crowded and filthy to be useful. They also looked at an airplane hangar in front of a pock-marked blacktop landing strip — a onetime flying school, now abandoned, but occupied by a hippie commune, as Dortmunder and Kelp discovered when they parked out front. The hippies had mistaken them for representatives of the sheriff’s office and right away began shouting about squatters’ rights and demonstrations and all and didn’t stop shouting until after Dortmunder and Kelp got back in the car and drove away again.
This was the third day of the search. Days one and two had been similar.
Victor’s car was a black 1938 Packard limousine, with the bulky trunk and the divided rear window and the long coffin-like hood and the headlights sitting up on top of the arrogant broad fenders. The upholstery was scratchy gray plush, and there were leather thongs to hold onto next to the doors on the inside and small green vases containing artificial flowers hanging in little wire racks between the doors.
Victor drove, and Herman sat beside him and stared out at the countryside. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “There’s got to be something you can hide a trailer in.”
Casually, Victor said, “What newspapers do you read mostly, Herman?”
Dortmunder walked into the apartment and sat down on the sofa and stared moodily at the turned-off television set. May, the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, slopped in from the kitchen. “Anything?”
“With the encyclopedias,” Dortmunder said, staring at the TV, “I could’ve picked up maybe seventy bucks out there today. Maybe a hundred.”
“I’ll get you a beer,” May said. She went back to the kitchen.
Murch’s Mom brooded over the pictures. “I never looked so foolish in my life,” she said.
“That isn’t the point, Mom.”
She tapped the one in which she appeared headless. “At least there you can’t tell it’s me.”
Her son was hunched over the three color photographs on the dining-room table, counting. The lace holes in the boots and the stripes on the dress made a ruler. Murch counted, added, compared, got totals for each of the three pictures, and at last said, “Thirty-seven and a half inches high.”