"Four hundred thousand dollars."
"Do we have a buyer?"
"That we got," Dortmunder said, and went on to explain the whole story, finishing, "So our only problems are the burglar alarm and the private guards, but we got the best kind of inside help, and a guaranteed buyer."
"And twenty-five thousand a man," said Stan Murch.
"Plus," Dortmunder reminded him, "whatever we pick up on the upper floors."
Tiny said, "I don't know about that six-month wait. I like my money right away."
"The guy has to get it from the insurance company," Dortmunder said. "He said to me, and it makes sense, if he had a hundred thousand cash on him he wouldn't have to pull anything like this."
Tiny shrugged his huge shoulders. "I guess it's okay," he said. "I can make a living in the meantime. There's always heads to crack."
"Right," Dortmunder said, and turned to Roger Chefwick. "What about you?"
"I've seen Watson Security Services and their installations," Chefwick said, with some disdain. "The easiest thing in the world to get through."
"So you're with us?"
"With pleasure."
"Fine," Dortmunder said. He looked around at his string – an erratic genius lock-and-alarm man, a compulsive one-track-mind driver, and a beast from forty fathoms – and found it good. "Fine," he repeated. "I'll work out the timing with the owner, and get back to you."
Chapter 5
Dortmunder was sitting on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, a beer in his right hand and a luncheon-loaf sandwich on white with mayo in his left hand, his sleepy eyes more or less focused on Angels with Dirty Faces, being screened this afternoon on WNEW-TV, channel five, when the doorbell rang. Dortmunder blinked slowly, but otherwise didn't move, and a minute later May walked through the living room, trailing a thin wavy line of smoke from the cigarette in the corner of her mouth as she dried her sudsy hands on a dishtowel. She crossed the line of vision between Dortmunder and the television set – he blinked again, as slowly as before – and went on out to the foyer to open the door.
A loud and rather angry voice cut through the background music of Angels with Dirty Faces: "Where is he?"
Dortmunder sighed. He filled his mouth with bread and mayo and luncheon loaf, sat up a bit straighter on the sofa, and waited for the inevitable.
Out in the foyer, May was saying something soothing, which was apparently not doing its job. "Just let me at him," insisted the loud angry voice, and then there were heavy footsteps, and in came a wiry sharp-nosed fellow with a chip on his shoulder. "You!" he said, pointing at Dortmunder.
May, looking worried, followed the sharp-nosed fellow into the room, saying, in a ghastly attempt at cheeriness, "Look who's here, John. It's Andy Kelp."
Dortmunder swallowed white bread and luncheon loaf and mayo. "I see him," he said. "He's between me and the TV set."
"You got a job!" Kelp yelled, in tones of utter outrage.
Dortmunder gestured with his sandwich, as though shooing a fly. "Would you move over a little? I can't see the picture."
"I will not move over." Kelp folded his arms firmly over his chest and stamped his shoes down onto the carpet, legs slightly spread, to emphasize his immobility. Dortmunder could now see about a third of the screen, just under Kelp's crotch. He scrunched down in the sofa, trying to see more, but then his own feet on the coffee table got in the way.
And Kelp was repeating, "You got a job, Dortmunder. You got a job, and you didn't tell me."
"That's right," Dortmunder said. He sipped beer.
"I brought you a lotta jobs," Kelp said, aggrieved. "And now you got one, and you cut me out?"
Stung from his lethargy, Dortmunder sat up straighter, spilled beer on his thumb, and said, "Oh, yeah, that's right. You brought me jobs. A kid that kidnaps us."
"He never did."
"A bank," Dortmunder said, "and we lose it in the goddam Atlantic Ocean."
"We took over two thousand apiece out of that bank," Kelp pointed out.
Dortmunder gave him a look of disgusted contempt. "Two thousand apiece," he repeated. "Remind me, was that dollars or pesos?"
Kelp abruptly shifted gears. Switching from antagonism to conciliation, he spread his hands and said, "Aw, come on, Dortmunder. That isn't fair."
"I'm not trying to be fair," Dortmunder told him. "I'm not a referee. I'm a thief, and I'm trying to make a living."
"Dortmunder, don't be like that," Kelp said, pleading now. "We're such a terrific team."
"If we were any more terrific," Dortmunder said, "we'd starve to death." He looked at the sandwich in his left hand. "If it wasn't for May, I would starve to death." And he took a big bite of sandwich.
Kelp stared in frustration, watching Dortmunder chew. "Dortmunder," he said, but then he just helplessly moved his hands around, and finally turned to May, saying, "Talk to him, May. Was it my fault the bank fell in the ocean?"
"Yes," said Dortmunder.
Kelp was thunderstruck: "B-b-b-b-b- How?"
"I don't know how," Dortmunder said, "but it was your fault. And it was your fault we had to steal the same emerald six times. And it was your fault we kidnapped some child genius that boosted the ransom off us. And it was your fault–"
Kelp reeled back, stunned by the number and variety of charges. Hands spread wide, he lifted his head and appealed to Heaven, saying, "I can't believe what I'm hearing in this room."
"Then go to some other room."
Having had no help from Heaven, Kelp appealed again to May, saying, "May, can't you do something?"
She couldn't, and she must have known she couldn't, but she tried anyway, saying, "John, you and Andy have been together so long–"
Dortmunder gave her a look. "Yeah," he said. "We just been reminiscing."
Then he stared at the television set, which was now showing a commercial in which ballerinas in tutus danced on top of a giant can of deodorant spray, to the music of Prelude a l'après midi d'un faune.
May shook her head. "I'm sorry, Andy."
Kelp sighed. His manner now was stern and statesmanlike. He said, "Dortmunder, is this final?"
Dortmunder kept watching the ballerinas. "Yes," he said. Kelp drew his tattered dignity about himself like a feather boa. "Goodbye, May," he said, with great formality. "I'm sorry it ended like this."
"We'll still see you around, Andy," May said, frowning unhappily.
"I don't think so, May. Thanks for everything. Bye."
"Bye, Andy," May said.
Kelp exited, without looking again at Dortmunder, and a few seconds later they heard the front door slam. May turned to Dortmunder, and now her frown showed more annoyance than unhappiness. "That wasn't right, John," she said.
The ballerinas had at least been replaced by the angels with dirty faces. Dortmunder said, "I'm trying to watch this movie here."
"You don't like movies," May told him.
"I don't like new movies in movie houses," Dortmunder said. "I like old movies on television."
"You also like Andy Kelp."
"When I was a kid," Dortmunder said, "I liked gherkins. I ate three bottles of gherkins one day."
May said, "Andy Kelp isn't a gherkin."
Dortmunder didn't reply, but he did turn away from the television screen to give her a look. When they'd both contemplated May's remark for a little while, he returned his attention to the movie.
May sat down next to him on the sofa, staring intently at his profile. "John," she said, "you need Andy Kelp, and you know you do."