"Donald E Westlake - Jimmy the Kid" - читать интересную книгу автора (Westlake Donald E)

"It's a book."
"I know it's a book. What is it?"
"It's for you to read," Kelp said. "Here, take it." He was still staring at the roof and holding his nose, and he was merely waving the book in Dortmunder's direction.
So Dortmunder took the book. The title was Child Heist, and the author was somebody named Richard Stark. "Sounds like crap," Dortmunder said.
"Just read it," Kelp said.
"Why?"
"Read it. Then we'll talk."
Dortmunder hefted the book in his hand. A skinny paperback. "I don't get the point," he said.
"I don't want to say anything till after you read it," Kelp said. "Okay? I mean, after all, you gave me a nosebleed, you can anyway read a book."
Dortmunder thought of saying several things about furs, but he didn't. The traffic light was green. "Maybe," he said, and tossed the paperback behind him, and drove on.


2


S TAN M U R C H made his call from a diner pay phone. "Maximilian's Used Cars, Miss Caroline speaking."
"Hi, Harriet. Max there?"
"To whom am I speaking, please?"
"This is Stan."
"Oh, hi, Stan. One moment, please, Max is explaining the guarantee to a dissatisfied customer."
"Sure," Murch said. The phone booth was inside the diner, but it had a window that overlooked the blacktop parking lot, and Jericho Turnpike beyond. A dozen cars winkled in the thin October sunlight. The car Stan had in mind, an almost-new white Continental, a definite cream-puff, was parked almost in front of him. The driver had staggered in just a few minutes ago, drunk out of his mind even though it was barely two o'clock in the afternoon, and was now sprawled in a booth in the rear of the diner, occasionally spilling black coffee on himself. All things considered, Murch told himself, I'm doing that bird a favor. He shouldn't be driving in his condition.
"Yah?"
Munch, who had been leaning against the side of the booth and brooding at the Continental, now stood upright and said, "Max?"
"Yah. Stan?"
"Sure. Listen, Max, you still interested in good recent acquisitions?"
"You mean where I got to do my own paper?"
"That's the kind."
"That's a little tricky, Stan. Depends on the vehicle."
"A creampuff white Continental. Like new."
"You're reading me my ad out of Newsday."
"What do you think, Max?"
"Bring it over, we'll have a look."
"Right," Murch said, and was about to hang up when another vehicle made the turn from Jericho Turnpike into the diner's parking lot. It was a car carrier, with four Buick Riviera's on it: a powder blue, a maroon, and two bronzes. "Wait a second," Murch said.
"Hah?"
"Just hold on."
The car carrier growled up to the diner, puffing diesel exhaust out a pipe at the top of the cab, and came at last to a shuddering stop. The driver, a stout fellow in a brown leather jacket, climbed down to the blacktop as though both his legs had fallen asleep, and then stood there yawning and scratching his crotch.
"Stan? You there?"
"Wait a second," Munch said. "Just a second."
The driver, done with his yawning and scratching, walked over to the diner entrance, leaving Murch's sight for a few seconds. Murch turned around and looked through the phone booth's interior window. He watched the car carrier driver amble across to the rear part of the diner and sit in the next booth to the sprawled driver of the Continental. Neither of them could see the parking lot from where they were.
"Stan?"
"Listen, Max," Murch said. "You interested in more, maybe? Other cars, maybe?"
"I'm always interested in top quality, Stan, you know that."
"See you soon," Murch said. Hanging up, he left the booth and the diner and strolled over to the car carrier. About to climb up into the cab, he glanced over at the Continental, sorry to have to leave it behind. Oh, well, four was better than one
Or.. -
Hmmmm. Murch moved away from the cab and considered the entire length of the car carrier. It was made to carry six automobiles, three on top and three on the bottom, but it only had two in each part. The rear spaces were unoccupied, top and bottom.
Hmmmmm. Murch walked around to the rear of the vehicle and considered it carefully. A kind of heavy metal tailgate was up across the back, with looped chains at both ends. Wouldn't that tailgate double as a ramp if it were lowered?
Murch moved closer, studying the tailgate's operation. Opening those two hooks should release the thing, then one should pay out his chain through that ratchet, and. .
Might as well try it. He released the hooks, he grasped the chain, he began to feed it slowly through the ratchet. The tailgate lowered itself. Murch fed the chain faster, and the tailgate lowered faster. Tonk, the tailgate went against the blacktop. It was now a ramp.
Fine. Leaving the car carrier, Murch walked briskly but not too hurriedly across the lot to the Continental. He had his bunch of keys in his hand when he got there, but the Continental's door was unlocked. He slid behind the wheel, tried three keys, and started the engine with the fourth. There was a strong smell of bourbon inside the car.
Murch put it in reverse, backed the Continental around in a loop, switched to drive, and steered across the parking lot and up the ramp and into the car carrier. He switched off the engine, set the hand brake, and got out of the car. He climbed through the metal struts of the side, attained the blacktop, and quickly raised the tailgate again. There wasn't any way to chain the Continental in place, the way the Buick's were chained, but he'd be taking it easy. He also didn't have that far to go.