Why Me? by Donald E. Westlake Page B

said.
    â€œWhy would it be Andy Kelp?”
    â€œHe called, asked you to call back, said he might drop by.”
    â€œAsked me to call back, huh?” Dortmunder muttered something under his breath, and the doorbell rang again.
    May went out to the vestibule to answer the door while Dortmunder, just to be on the safe side, scooped the rest of the swag back into the plastic bag. From the vestibule came May’s loud voice: “Yes, officers? What can I do for you?”
    Dortmunder tuuuuggggggged at the ring. No good.
    â€œMs. May Bellamy?”
    â€œMaybe,” said May.
    Dortmunder got to his feet, opened the window, dropped the plastic bag into the anonymous darkness.
    â€œWe’re looking for a Mr. John Dortmunder.”
    â€œOh. Well, um …”
    Dortmunder turned the ring around so the ruby was on the inside, next to his palm. Only the gold band showed on the back of his hand.
    May and two large policemen walked into the room. Looking very worried, May said, “John, these officers—”
    â€œJohn Dortmunder?”
    â€œYes,” said Dortmunder.
    â€œCome along with us, John.”
    Dortmunder closed his left hand into a loose fist. The Byzantine Fire was cold against his fingers. “See you later,” he told May, and kissed her on the cheek away from the cigarette, and picked up his coat, and went away with the policemen.
    19
    When the door to the back room at the O. J. Bar and Grill on Amsterdam Avenue opened again, about an hour after Dortmunder had left, Tiny Bulcher was just finishing a story: “—so I washed off the ax and put it back at the Girl Scout camp.” Both Ralph Winslow and Jim O’Hara looked toward the door with tremulous hope in their eyes, but it was only Rollo, looking at Tiny and saying, “There’s a sweet-vermouth-straight-up out here, I think he’s looking for you.”
    â€œLittle fella? Looks like a drowned rat?”
    â€œThat’s the one.”
    â€œKick his ass and send him in here,” Tiny said. Rollo nodded and shut the door behind himself. Tiny said, “That’s my pal, with that cop’s address.” He thudded his right fist into his left palm. “Let the good times roll,” he said. Winslow and O’Hara watched his hands.
    The door opened just a bit, and a narrow, pointy-nosed, gray-skinned face peered uncertainly around the edge. The little beady eyes were blinking, and from the bloodless, down-curving mouth came a raspy whining voice: “You gonna be mad, Tiny?”
    â€œYes,” said Tiny.
    â€œIt wasn’t my fault, Tiny.” The little eyes flickered at Winslow and O’Hara, found no help there, and blinked at Tiny some more. “Honest, it wasn’t.”
    Tiny brooded at the little nervous face in the doorway. At last he said, “Benjy, you remember the time that fella told me nobody could kiss their own elbow, and then I showed him how he could?”
    Winslow and O’Hara looked at one another.
    â€œYeah, Tiny,” said the little face. Below the sharp chin a gnarled Adam’s apple kept appearing and disappearing, like a pump in an oilfield.
    â€œIf I have to get up from here, Benjy,” Tiny said, “and come after you, you’re gonna kiss your elbow.”
    â€œOh, you don’t have to get up, Tiny,” Benjy said, and he sort of spurted into the room, closing the door behind himself and revealing himself to be a skinny little stick figure of a man, all in gray, with a few strands of dead hair pasted to his narrow gray scalp. In his trembling hand he carried a glass in which the maroon vermouth made rippling wavelets. He took the chair Dortmunder had once occupied, directly across the table from Tiny.
    â€œComere, Benjy,” Tiny said, and whumped his palm onto the chairseat beside himself.
    â€œOkay, Tiny.” Benjy sidled around the table, flashing Winslow and O’Hara quick despairing smiles, like