Jimmy the Kid by Donald E. Westlake Read Free Book Online Page B

to find just the kid we want, it’s all in the book here.”
    Picking up his copy, Dortmunder said, “Well, I got an open mind. I’m always ready to have a book writer tell me my business. Let’s take a look at that part.”
    Kelp, riffling hurriedly through his own dog-eared copy, said, “It’s chapter four. Page twenty-nine.”
    Dortmunder said, “Thanks,” and turned to the right page. He read slowly and patiently, his lips not quite moving, his blunt fingertip following the words from line to line.
    Kelp watched him for a few seconds, then began to read the same chapter in his own copy of the book.
    Murch sat there by himself. He looked at Dortmunder, and then at Kelp. It took him quite a while to figure out what they were doing; until, in fact, both of them had turned a page. Then he shrugged, picked up his own copy of the book, shook a little salt into his beer to get the head back, drank a bit, and settled down to read.
    7
    CHAPTER FOUR
    When Parker walked into the apartment, Krauss was at the window with the binoculars. He was sitting on a metal folding chair, and his notebook and pen were on another chair next to him. There was no other furniture in the room, which had grey plaster walls from which patterned wallpaper had recently been stripped. Curls of wallpaper lay against the moulding in all the corners. On the floor beside Krauss’s chair lay three apple cores.
    Krauss turned when Parker shut the door. His eyes looked pale, the skin around them wrinkled, as though he’d spent too long in a swimming pool. He said, “Nothing.”
    Parker crossed the room and looked out the window. A clear blue cloudless day. Three storeys down and one block to the north was the Manhattan exit of the Midtown Tunnel. Two lanes of cars and trucks streamed out of the tunnel, fanning apart into half a dozen lanes of traffic, curving away to the left or the right. Parker watched for a few seconds, then picked up the notebook and studied the entries. The numbers were license plates and dates and times of day. Parker said, “The Pontiac came through today, huh?”
    â€œSo did the Mercedes,” Krauss said. “But there isn’t any phone in either of them.”
    â€œWe may have to change things around.” Parker dropped the notebook on the chair and said, “We’ll try the Lincoln today, if it comes through.”
    Krauss looked at his watch. “Ten, fifteen minutes,” he said.
    â€œIf it isn’t any good,” Parker said, “Henley will come take over here at four. If he doesn’t show up, that means we’re on the Lincoln, so just pack in everything here.”
    â€œRight,” Krauss said.
    Parker glanced out the window again. “See you later,” he said, and left the apartment. He went down the warped wooden stairs and out to the street, then crossed Second Avenue and got into a blue Plymouth just around the corner on Thirty-seventh Street.
    Henley, at the wheel, said, “Anything new?”
    â€œThe Lincoln’s still the best bet.”
    Henley looked in the rearview mirror. “That’s due pretty soon, isn’t it?”
    â€œMaybe ten minutes.”
    Henley rolled down his side window and lit one of his narrow cigars. They waited in the car, neither of them saying anything, until Henley, looking in the mirror again, said, “Maybe.”
    Parker twisted around and looked out the back window. Among the cars crossing Second Avenue, coming this way, was a black Lincoln Continental. Squinting, Parker could make out the uniformed chauffeur at the wheel. “Right,” he said.
    Henley turned the key in the ignition. When the Lincoln went by, an eight-year-old boy could be seen alone, reading a comic book in the backseat. Henley shifted into drive and eased the Plymouth into line two vehicles back from the Lincoln.
    The black car led them across to Park Avenue, then north to Seventy-second Street,