Westlake, Donald E - Novel 32 by Cops (and) Robbers (missing pg 22-23) (v1.1) Read Free Book Online Page B

still prissy but bewildered, said, “I’m really very sorry. I took it
for granted you were hardened to that sort of thing.”
                 I
pushed past the two of them, needing to get outdoors. Hardened
to that sort of thing. Jesus H. Christ!

5
     
                They had the midnight-to-eight shift
that week. It's the quietest of the three shifts, but at eight o’clock in the morning, driving home eastward into
the rising sun, a man’s eyes feel covered with sand and he thinks his stomach
will never be comfortable again.
                 Joe
left the station first and got the Plymouth out of the lot and drove down the block to
double-park across the street from the precinct house. He had to wait ten
minutes before Tom came out, looking disgusted, and
slid into the passenger seat.
                 Joe
said, “What’s the problem?”
                 “Little
talk from the Lieutenant,” Tom said. “Some damn thing about narcotics.”
                 “What
about it?”
                 Tom
yawned, fighting it, and gave an angry shrug. “Anything you pick up, be sure you turn it in. The usual
noise.”
                 Joe
put the Plymouth in gear and started through the maze
crosstown and downtown to the Midtown Tunnel. “I wonder who they caught,” he
said.
                 “Nobody
from this house,” Tom said. He yawned again, giving in to it this time, and
rubbed his face with both hands. “ Boy, am I ready for
sleep.”
                 “I
got me an idea,” Joe said.
                 Tom
knew at once what he meant. Looking at him, interested, he said, “You do?
What?”
                 “Paintings from a museum.”
                 Tom
frowned. “I don’t follow.”
                 “Listen,”
Joe said. “They got paintings in those museums, they’re worth a million dollars each. We take ten, we Bell them back for four
million. That’s two million for each of us.”
                 Tom’s
frown deepened. He scratched the side of his jaw, making a sound like
sandpaper. “I don’t know,” he said. “Ten paintings. They’d be as tough to hide as my Russian ambassador.”
                 “I
could put them in my garage,” Joe said. “Who's gonna look in a garage?”
                 “Your
kids would wreck them in a day.”
                 Joe
didn’t want to give this up, it was the only idea he’d managed to come up with.
“Five paintings,” he said. “One million apiece.”
                 Tom
didn’t answer right away. He chewed the inside of his cheek and brooded out at
the traffic and tried to figure out not only what was specifically wrong with
the paintings idea, but also a general rule to live by, to guide his thinking
on the subject of the robbery. It was a way of taking it seriously and yet not
taking it seriously at the same time. Finally he said, “We don't want something
we have to give back. Nothing we have to keep around us or hide for a while. We
want something with fast turnover.”
                 Reluctantly,
Joe nodded. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” he said, admitting it. “We’re not in
a position for that kind of thing.”
                 “That’s
right.”
                 “But
we don’t want cash. We talked about that.”
                 Tom
nodded. “I know. Everybody keeps serial numbers.”
                 Joe
said, “So it isn’t that easy.”
                 “I
never said it was.”
                 They
were both quiet for a while, thinking it over. They were practically to the
tunnel when Tom spoke up again, restating the rule he’d worked out earlier;
narrowing the range of it, refining it. Gazing out the windshield, he said,
“What we want is something we can unload fast, for big money.”