Bank Shot Read Online Free PDF Page B

no static, so the shopping bags were pretty full. As she once told her friend Betty at the store, another cashier, ‘I eat all this stuff and it ought to make me fat, but I have to carry it all home, and that keeps me thin.’
    â€˜You ought to make your husband come get it,’ Betty had said.
    Everybody made the same mistake about Dortmunder being May’s husband. She’d never said he was, but on the other hand she never corrected the mistake either. ‘I like to be thin,’ she’d said that time and let it go at that.
    Putting the two shopping bags down on the kitchen counter now, she became aware of the fact that the corner of her mouth was warm. She was a chain smoker and kept the current cigarette always propped in the left corner of her mouth; when that area got warm, she knew it was time to start a new cigarette.
    There was a small callus on the tip of her left thumb, caused by plucking cigarette embers from her lips, but for some reason her fingertips never callused at all. She flipped the half-inch butt from her mouth into the kitchen sink with one practiced wrist movement, and while it sizzled she took the crumpled pack of Virginia Slims from the waist pocket of her green sweater, shook one up, folded the corner of her mouth around the end and went looking for matches. Unlike most chain smokers, she never lit the new one from the old, because the old one was never big enough to hold onto; this meant a continuing problem with matches, smilar to the continuing problem of water in some Arab countries.
    She spent the next five minutes opening drawers. It was a small apartment – a small living room, a small bedroom, a bathroom so small you’d scrape your knees, a kitchen as big as the landlord’s reservation in Heaven – but it was full of drawers, and for five minutes it was full of the swish-thap of drawers being opened and closed.
    She found a book of matches at last, in the living room, in the drawer in the table with the television set on it. It was a pretty nice set, in color, not very expensive; Dortmunder had gotten it from a friend who’d picked up a truckload of them. ‘The funny thing about it,’ Dortmunder had said when he’d brought the thing home, ‘all Harry thought he was doing was stealing a truck.’
    May lit the cigarette and dropped the match in the ashtray next to the T.V. She’d been concentrating on nothing but matches for five minutes, but now as her mind cleared she became aware again of the things around her, and the closest was the T.V. set, so she turned it on. There was a movie just starting. It was in black and white and May preferred to watch things in color since it was a color set, but the movie had Dick Powell in it, so she waited a while. Then it turned out it was called The Tall Target , and in it Dick Powell played a New York City policeman named John Kennedy who was trying to stop an assassination attempt on Abraham Lincoln. He was on a train, Dick Powell was, and he kept getting telegrams, so trainmen kept coming down the corridor shouting, ‘John Kennedy. John Kennedy.’ This gave May a pleasant feeling of dislocation, so she backed up until her legs hit the sofa bed and sat down.
    Dortmunder came home at the most exciting part, of course, and he brought Kelp with him. It was 1860 and Abraham Lincoln was going to his first inauguration, and that’s where they wanted to assassinate him. Adolph Menjou was the mastermind of the plot, but Dick Powell – John Kennedy – was too quick for him. Still, it wasn’t certain how things would come out.
    â€˜I just don’t know about Victor,’ Dortmunder said, but he was talking to Kelp. To May he said, ‘How you been?’
    â€˜Since this morning? On my feet.’
    â€˜Victor’s okay,’ Kelp said. ‘Hi, May, how’s your back?’
    â€˜About the same. It’s my legs the last few days. The