Good Behavior by Donald E. Westlake

Author:Donald E. Westlake
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com / Open Road

24

Dortmunder smelled mayonnaise. Opening his eyes, he saw the small jar not far from his nose and thought: Why is there a bottle of mayonnaise in bed? “May—” he said, and sat up, and his back gave a terrible twinge of pain as he realized he wasn’t in bed after all, he was asleep on a desk under the flat white glare of a fluorescent ceiling fixture. Sleeping on a desk, seated on a chair, slumped forward, next to a bottle of mayonnaise.

J.C. Taylor. Receptionist’s desk. Avalon State Bank Tower. Burglary of an entire floor. Rescue of Sister Mary Grace. Got it.

Dortmunder had been sitting here, at J.C. Taylor’s receptionist desk, waiting for midnight. He remembered closing his eyes because the light was so strong, and then there was a fuzziness, and then the smell of mayonnaise, and now here he was again, and the small digital clock on J.C. Taylor’s desk said 2:11. And where the hell was everybody else? Gone off to pull the caper without him?

No. Across the way, seated on the floor, Coors cap pulled forward over his eyes, asleep with his mouth open in a revolting way, was Wilbur Howey, a copy of Scandinavian Marriage Secrets open facedown on his lap. And the sound from the other room that was like a Winnebago’s tanks being emptied must be somebody snoring.

2:11. In fact, 2:12 already. Time to get going. Dortmunder stood up, and immediately sat down again, because his back seemed to have fused into some position he’d never known before. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, boy.” He rocked slowly back and forth, lifting first this shoulder, and then that, and when the clock reached 2:14 he tried again. This time he made it to his feet, though he did keep some fingertips in contact with the desktop just to be on the safe side. “Howey,” he said, rasping, then cleared his throat and said, “Howey,” and the little man jerked in his sleep like a dog dreaming, moving his legs so that the book fell off his lap onto the floor and closed.

“Where the hell is everybody?” Dortmunder demanded. For answer, Howey closed his mouth and made smacking sounds.

Limping a bit, Dortmunder made his way around the desk and across the office and on into the next room, which looked like the aftermath of a reform school reunion. Tiny Bulcher, the snorer, lay sprawled atop the desk, arms outflung and cheek against the green desk blotter, massive body dwarfing the swivel chair. Andy Kelp slept twisted like a vine through the metal folding chair in front of the piano, while Stan Murch had dragged the old brown leather chair over to the window and was draped unconscious on it like an abandoned set of overalls. Half-sandwiches and empty yogurt containers and soda cans were scattered everywhere.

“Couldn’t anybody stay awake?” Dortmunder demanded of the room at large, and Andy Kelp shifted on the folding chair, his elbow brushing the piano and producing a quote from Wozzeck, which in turn made Tiny rumble and change position, knocking a phone book onto the floor.

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