And that painting really would look okay in the living room, for the next six months.

Chauncey said, "Well, what do you think? Can we work together?"

"Maybe," Dortmunder said. "I got to look the house over first, and I got to see what kind of string I can put together."

"String?"

"The people to work with me. This isn't a one-man job."

"No, of course not. Have you ever stolen a painting before?"

"Not a big one like that."

"Then I'll have to show you how it's done," Chauncey said. "It's a delicate operation, really, you don't want to harm the painting in transporting it."

"We'll just carry it away," Dortmunder said.

"Indeed you will not," Chauncey told him. "You'll do a professional job of it. You'll cut the picture out of its frame–"

"We don't take the frame?"

"Certainly not. An art thief uses a razor blade, cuts the painting out of the frame, carefully rolls it into a cylinder, being sure not to crack or break the paint in the process, and finishes with something that can be readily transported and hidden."

"So the frame stays here." Dortmunder looked at the painting again, wondering if Woolworth's had frames that big. Or maybe they could just thumbtack it to the wall.

"I'll show you all that," Chauncey said. "But would you like to see the rest of the house first?"

"And can I freshen your drink?"

Dortmunder looked at his glass. Nothing but an amber echo around the bottom. "Yes," he said.

While Chauncey was pouring more bourbon, Dortmunder walked over to look at the painting closer up, seeing the lumps and streaks of paint on the canvas. That could be a little tricky to carry around.

Chauncey brought the fresh drink, and stood next to him a moment, smiling at the painting, finally saying, "It is good, isn't it?" His tone was fond, almost paternal.

Dortmunder hadn't been looking at the painting at all, just at the paint. "Yeah, it's fine," he said, and turned to frown at Chauncey. "You got to trust me, don't you?"

Raising an eyebrow, Chauncey grinned on one side of his mouth and said, "In what way?"

"That I won't just walk off with this, and not bring it back."

Chauncey smiled broadly, nodding. "That is a consideration, but there are two things that ease my mind. The first is, with a painting as well-known and valuable as this one, you couldn't possibly find another buyer to give you more than the twenty-five per cent I'm offering. And the other is, the list of requirements I gave our friend Stonewiler."

"Such as?"

"In fact, I asked Stonewiler to find me two men," Chauncey said. "The first, which turned up you, was for a professional thief without a record of violence. You are not a dangerous man, Mr. Dortmunder."

Nobody likes to be told he isn't dangerous. "Um," said Dortmunder.

"The other man I asked him to find," Chauncey went on, "was a professional killer." His smile was very bright, very sure of itself. "It was amazing," he said. "That part took practically no time at all."

Chapter 4

When Dortmunder walked into the O.J. Bar and Grill on Amsterdam Avenue at eleven that night, three of the regulars were deep in discussion with Rollo the bartender about private versus public education. "I tell ya what's wrong widda private schools," one of the regulars was saying. "You put your kid in there, it's like a hothouse, ya know what I mean? The kid don't get to know all kinds a people, he don't get prepared for real life."

One of the others said, "Real life? You wanna know about real life? You put your kids in a public school they get themselves mugged and raped and all that shit. You call that real life?"

"Sure I do," the first one said. "Meeting all kinds, that's what real life is all about."

The second one reared back in disbelieving contempt. "You mean you'd put your kid in a school with a lotta niggers and kikes and wops and spics?"

"Just a minute there," the third regular said. "I happen to be of Irish extraction myself, and I think you oughta just give me an apology there."

The other two stared at him, utterly bewildered. The main offender said, "Huh?"

"Or maybe you'd like a swift left to the eye," said the Irishman.

"Not in here," Rollo the bartender said, and he left the discussion to stroll down the bar and say to Dortmunder, "How you doin?"

"Just fine," Dortmunder said.

"You're a double bourbon," Rollo told him, and made a generous drink, from a bottle labeled Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon–"Our Own Brand." Pushing it across to Dortmunder, he said, "Settle up on your way out."

"Right. Anybody here?"

"A vodka-and-red-wine." Rollo nodded his head toward the rear, saying, "He went on back."

"Fine," Dortmunder said. "There'll be two more. The sherry – you haven't seen him for a while–"

"Little skinny fella? Professor type?"

"That's the one. And the draft-beer-and-salt."

Rollo made a face. "He's terrific for business, that one."

"He doesn't like to drink too much," Dortmunder explained. "He's a driver."

"I'm an advocate of mass transit myself," Rollo said. "I'll send them back when they show."

"Thanks," Dortmunder said. Picking up his bourbon, he walked on by the discussion group – they had switched from education through ethnics to religion by now, and tempers were beginning to fray – and headed for the bar's back room. Going past the two doors with the dog silhouettes on them (POINTERS and SITTERS), and past the phone booth (which smelled as though some pointers had missed their turnoff), he went through the green door at the end and into a small square room lined to the ceiling all around with beer and liquor cases. On the concrete floor in the middle of the small open space stood a battered old table with a green felt top and half a dozen chairs. Over the table hung a bare bulb with a round tin reflector, the only light source in the room. And sitting at the table was a monster in semi-human form, his great hairy hand wrapped around a tall glass holding what looked like cherry soda.

Dortmunder, closing the door behind himself nodded at this prodigy and said, "Whadaya say, Tiny?"

"Hello, Dortmunder." Tiny had the voice of a frog in an oil drum, but less musical. "Long time no see."

Dortmunder sat opposite him, saying, "You look good, Tiny," which was a palpable lie. Tiny, hulking on the little chair, his great meaty shoulders bulging inside his cheap brown suit, a shelf of forehead bone shadowing his eyes, looked mostly like something to scare children into going to bed.

But Tiny apparently agreed with Dortmunder that he looked good, because he nodded, thoughtfully and judiciously, and then said, "You look like shit, on the other hand. You looked better in stir."

"Things have been a little slow," Dortmunder admitted. "How long you on the street?"

"Ten days." Tiny wrinkled a fistful of his own suit lapel, saying in disgust, "I'm still in the state's threads."

"I think I've got a good one," Dortmunder told him. "But wait'll the others get here, so we'll go over it just once."

Tiny lifted his shoulders in a shrug – seismograph needles trembled all over the Northern Hemisphere – and said, "I got nothing but time." And he knocked back about a third of the red liquid in his glass.

"How have things been inside?" Dortmunder asked.

"Bout the same. You remember Baydlemann?"

"Yeah?"

Tiny chuckled, like far-off thunder. "Fell in a vat of lye."

"Yeah? Get hurt?"

"His left thumb come out pretty good."

"Well," Dortmunder said, "Baydlemann had a lot of enemies on the inside."

"Yeah," Tiny said. "I was one a them."

There was a little silence after that, while both men thought their own thoughts. Dortmunder sipped at his drink, which didn't taste even remotely like the nectar called bourbon that Chauncey had given him. Maybe there'd be a bottle or two of the stuff upstairs the night of the heist; not to drink on the job, but to take away for the celebration afterwards.