“No. A customer that comes in and nurses one beer all night long, it doesn’t do too much for his business.”

Murch glanced down at his beer, and then looked very pained. “I never thought of that,” he said.

“I just figured I’d mention it.”

“The thing is, I don’t like to drink and drive. That’s why I space it out.”

Dortmunder had nothing to say to that.

Murch pondered and finally said hopefully, “What if I bought him a drink? Would that do it?”

“Could be.”

“Let me give it a try,” Murch said, and as he got to his feet the door opened and Kelp and Victor came in. The room was very small and very full of table anyway, so it took a while to bring Kelp and Victor in while getting Murch out, and during that time Dortmunder brooded at Victor. It seemed to him that Victor was becoming more and more an accepted part of this job, which he didn’t much like but couldn’t quite find the way to stop. Kelp was doing it, but he was doing it in such a sneaky quiet fashion that Dortmunder never had a clear moment when he could say, “Okay, cut it out.” But how could anybody expect him to go steal a bank with some clown smiling at him all the time?

Murch finally shot himself out of the room, like a dollop of toothpaste squeezed out of a tube, and Kelp said, “I see Herman isn’t here yet.”

“You talked to him?”

“He’s interested.”

Dortmunder brooded some more. Kelp himself was all right, but he tended to surround himself with people and operations that were just a little off. Victor, for instance. And now bringing in some guy named Herman X. What could you hope for from somebody named Herman X? Had he ever done anything in this line? If he was going to turn out to be another smiler, Dortmunder was just going to have to put his foot down. Enough smiling is enough.

Sitting down next to Dortmunder and reaching for the bourbon bottle, Kelp said, “We got the financing set.”

Victor had taken the spot directly across from Dortmunder. He was smiling. Shading his eyes with his hand, Dortmunder ducked his head a little and said to Kelp, “You got the full four grand?”

“Every penny. The light too bright for you?”

“I just went to a movie.”

“Oh, yeah? What’d you see?”

Dortmunder had forgotten the title. “It was in color,” he said.

“That narrows it. Probably a pretty recent one, then.”

“Yeah.”

Victor said, “I’m drinking tonight.” He sounded very pleased.

Dortmunder ducked his head a little more and looked at Victor under his fingers. He was smiling, of course, and holding up a tall glass. It was pink. Dortmunder said, “Oh, yeah?”

“A sloe-gin fizz,” Victor said.

“Is that right?” Dortmunder readjusted head and fingers — it was like putting down venetian blinds — and turned firmly back to Kelp. “So you got the whole four thousand,” he said.

“Yeah. A funny thing about that.”

The door opened and Murch came back in. “It’s all set,” he said. He was smiling, too, but it was easier to live with than Victor’s. “Thanks for setting me straight,” he said.

“Glad it worked out,” Dortmunder said.

Murch sat down in front of his beer and carefully salted it. “Rollo’s okay when you get to know him,” he said.

“Sure he is.”

“Drives a Saab.”

Dortmunder had known Rollo for years but hadn’t known about the Saab. “Is that right?” he said.

“Used to drive a Borg-Ward. Sold it because he couldn’t get parts when they stopped making the car.”

Kelp said, “What kind of car is that?”

“Borg-Ward. German. Same company that makes Norge refrigerators.”

“They’re American.”

“The refrigerators, yeah. The cars were German.”

Dortmunder finished his drink and reached for the bottle, and Rollo opened the door and stuck his head in to say, “There’s an Old Crow on the rocks out here asking for Kelp.”

“That’s him now,” Kelp said.

“A darkish fella.”

“That’s him,” Kelp said. “Send him on in.”

“Right.” Rollo gave a bartender’s glance around the table. “Everybody set?”

They all murmured.

Rollo cocked an eye at Murch. “Stan, you got enough salt?”

“Oh, sure,” Murch said. “Thanks a lot, Rollo.”

“Any time, Stan.”

Rollo went away. Dortmunder glanced at Murch, but didn’t say anything, and a minute later a tall lean guy with dark-brown complexion and a very modest Afro came into the room. What he looked most like was an Army second lieutenant on leave. He was nodding slightly and grinning slightly as he came in and shut the door, and Dortmunder wondered at first if he was on something; then he realized it was just the self-protective cool of somebody meeting a group of people for the first time.

“Hey, Herman,” Kelp said.

“Hey,” agreed Herman quietly. He closed the door behind him and stood there jiggling ice in his old-fashioned glass, like an early arrival at a cocktail party.

Kelp made the introductions: “Herman X, this is Dortmunder, that’s Stan Murch, that’s my nephew Victor.”

“How are ya.”

“Hello, Mr. X.”

Dortmunder watched Herman frown slightly at Victor and then glance at Kelp. Kelp, however, was busy being host, saying, “Take a seat, Herman. We were just talking about the situation.”

“That’s what I want to hear about,” Herman said. He sat down to Dortmunder’s right. “The situation.”

Dortmunder said, “I’m surprised I don’t know you.”

Herman gave him a grin. “We probably travel in different circles.”

“I was just wondering what your experience is.”

Herman’s grin broadened into a smile. “Well, now,” he said. “One doesn’t like to talk about one’s experiences in front of a whole room of witnesses.”

Kelp said, “Everybody’s okay in here. But, Dortmunder, Herman really does know his business.”

Dortmunder continued to frown at Herman. It seemed to him there was something of the dilettante about this guy. Your ordinary run-of-the-mill heavy could be a dilettante, but a lockman was supposed to be serious, he was supposed to be a man with a craft, with expertise.

Herman glanced around the table with an ironic smile, then shrugged, sipped at his drink and said, “Well, last night I helped take away the Justice receipts.”

Victor, looking startled, said, “From the Bureau?”

Herman looked baffled. “From the bureau? It was on tables; they were counting it.”

Kelp said, “That was you? I read about that in the paper.”

So had Dortmunder. He said, “What locks did you open?”

“None,” Herman said. “It wasn’t that kind of a job.”

Victor, still trying to work it all out, said, “You mean down at Foley Square?”

This time, Herman’s frown was deep and somewhat hostile. “Well, the FBI is down there,” he said.

“The Bureau,” said Victor.

Kelp said, “Later, Victor. You’re confused.”

“They don’t have any receipts at the Bureau,” Victor said. “I should know. I was an agent for twenty-one months.”

Herman was on his feet, the chair tipping over behind him. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s all right,” Kelp said, fast and soothing. He patted the air in a gesture of reassurance. “It’s all right. They fired him.”

Herman, in his mistrust, was trying to look in seven directions at once; his eyes kept almost crossing. “If this is entrapment —” he said.

“They fired him,” Kelp insisted. “Didn’t they, Victor?”

“Well,” Victor said, “we sort of agreed to disagree. I wasn’t exactly fired precisely, not exactly.”

Herman had focused on Victor again, and now he said, “You mean it was political?”

Before Victor could answer, Kelp said smoothly, “Something like that. Yeah, it was political, wasn’t it, Victor?”

“Uh. Sure, yeah. You could call it … I guess you could call it that.”

Herman shrugged his shoulders inside his sports jacket, to adjust it. Then he sat down again with a relieved smile, saying, “You had me going there for a minute.”