Jimmy the Kid

Dortmunder brooded for forty blocks, as Tenth Avenue changed its name to Amsterdam Avenue and its language to Spanish, but as they crossed Eighty-sixth Street he finally sat up, looked out at the world, and said, "Where we going?"

"Up to Ninety-sixth," Murch said, "and over to Central Park West, and then down. After that I'll take you home."

"What's the idea?"

Murch shrugged, and seemed slightly embarrassed. "Well, you never know," he said.

"You never know what?"

"In the hook, the car goes to Central Park West."

Dortmunder stared at him. "You think the Caddy's going to be on Central Park West because the car in the book was on Central Park West?"

March showed increasing discomfort. "I figured," he said, "what the hell, it won't cost us anything. Besides, in the book the kid's coming in for special speech therapy, right? So this kid, in the Caddy, he's got to be coming in to see some specialist like that, too, and Central Park West is full of those guys."

"So's Park Avenue," Dortmunder said. "So's a lot of other places, all over town."

"If you don't want to do it," Murch said, "it's okay with me. I just figured, what the hell."

Dortmunder looked at the sign for the cross street they were passing: Ninety-fourth. "You want to go to Ninety-sixth, and then down?"

"Right."

"Well, we're here already, so go ahead."

"It probably won't come out to anything," Murch said, "but the way I figured, what-"

"Yeah, I know," Dortmunder said. "You figured, what the hell."

"That's the way I figured," Murch said, and made the turn on Ninety-sixth Street. They traveled two blocks to Central Park West, turned right again, and headed south, with the park on their left and the tall apartment buildings on their right. They traveled south for twenty-five blocks, Murch looking more and more awkward and Dortmunder feeling more and more fatalistic, when all of a sudden Murch slammed on the brakes and shouted, "Son of a bitch!"

A cab behind them honked, squealed its brakes, and twisted on around them with various words shouted out into the air. Dortmunder looked where Murch was pointing, and he said, "I just don't believe it."

The Caddy. Silver-gray, whip antenna, Jersey plate number WAX 361. Parked in a bus stop, big as life. When Murch drove slowly by, the chauffeur was sitting behind the wheel in there reading a tabloid newspaper. His hat was off.

Murch found a space in front of a fire hydrant in the next block. He was grinning all over his face when he — switched the engine off and turned to say to Dortmunder, "I just had a hunch, that's all. I figured, what the hell, and I just had a hunch."

"Yeah," Dortmunder said.

"You get things like that sometimes," Murch said. "It's just a hunch you get, they come on you sometimes."

Dortmunder nodded, heavily. "We'll pay for this later on," he said, and got out of the car, and walked back up toward the Cadillac. It was parked facing this way, and the chauffeur's head was hidden behind his open newspaper.

Dortmunder didn't look right on Central Park West, and he knew it. He felt eyes on him, mistrusting him. It seemed to him that doormen, as he walked by, glared at him and clutched their whistles. Cruising cabs accelerated. Dog walkers stood closer to their Weimaraners and Schnauzers. And old men in wheelchairs, being pushed by stout black ladies in white uniforms, scrabbled at their blankets.

Dortmunder walked slowly by the Cadillac. The back seat was empty and the side windows were open, but it was very hard to see inside. Aware of being an alien here, still feeling the eyes on him, Dortmunder didn't want to stop, so he kept on walking even though he didn't know if there was a telephone in the limousine or not.

Well, he couldn't keep walking north forever. At the next corner he stopped, looked indecisive, then patted himself all over, pantomiming a search for some small but necessary object. In a large elaborate movement, he snapped his fingers, suggesting the sudden realization that the small but necessary object had been left behind; at home, perhaps. He then turned around and walked the other way.

The Cadillac was getting closer. Coming from behind it he had a clearer view of the interior, but it still wasn't good enough. He walked more and more slowly, squinting, trying to see into the damn car.

Well, screw it. He went over to the Cadillac, leaned down, stuck his head in the open window by the back seat, and saw that indeed there was a telephone mounted on the back of the front seat. He nodded in satisfaction. The chauffeur remained inside his newspaper.