Bank Shot

31

“Twenty-three thousand, eight hundred twenty dollars,” Dortmunder said and sneezed.

They were all in the apartment, his and May’s. Everybody had changed clothes, with May and Murch’s Mom both in clothing belonging to May, and all five men in Dortmunder’s clothes. They were also all sneezing, and May had brewed up a lot of tea with whiskey in it.

“Twenty-three, almost twenty-four thousand,” Kelp said brightly. “It could have been worse.”

“Yes,” Dortmunder said. “It could have been Confederate money.”

Murch sneezed and said, “How much is that apiece?”

Dortmunder said, “First we pay off the financier. That’s eight thousand, leaving fifteen thousand, eight hundred twenty. Divided by seven, that’s two thousand, two hundred sixty bucks apiece.”

Murch made a face as though something smelled bad. “Two thousand dollars? That’s all?”

Herman and Murch’s Mom sneezed simultaneously.

“We’ll spend more than that in medical bills,” Dortmunder said.

Victor said, “Still, we did the job, you have to admit that. You can’t call it a failure.”

“I can if I want to,” Dortmunder said.

“Have some more tea,” said May.

Kelp sneezed.

“Two thousand dollars,” Herman said, and blew his nose. “I spill that much.”

They were all in the living room, sitting around the money, the charred bills and wet bills and good bills all stacked in different piles on the coffee table. The apartment was warm and dry, but the smell of wet clothes and disaster filled the air from the bedroom.

Murch’s Mom sighed. “I’ll have to start wearing that brace again,” she said.

“You lost it,” her son told her accusingly. “You left it in the bank.”

“So we’ll buy a new one.”

“Another expense.”

“Well,” Kelp said, “I guess we might as well divvy the loot and go on home.”

“Divvy the loot,” Dortmunder echoed and looked at the paper on the coffee table. “You got an eye dropper?”

“It isn’t that bad,” Kelp said. “We didn’t come out of it empty-handed.”

Victor got to his feet and stretched and said, “I suppose this would be more like a celebration if we’d gotten the rest of the money.”

Dortmunder nodded. “You could say that.”

They split up the cash and departed, everybody promising to send back the borrowed clothes and reclaim their own. Left to themselves, Dortmunder and May sat on the sofa and looked at the four thousand, five hundred twenty dollars left on the coffee table. They sighed. Dortmunder said, “Well, it did give me something to think about, I have to admit it.”

“The worst thing about a cold,” May said, “is the way it makes the cigarettes taste.” She plucked the ember from the corner of her mouth and flipped it into an ashtray but didn’t light a new one. “You want some more tea?”

“I still got some.” He sipped at the tea and frowned. “What’s the percentage of tea and whiskey in this thing?”

“About half and half.”

He drank a little more. The warm steam curled around his nostrils. “You better brew up another pot,” he said.

She nodded, starting to smile. “Right,” she said.