Jimmy the Kid by Donald E. Westlake Page B

what? Dortmunder thought, and he waited while the policeman got himself down onto the blacktop and leaned his head close to the window. He gave Dortmunder a hard look, and then gave Murch a hard look. He also sniffed loudly, and Dortmunder realized the policeman thought they were drunk. He sniffed again, and wrinkled his face up, and said, “What’s that stink?”
    â€œHis cigar,” Dortmunder said. “I told him it stunk,” he said, and watched the Caddy go by. Silver-grey Cadillac limousine, whip antenna, grey-uniformed chauffeur, kid in the backseat, Jersey plate number WAX 361. Dortmunder sighed.
    â€œUrp,” Murch said. Then, being very hasty, he said, “Okay, officer, I’ll move it now.” He even shifted into gear.
    â€œJust hold on there,” the policeman said. The Cadillac went on up to Forty-second Street and turned right. The policeman, leading his horse, walked slowly in his tight riding boots around the front of the Renault. He studied the car and the license plate, and frowned through the windshield at the two men inside there. Murch gave him a big wide smile, and Dortmunder just looked at him.
    There wasn’t room for the horse between the left side of the Renault and the brick wall of the overpass support, so the policeman left it standing broadside in front of the car.
    Still smiling broadly at the policeman, Murch said out of the corner of his mouth, “What if he asks for license and registration?”
    â€œMaybe there’s a registration in the glove compartment.”
    â€œYeah, but I don’t have a license.”
    â€œWonderful,” Dortmunder said, and the policeman leaned down to look in Murch’s window and say, “What are you parked here for, anyway?”
    Murch said, “I got a dizzy spell coming through the tunnel.” Out front, the horse’s tail, which was on Dortmunder’s side of the car, lifted up and the horse began to relieve himself.
    The policeman said, “Dizzy spell, huh? Let’s see you—”
    â€œYour horse,” Dortmunder said loudly.
    The policeman looked past Murch at Dortmunder. “What?”
    â€œYour horse,” Dortmunder said, “is shitting on our car.”
    The policeman leaned in and looked through the windshield at his horse. “Son of a bitch,” he said. He removed his head from the car, went around front, grabbed the reins, and led the horse away from the car.
    â€œGet us out of here,” Dortmunder said.
    â€œRight.” Murch put the Renault in gear again and angled out away from the kerb and around the policeman and his horse. Moving slowly by, he called to the policeman, “Thank you, officer. I feel a lot better now.”
    The horse apparently preferred walking to standing still when relieving itself, and was now walking slowly up Dyer Avenue, plopping contentedly behind itself, and ignoring the policeman’s efforts to make it stop. “Yeah yeah,” the policeman said, nodding in distraction at Murch, and to the horse said, “Stop there, Abner, stop there.”
    Up at Forty-second Street the light was against them. They stopped, and Dortmunder said, “Goddam it to hell and goddam it back again.”
    â€œSo we’ll try it again Friday,” Murch said.
    â€œThe horse’ll shit in the window next time.”
    The light turned green and Murch made a left. “You want me to take you home?”
    â€œMight as well.”
    At Tenth Avenue the light was against them. Murch said, “I threw out the cigar, did you notice?”
    â€œI told you it stunk.”
    â€œFriday we’ll wait around the corner on Forty-second. You can park there.”
    â€œSure,” Dortmunder said.
    The light remained red. Murch looked thoughtful. He said, “Listen, you in a hurry?”
    â€œIn a hurry for what?”
    â€œLet’s take a little drive, okay?”
    Dortmunder shrugged. “Do what you