Discovering Dortmunder: The Hot Rock (film)

Don’t fret. All will be explained.

This is a pretty belated addition to last year’s series of blogs on the Dortmunder series of comic crime novels by the late Donald E Westlake. I mentioned at the time that the first book, The Hot Rock, was filmed in 1972, though it was several years later before I saw it, on reissue, under its unwieldy British title How to Steal a Diamond (in Four Uneasy Lessons).
I’ve never seen it since, until making the effort to watch it again, with the intention of recording my thoughts.
The film comes with an impressive pedigree: it stars Robert Redford and George Segal, plus the inimitable Zero Mostel in a supporting role, it is directed by Peter Yates, the director of Bullitt and the screenplay is written by William Goldman, who was already noted for Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. Hell, it even has a soundtrack by Quincy Jones!
Unfortunately, none of that makes this into a good film. It’s not a good Dortmunder film, for all that Goldman is faithful to the spine of the story, though in making that assessment, I’m hampered by my knowledge of fourteen books featuring our favourite hangdog planner and his fox-faced friend when this film is an adaptation only of the very first book – which was originally planned to be a hard-boiled crime story starring the ultra-serious Parker.
As a novel, The Hot Rock is very different from the series as a whole, much more serious in every respect, and the film reflects that position, as it had to: Bank Shot was only published in the year the film appeared.
But even despite this, the film doesn’t really cut it. In fact, I don’t think it really works all that well as a film, if you try divorcing it from who you personally think the characters should be.
Goldman’s script is fine in itself. Anyone who has read his two superb books about his life and work in Hollywood will see how his adaptation hews closely to the principles he sets out there (the books are Adventures in the Screen Trade and Which Lie Did I Tell?: if you haven’t read them, do so).
For adaptations, Goldman works with the spine of the book, staying as close to that as film-making allows, but he is absolute about how film-making is compression, about the urgency of the story having to give as much information in as short a time as possible. Thus it’s no surprise to see that the gang, or string, is cut from five men to four, and the six phases of the crime also to four.
It’s Chefwick, the locksmith and model train nut, who goes, and with him the least plausible phase of the crime, involving breaking into a sanatorium with a life-sized model train. Kelp becomes the locksmith: he also becomes Dortmunder’s brother-in-law, setting up an instant connection between the characters that doesn’t requiring stopping the story to explain anything.
Similarly, the utility man, Alan Greenwood, becomes explosives expert Allan Greenburg, and the crooked lawyer, Andy Prosker, becomes Abe Greenburg (the Zero Mostel role), his father. This enables the lengthy and slow moving train sequence to be replaced by a much shorter and more direct scene where the gang force Abe Greenburg to hand over his Safe Deposit boxkeys by apparently killing his son.
Lastly, the final phase, where the gang have to steal the Balabamo Emerald (in the film, the Sahara Stone, a diamond) back from their double-crossing employer, is also by-passed. Instead, Dr Amusa sacks the gang, throwing in his lot with Greenburg Senior, before Dortmunder takes the diamond from the Bank. This sets up the statutory happy ending (Hollywood. 1972. Suck it up) as the gang get away with the Hot Rock.
Incidentally, there is an in-joke at the start of the film, when Goldman replaces the kleenex gag as Dortmunder leaves prison with a brief conversation between Dortmunder and the Governor about the former going straight, to which, after a short pause, Dortmunder openly says he can’t. Goldman was making use here of a real-life incident in Butch Cassidy’s career which he’d had to delete from that film.
Skilful though the adaptation is, and conscientiously as Goldman uses Westlake’s dialogue wherever possible, the problem is that, as Goldman himself admits, he can’t really do comedy. Strange as that may seem from the writer of Butch Cassidy, Goldman is aware of his limitations, and flat out comedy is not his metier. He can shape the story very creditably, but he’s not a atural for what is needed to make this film fly.
Nor, despite his track record does Yates – an English director who worked in Hollywood – do much to set this film up in the way it needed to be to work. His most famous work, Bullitt, a fast-paced, action-oriented Steve McQueen thriller, had demonstrated his ability with crime films, though Yates then went on to alternate action and comedy films for the next decade.
For someone so skilled at action, it seems strange that Yates allows the film to crawl along, when it’s clearly crying out for an injection of pace. But the action moves lazily at each stage, and the characters perform in a low-key, unhurried fashion throughout, never displaying any serious degree of liveliness, let alone urgency.
Indeed, when the helicopter comes into play, Yates lets the story virtually stop whilst we follow the copter on an aerial tour of New York City that lasts several minutes (thus directly contradicting Goldman’s principles). Considering that the gang are on their way to break into a Police Station via the roof, this in no way helps the tension.
How much of this is down to Yates seeking a specific approach for the film, and how much of it to the cast themselves, but with the proud exception of Ron Leibman as Murch, and a few bits of minor histrionics from Segal, everybody underplays their parts to the extent that the life is sucked out of Mostel’s bombasticism. You must have seen him as Max Bialystock in the original version of The Producers, and if you haven’t, what have you been doing with your life? Abe Greenburg is a slighter version of that, given less room to play, but Mostel is acting against a wet blanket here.
Paul Sand, as Allan Greenburg, is a nonentity. I know he’s supposed to be dry, but Sand could be the Sahara Desert (as opposed to Stone) on this evidence, whilst Redford is so reserved in his performance, underplaying when the film cries out for a more exaggerated, stylised approach, that  he kills any chance the story has of taking off.
Leibman at least is innocent of such charges. He’s a ball of energy, gum-chewing, always active, greeting every situation with gleeful absorption, as was the case in all his film appearances in that era. He’s what is needed, someone determined to get everything out of what he does, and as sucj he stands out like a sore thumb.
He’s probably the best thing about the film, but even that is skew-whiff, because he’s not Murch. That’s not Stan Murch there. You can hang the name of Leibman’s shoulders, but there’s no way he will ever be Murch.
Which leads us back to the one greatest problem with this adaptation. Ignore little things, like how Dortmunder and Kelp are too well-dressed, too expansively dressed in Kelp’s case, too expensively dressed in Dortmunder’s, and how in keeping with Seventies fashions Dortmunder is for a habitual criminal just released from his second prison term. Sure, these jar, they look wrong, but nothing s more wrong that when he gaze at Redford’s clean cut, handsome face, that well-styled fair hair, his perfectly proportioned body, and you try to call him John Archibald Dortmunder and you can’t. Fucking hell, that’s Robert Redford! Dortmunder’s no Redford, and Redford is not, could not ever be, a Dortmunder.
And this film can’t work.
For all that, I understand The Hot Rock to be the best of the five films made by adapting Donald Westlake’s book. Whether I have the nerve to try any of the others is debatable.

That’s more like it.

Discovering Dortmunder: What’s So Funny?

What’s So Funny?, the thirteenth Dortmunder novel, was the last to be published in Donald Westlake’s lifetime. In keeping with the prolificity with which he was getting Dortmunder ideas, it appeared in 2007, only two years after Watch Your Back. It’s a fairly simple story, divided into two phases, and maintaining its theme throughout, and it ends with one of the most satisfying twists in the whole series.
Once again, the story begins at the O.J., where things are not as expected. Dortmunder comes out of Pointers to find the regulars silent, Rollo distracted and Andy Kelp signally ignoring him (with the bottle of Our Own Brand Bourbon). This time it’s not the Mafia in the bar, but instead a Cop. Or a Was a Cop Until Seventeen Months Ago And Now a Freelance, but everybody agrees that it takes at least three decades for the stigma to elapse.
The Cop – let’s start referring to him as Johnny Eppick For Hire, that being the name on his business card – is here for someone. Inevitably, it’s Dortmunder, though given a free choice, Dortmunder would rather sit down in Ohio than in a booth with this Cop. But Eppick has two things: the first being a commission from a rich gent to retrieve an expensive item of family interest, for which an ingenious, non-violent crook is to procure from its recently discovered resting place, and the second being incriminating evidence of John Dortmunder shopping for computers at an hour when no other customers, nor staff, come to think of it, were about.
The fact that the job is utterly and completely impossible to do has very little effect on either Eppick for Hire, or his aged, ailing but still mentally agile patron, Mr Hemlow: nor can Dortmunder exercise his constitutional right to clear out to Chicago where no-one knows him, given the willingness of cops to co-operate via the Internet.
The object of all this coercion is one of the most valuable objects Dortmunder has been asked to steal, a solid gold chess set, inlaid with jewels, originally created as a gift for Tsar Nicholas II of Russia. Unfortunately, the delivery date was 1917, when the Tsar was otherwise engaged. However, during the illegal,unacknowledged and decidedly dodgy post-1918 war against the Bolsheviks, ten US soldiers found the chess set and made plans to remove it to the States, where they could make it the foundation of their fortunes.
Until their Sergeant, Abel Northwood, disappeared with the entire chess set, robbing his nine men of their fantastic future.
The whereabouts of this fantastic item has been unknown for decades, during which time Hemlow – son of one of the disappointed men – has made a fortune of his own by becoming a genius inventor. But now his granddaughter Fiona, a very lowly lawyer at a very high law firm, has found the chess set.
Her firm represents the elderly Mrs Livia Northwood Wheeler, one of seventeen descendants of Abel Northwood, and heirs to his substantial fortune. But the Northwoods, and Livia in particular, are contentious and litigious folk, continuously suing and counter-suing each other and everybody else. One of the assets about which everybody is suing is the chess set, and it’s so contentious that it’s been placed into the joint custody of several of the relevant law firms, and is, in fact, in the intensely protected sub-basement of Fiona’s firm.
Fiona, being a bit of a history buff, has passed the story onto her grandfather, who has decided to put the snatch on the chess set, for the family.
Yes, it’s all a bit of an elaborate back-story, but at least the scene is set and, like Dortmunder, you will have understood that the job of entering this electronic pass-protected, heavily guarded, limited access, uptown vault and exiting it with a solid gold chess set that is too heavy for one man to lift, is simply not on.
If they could only engineer a situation where the chess set had to be brought out of that sub-basement to somewhere with less security…
Dortmunder is, however, forced to go through the motions. Fiona, despite her status as an officer of the court and her utter refusal to assist any criminal act, does provide Dortmunder with as much information as possible (which only goes to support the status quo ante). Unfortunately, the knowledge she has only feeds her compulsion, which leads her to overstep the mark by directly addressing Livia Northwood, just having to have some communication with the ‘enemy’.
As a consequence, she is fired without references, and a remorseful Hemlow calls off the hunt, much to Dortmunder’s relief and Eppick’s frustration, a frustration exacerbated when the offices of Eppick For Hire are neatly cleaned out by a professional burglar. Everything is removed: even the evidence against Dortmunder.
Thus ends part 1, “Knight’s Errand”, during which very little has happened, though Westlake has kept things moving along nicely, and with a lot of comic touches in and amongst the cast, which includes Judson Blint as an accepted, but still in training member of our favourite gang. Fiona’s involvement is an appropriate diversion from the main line, but there’s a seemingly irrelevant tangent surrounding the intended hiding place for the purloined chess set, a compound in upstate New York. This has been invaded by two post-High School slackers, who are systematically eating all the frozen food and screwing incessantly in undeserved comfort, who overhear this plan to bring in a gold chess set.
The story is not, however, finished, and part 1, “Pawn’s Revenge”, picks things up three months later. Fiona Hemlow has not suffered from losing her job, far from it: she is now Mrs Wheeler’s personal assistant and much happier as a result. Unbeknownst to her, Jay Tumbril, who fired her, is suspicious that a scam is being set up. He hires a top-flight Private Agent (Jacques Perly, who appeared in The Road to Ruin) to investigate and, when Fiona proves to be squeaky clean, start looking at her live-in cartoonist boyfriend, Brian.
But Mrs W hasn’t forgotten the chess set, and decides to set Fiona onto researching it: where did it come from? What was its provenance before Abel Northwood first put it on display in 1948? Concealing her private knowledge, Fiona discovers that there is no information whatsoever. And that one rook is several pounds lighter than the other. There’s nothing for it but to have the chess set out for examination.
This puts the caper back on again, and Dortmunder signs up to take a crack. The chess set is to be moved to Perly’s high-security offices, by means of an elaborate transport plan (included Police cooperation from our old friend Chief Inspector Francis X. Mologna, pronounced Maloney) with detailed schedules, the very details of which are obtained by Dortmunder when a preliminary casing of the exterior of Perly’s offices goes badly wrong, and a disoriented John ends up breaking in accidentally.
The plan is simple: get into Perly’s offices ahead of time, intercept the delivery and drive away. Unfortunately (it’s like an old friend, that word) a number of things go wrong. First, Perly gets twitchy and turns up an hour early, leading to a superb Marx Brothers-esque scene as five conspirators get themselves out of the office without being seen.
Then everything goes so swimmingly with the rest of the plan that they decide not to wait until 2.00am to move and turn up nearly an hour ahead of schedule (much to the disgust of Dortmunder and Co, who are playing poker to pass the time).
And then finally the truck carrying the chess set turns out to be just too big for the tight turn on the ramp from the parking garage and gets stuck. This inspires a brilliant piece of improvisation by Dortmunder, who casts the gang as internal security, cons the travelling security into transferring the chess set into a smaller truck, which can get the gold upstairs once the big truck has been backed out, but which, unaccountably, locks the garage door shut and drives off.
There’s an awful lot of fall-out to be dealt with, especially as Jay Tumbril is still convinced that Fiona and Brian are behind everything. But Fiona is too canny and Brian too traumatised to give away anything incriminating,and when Perly’s evidence of their being led by a ‘tough old broad’ turns out to be Mrs W wearing a masquerade costume, the case collapses like an undercooked souffle.
But despite all the evidence to the contrary, there are once again no happy endings. Sadly Fiona learns that the Northwoods haven’t finished stealing from her family, whilst her grandfather, after waiting so long for just a glimpse of the fabled chess set, suffers a sad loss almost immediately after.
And Andy Kelp’s propensity for Doctor’s cars play a strange part in the ultimate, and some would say appropriate, destiny of Tsar Nicholas II’s chess set.
The curious thing about What’s So Funny? Is that Westlake originally set out to write about a completely different heist, one brought to the table by, of all people, Stan Murch (drivers do not bring in jobs). Stan’s idea also involved gold, being the removal of the dome from a mosque whose construction was being held up by New York’s way of doing things. The dome is fifteen feet across and twelve feet high. It is, of course, impossible to steal, which is why Westlake didn’t take that plot any further, but he did use it as the reason everyone was in the O.J. to begin with. And Stan got over it. Eventually.
This is, when you think about it, a pretty slim story kept buoyant by the characters and their habits. There’s an awful lot of background in the foreground, which is another late-series characteristic: we are here for the show and the plot is merely a link that justifies our favourites doing their respective souflethings. But it’s an engaging and funny book, and the set-up is a new twist from the ever-inventive Westlake, and everybody makes you laugh, and on the whole this is a pretty good book.
Unfortunately, there would only be one more to come.

Discovering Dortmunder: Watch Your Back

Throughout his career, Donald Westlake had avoided writing Dortmunder novels (or Parker books as Richard Stark) too frequently, fearing staleness. He was a prolific writer who, including his several pseudonyms, wrote over 100 books without ever getting the bestseller that he frequently deserved, and the continual switching of angle and character helped keep things fresh and inventive.
Until 2005, when Watch Your Back followed directly on from The Road to Ruin, without any intervening material (not to mention that the novella I’m keeping myself from reading was also written in 2005).
All this has to be taken into consideration when I admit that, though I thoroughly enjoyed reading Watch Your Back, I didn’t find myself laughing all that often.
It also has to be taken into consideration that I was off work ill, during a heatwave that brought back memories of the great Drought Summer of 1976, so let’s be fair and suggest that in my mentally dulled state, I wasn’t giving the novel a fair suck of the pineapple (sorry about lapsing into Australian, there, but the Ashes are on).
This time round, the book begins with the usual meeting at the O.J. Bar & Grill, to discuss a job being brought in by Ralph Winslow, he of the perpetually clinking ice cubes in his rye and water. The job’s a bust: Winslow’s been talking to some Police and is leaving town for a while, but things are a little off-kilter for once at the O.J. The regulars are arguing at their perpetual cross-purposes,  but Rollo’s building some pretty strange drinks for five women. They’re nothing to do with the plot, just an indication that things are not as we always see them.
The job of the book is actually brought in by none other than the obnoxious Arnie Allbright. That’s right, the fence is back from Club Med, thoroughly tanned, and dammit if he isn’t actually less obnoxious (he even cleans his apartment).
But Arnie was a deal to propose. Down there at Club Med he’s seen a lot of a guy called Preston Fareweather. Preston is this book’s Obnoxious Rich Guy Who Gets His Comeuppance. Preston is basically a mean (in both senses), supercilious, snide guy who enjoys making cutting comments to everyone he regards as inferior (everyone) playing ‘practical jokes’ on people who want something from him.
This latter trait is especially directed at women. You see, Preston’s been married and divorced four times. His ex-wives have banded together to pursue him, through the law, which is why Hall’s in permanent exile from his New York apartment and its extensive art treasures, and is staying outside the jurisdiction. Where, every week, he has an eye out for attractive woman who are happy to become his ‘companion’ for a week, putting up with all his little japes and humiliations, because they fondly think that this rich guy might be willing to take them on as Mrs Fareweather V.
Not a nice man is Preston, and he’s rubbed Arnie up so much that not only is Arnie feeding this guy’s apartment to Dortmunder and Co, he’s going to let them have one hell of a percentage.
As the job goes, it’s a straightforward one, calling for no excessive ingenuity on Dortmunder’s part. Unfortunately (a-ha!) there’s a fly in the ointment. Dortmunder can’t get into the back room of the O.J. to plan. It’s off-limits. There’s these strange guys. Young guys, slicked-up, a bit distant, hanging around the O.J. The regulars aren’t talking at all.
In short, the Mob’s moved into the O.J. and are running it as a bust-out joint (take a clean commercial enterprise, use its clean credit to order in as much supplies as you can, supplies that you have agreed to sell to others at a healthy profit margin, based on the fact that you’re not going to be paying for the goods in the first place, because once you ship the gear out, the business is left as a commercial wreck that rapidly shuts).
That’s what’s happening to the O.J. and nobody likes it. Meeting at John and May’s apartment is a bust, and the alternate venue suits no-one. But Dortmunder takes it to heart more than the others – especially Tiny – and instead of concentrating on this golden opportunity of a heist, John’s efforts are concentrated on saving the O.J.
At which he succeeds, eventually, tracking down and dragging back the bar’s owner from Florida (though the bit where the useless nephew, obsessed with mixing music and sounds, gets railroaded into a mental institution was for me a rare moment of disquiet. This is the twelfth book of a series focussing on amoral crooks who go around robbing from people, many of whom are far from being Obnoxious Rich Guys Who Deserve Their Comeuppance, and finally something grates queasily). The bust-out joint is busted back, the back room becomes available, and Dortmunder can finally concentrate on Preston Fareweather’s apartment..
Only, the Mob are unhappy at being frustrated in this fashion, and wish to make that displeasure known.
Meanwhile, as is Westlake’s wont, things have been happening elsewhere, and we have been privy to Preston’s  machinations in respect of his next target, Pam, or, to give her her real name, Roselle. Roselle is a woman on a mission, a mission paid for by the four former Mrs Halls, which is to get Preston off the island and into the jurisdiction of process-servers again.
At this she is partially successful. Preston does indeed find himself back in the United States but, being a resourceful little weasel, manages to get all the way back to his New York apartment, unseen. On the very day of Dortmunder’s robbery, and with Arnie around in person to point out what items he would most like to fence.
All goes swimmingly, but for Arnie discovering Preston asleep in his bed and going into a flat-out tail-spin. So everybody piles out, and Kelp and Murch take off in the truck with all their pickings, completely unaware that the Police are already on their tails.
And so is the Mafia too.
I’ll not give away the ending, save to say that the gang come out of it beyond suspicion and still free to rob again, but empty-handed. Well, not entirely empty-handed.
For me, the biggest delight about this book is that it paves the way for a return to Dortmunder’s maxim of the five-man string. Ever since Good Behavior, we’ve been following the adventures of a four man gang: Dortmunder, Kelp, Murch, Bulcher. There have been a couple of one-off fifth mans, such as Wilbur Howey or Wally Knurr, but generally it’s been the four associates.
In Watch Your Back, sadly very close to the end of the series, Westlake introduces a fifth member in Judson “The Kid” Blint.
Judson is a nineteen year old fresh out of Long Island who, now he’s finished High School, has made a bee-line for New York to fulfil his lifetime ambition of breaking into the business. Of being a crook. His starting point is the Avalon State Bank Tower, room 712, home of Allied Commissioners Courses, Inc, not to mention Intertherapeutic Research Service, Super Star Music Co, and the Commercial Attaché for the country of Maylohda. That’s right, J. C. Taylor.
Josie pins him for a scam artist straight away, but his resume is impressive enough so, instead of closing her mail order businesses down, as she was about to do, having too much to concentrate upon with her fictional United Nations registered country, she takes the kid on to manage that for a percentage.
She also takes Judson under her wing and, to some extent, under Tiny’s, which leads to meeting the rest of the gang. Ever eager, Judson offers his help, and is allowed to do one or two things on the Fareweather heist, but he’s not included in the denouement.
That doesn’t stop him from dropping by on his lunch break, just to see if he can help. The gang has gone by then, as has the loot, but as a souvenir, Judson extracts a painting that he identifies with. It only happens to be a Breughel, and the only score the gang makes out of the whole caper. So Judson gets accepted as part mascot, part-trainee, and is even admitted to the back room at the O.J., carrying a drink identical to Tiny’s.
But where Tiny’s is vodka and red wine, the Kid has to settle for strawberry soda: he’s under age, and Rollo doesn’t want the owner dropping by again any time soon.
So, a fun book, and one that has brought me more laughter on better occasions. It’s also an interesting variation in that the gang’s downfall is entirely due to Dortmunder’s obsession with saving the O.J. holding things up until, in the grand fashion of the best Dortmunder novels, someone else’s life awkwardly gets in the way of the stream-lined criminal plot
By this time, the series has taken on the role of a very comfortable and reassuring experience. We know the characters through and through, we know the running gags, and whilst Westlake always provides twists in the type of caper that underpins the action, we are here to see a performance that covers all the expected bases.
It’s the fate of all long-running series. What we as an audience demand of the books is that they give us an evening with old friends, doing their party pieces. The edge of the first two books has long since gone, that initial recognition of The Hot Rock‘s roots in hard-boiled crime, in Parker. There’s a more comfortable air to events. We read in recognition, not in suspense.
Some will say that that is a bad thing, that it makes series safe, predictable. You know that nothing will happen that changes the status quo, that prevents the beginning of the next book from being radically different from this one.
But this is a comedy series, a comedy set in a milieu that, no matter how much it takes of the everyday, inconvenient, awkward life, is still in an elevated state of absurdity, where we not only tolerate implausibilities but embrace them as cornerstones of the atmosphere Westlake induces. The gift is in maintaining that interest in recurring themes so that they are greeted with a laugh and not a yawn.
Westlake, thirty-five years on from the first book, still does this.

Discovering Dortmunder: The Road to Ruin

The eleventh Dortmunder story, The Road to Ruin, though frequently funny, was something of a disappointment on first reading, and whilst it improves on closer acquaintance, it’s still one of the weaker efforts in the canon, for much the same reason as Bad News: John Dortmunder, the ingenious planner, simply doesn’t get enough to do.
It’s not the case that Dortmunder and Co are inserting themselves into someone else’s heist, although the job is brought to them from the outside. Once the idea arises, the gang approaches the job in their usual fashion. But the plan Dortmunder devises to achieve their ends is surprisingly simplistic, and its inevitable frustration has none of the usual sparkle and wit Westlake usually brings to the workings of fate and the real world.
The Road to Ruin begins with a double break with tradition. Firstly, Dortmunder is not on a job that’s either failed or, within moments, is about to fail. Indeed, he’s in the apartment he shares with May, watching the 6 o’clock news.
The second breach is that the street-bell rings, and it’s Kelp: the same Andy Kelp who usually lets himself into their apartment so as to spare John or May the trouble of opening the door. Kelp’s being formal today because he’s not heard from Dortmunder in some time, and he’s worried that John has cut him out, is running with another bunch of guys. Dortmunder can reassure him on that: he’s not even pulling single-os at the moment. Things are pretty dead.
Until Anne Marie phones from Kelp’s apartment, which has just been invaded by this guy, giving no name, wants to see Kelp, is prepared to wait. Dortmunder returns with him, to lend moral support, but there’s nothing to fear: the interloper is Kelp’s old buddy, Chester Fallon, a driver.
Chester’s led an interesting life. First, he was a stunt driver for the movies, until he got replaced by CGI, then he used to work driving away from banks, which is how he knows Kelp. After getting parole, he went to work as chauffeur to Monroe Hall, a rich guy who has a great collection of vintage cars, $6,000,000 worth: perfect job, with house, medical benefits and pension thrown in through Hall’s company, SomniTech.
Until Hall was found to be embezzling SomniTech, and pretty much everyone under the sun, in a deeply greedy and omnivorous fashion. So now Monroe Hall is a pariah, unable to leave his estate in Pennsylvania on account of all these people hanging around wanting to have discussions with him about the staggeringly large sums of money they’ve lost. And the cars have been turned over to a charitable foundation in Florida, even though they’re still ‘displayed’ at the impenetrable, security-wrapped Pennsylvania estate.
Except that the Foundation can’t employ ex-cons, so that’s Chester out on his ear; no job, no house and, thanks to SomniTech having been sucked dry, no pension or medical benefits. So now Chester hates Monroe Hall, like everybody who ever meets him, with the exception of his still-loving wife Alicia. Chester would like some revenge. $6,000,000 of vintage cars-worth.
Naturally, after another trip to the O.J. Bar & Grill on Amsterdam Avenue, the regulars are in the midst of another of their endless cross-purpose rambles, Stan Murch and Tiny Bulcher are on board and the gang head for Pennsylvania in another of Kelp’s doctor’s cars – nice and spacious, to suit Tiny – to case the joint. The security is, however, impenetrable. No-one can get in, and whilst Alicia Hall and the cook come out, Monroe Hall doesn’t.
Dortmunder’s solution is surprisingly simple. Hall, being both a pariah, and a man who offends people as easily as you or I click on a blog, is desperately short of staff: the gang will get themselves hired.
This isn’t quite as easy as it sounds, given the no ex-cons barrier, but this is where Anne Marie – who has adapted with surprising smoothness to this unusual life – comes in. Among her friends from her Washington days as a Senator’s daughter is the deliberately anonymous Jim Green, former FBI Agent and specialist at creating unbreakable new identities for people. Green costs too much for the gang to buy four lives off him, and four’s too many for freebies, but he can let them have four existing identities that the recipients no longer use.
The only risk is that if any of the original inhabitants of these identities created any enemies, any revenge might be directed against these temporary users, but it’s probably only a small risk, eh?
(You’re getting ahead of things. Slow down.)
So Monroe Hall gets four new staff simultaneously: Warren Gillette, a carroty-haired chauffeur, Judson Swope, a man-mountain security guard, Frederick Blanchard, a sharp-featured private secretary, and John Rumsey, a hangdog-looking, slope-shouldered butler. (There’s an in-joke here, but you’re going to have to wait for me to get to the right book before I explain it).
Once inside, the plan is, once again, utter simplicity. Tiny is doing the graveyard shift as the new boy, so he’ll open the gate whilst the other three drive the cars off to a handy holding space whilst the gang dicker with the insurance company.
I mean, that’s it. In terms of Dortmunderian ingenuity, this is kindergarten stuff. I could plot a crime novel with this plan, and I don’t even write crime novels.
So the book, which is already reliant on the little details along the way – the best of which being the discovery that Arnie Allbright’s family, who mainly go in for counterfeiting, have staged an intervention and sent Arnie to Club Med on one of them islands, to get his personality cleaned out –  becomes ultra-dependant on the foil. How will this one screw up?
Westlake takes his time getting there. Given the simplicity of the gang’s part in it, the story stretches to encompass lots of other viewpoints. There’s Chester, for one, taking a (hopefully temporary) job as driver to a drunken sales-rep, under constant bombardment by sales-rep jokes. There’s Monroe and Alicia Hall, at different times: he an unthinking, unheeding monster of selfishness, contemptuous and callous of all, she an attractive, intelligent, perceptive woman doomed by the fact she still loves him.
There’s Hall’s personal trainer, Flip Morriscone, trying to get somewhere with a suet pudding of a man, who Hall betrays to the IRS. Henry Cooper, old ‘friend’ of Hall’s and owner of the Employment Agency to whom the gang apply.
And then there’s Mark and Os, and Buddy, Mac and Ace.
These are people who have been wronged by Hall, people who have been stalking the estate, people who want to get hold of Hall, just for a while, for some monetary redress (Hall, though technically making redress for his embezzlements, is in control of substantial, hidden assets offshore). Mark and Os are brokers, privileged men from privileged families, who want to be put back where they were. Buddy, Mac and Ace are union men, trying to get money back for, not directly themselves, but rather the ACWFFA.
These two sets join forces – tentatively, with piles of mistrust on both sides but no actual double-crossing – and with the assistance of Morriscone, they get onto the estate in a horsebox (Hall wants to take up horse riding) and they get off the estate with Hall in the horsebox.
Unfortunately (that word crops up rather often when discussing a Dortmunder story, doesn’t it?), they also have to take the witness to the kidnapping. The butler, John Rumsey.
Now Dortmunder is not unresourceful, as we have seen. Dortmunder escapes from captivity using a chair (he smashes it into the face of the guy coming into his room, and runs). Monroe Hall, however, is even more resourceful, and escapes from the hunting lodge in which they’re being held. Unfortunately (that word again), he doesn’t so much jump from the window as fall out of it. As a consequence, he hits his head, hard, on a head-sized rock. And loses his memory. Permanently.
Including all the passwords and codes to those off-shore holdings.
And everything just drains away like water. Whilst Dortmunder is making his way back to Pennsylvania, Kelp, Murch and Tiny have to watch the Foundation driving all the cars off the estate, to go to Florida, leaving nothing.
Which, sadly, is the feeling this denouement leaves.
As for the amateur conspirators, whose blunderings across Dortmunder’s path have led to this disaster, the fall-out takes different outcomes, with a pleasingly blue collar twist. And Dortmunder and Co. return to New York dogged by the realisation that they have actually spent two days working in a job!
Westlake does throw in one final plot twist, as we near the end of the book. As Jim Green warned, there is indeed an enemy, a foreign assassin no less, seeking the whereabouts of Fred Blanchard. However, this final twist gets untwisted with such perfunctory and unexpected ease, that it just becomes the reddest of red herrings.
Despite all of this, I like the book, and it’s still plenty funny. But I like it because I know Dortmunder and his friends and associates and hangers-on so well, because their skewed perceptions and the slightly surreal atmosphere that surrounds them is comfortable and engaging, because I like hanging around with them.
In that sense, The Road to Ruin is an archetypal late series book, getting by on familiar routines and tropes, but beginning to have some difficulties in finding fresh things for the cast to do. It might have been the point at which the series began to run into the ground, especially as – breaking his inviolable rule of thirty-odd years – Westlake was going to be writing another Dortmunder story immediately after this one.
But The Road to Ruin would prove to be no more than a stumble, as the series would pick up into its final, compressed years.
Strictly speaking, the next Dortmunder book, published later the same year as this novel, is the short story collection, Thieves Dozen, collecting together all the Dortmunder short stories then published. But I’m leaving the short stories until next to last, after we’ve covered all the novels. You’ll have to wait for me to explain that in-joke.

Discovering Dortmunder: Bad News

We’re back on familiar turf at the start of Bad News, the first Dortmunder novel of the twenty-first century, as John’s latest heist flounders (naturally) as a consequence of an unseen alarm. Nevertheless, despite being cornered by the Police in a retail superstore at 2.00am, the genius at work in the two recent examples of revenge is still in full flow as Dortmunder cons everyone into believing he is a customer who fell asleep and got locked in: he almost gets a note from the Police to show May why he wasn’t home at the usual time.
But the rest of the story is different from the usual run of Dortmunder plots, in that our favourite gang finds themselves co-opting into someone else’s scam, and sitting back and watching another planner execute his scheme.
This book marks a sudden rush of Dortmunder stories, for which we can only be grateful. Prior to Bad News, Westlake had written nine novels over a period of thirty years, so it comes as something if a surprise to note that the final five novels of the series would be delivered in a space of only eight more years. Where Westlake had carefully rationed himself before, not wanting to overload the muse or go stale. Now he was going for broke.
The scheme in question this time around is an Anastasia: that is, the production of a false heir to a fortune (named after the claims of the supposed Princess Anastasia in the 1920’s, who was alleged to be the daughter of the Tsar of Russia who, contrary to popular belief, had not been executed after the Bolshevik Revolution.
Anastasia this time round is Little Feather Redcorn, nee Shirley Anne Farraff, former Vegas showgirl, blackjack dealer and, currently the last of the Pottaknobbees. The aforesaid Pottaknobbees are one of a group of Three Tribes – Oshkawa, Kiota, Pottaknobbee – who have had tribal lands returned to them and, in the fashion of many such Native Americans, immediately installed a very lucrative Casino on land which is not actually the United States. Unfortunately, the Pottaknobbees went extinct in the Forties, their last representative having headed out west, pregnant, and never been heard of again.
Little Feather is the grand-daughter of this last Pottaknobbee and, if her claim is accepted, will be entitled to a cool third of the Casino’s largesse, from day one.
The scam has been put together by the self-superior professional scam artist, Fitzroy Guilderpost, with the assistance of disgraced university professor, Irwin Gabel. Now Anastasia’s are difficult to pull nowadays, thanks to such things as DNA (the original ‘Anastasia’ has subsequently been conclusively proved to be a fake, incidentally). But Fitzroy has planned for this. Little Feather’s supposed Pottaknobbee great-grandfather (who fell off the Empire State Building during its construction, though the Tribes always believed he was pushed off by Mohawks) is buried in New York. In order to ensure that Little Feather will show up as genetically descended from Joseph Redcorn, Fitzroy plans to swap the coffins, inserting Little Feather’s actual grandfather.
Which is where we come in, or rather, via the Internet, the smug Fitzroy has hired an Andy ‘Kelly’ and his hangdog friend John, to do the actual grave-robbing, intending all along to dispose of their unwanted help. But John and Andy are the last people to do something like that to. So in order not to have their entire scam exposed, Fitzroy and co have to taken on unwanted partners, in Dortmunder, Kelp and Tiny Bulcher. Tiny’s very useful in negotiations, and don’t forget, John makes him laugh.
That’s where the book becomes different in tone. We stay close to the development of the scam, and in particular to Little Feather, who is out on her own for much of this, with the others making contact surreptitiously. And the scheme hits an immediate snag with an all-out, instant hostile response from the two casino Managers, Roger Fox (Oshkawa) and Frank Oglanda (Kiota) , the other Two Tribes).
It’s not just that Roger and Frank recognise a scam when they see one, and go through the usual process of warning off/buying off the nuisance. The problem is, Roger and Frank have been cooking the books until they’re positively crispy: they can’t afford for Little Feather to be real.
Their excessive response arouses the attention of everybody, including the upstate New York Judge, T. Wallace Higbee, who, faced with the most interesting legal case of his life, wants nothing more than to get back to boring and dull legal issues, and who is determined not to be messed around by all sort of high-powered New York legal tricks. The course of legal proceedings run somewhat differently.
What makes the book unusual, different enough to notice, is that it’s all about somebody else’s scheme. We’re used to Dortmunder’s kind of jobs, and how he approaches them, but this is Fitzroy’s scheme. John and Co are peripheral figures. Very influential and essential background figures when it comes to minutiae and areas of expertise that the equally professional Fitzroy (who, despite the evidence throughout, persist in thinking of himself as a considerably superior, and more intelligent person than his new partners) doesn’t think about.
But it’s somebody else’s con, and Dortmunder has nothing to do, and he starts to fret about it.
The case takes a twist when, with DNA having been put on the table, Dortmunder foresees that the Three Tribes are likely to repeat the grave-moving trick that started this story. Swapping coffins over and over again is impractical, and it’s Tiny who comes up with the ingenious solution: swap[ the headstones. Fox and Oglanda can swap coffins with a total stranger (literally: the grave they rob is of one Buford Strange), and Dortmunder and Co will just put the right gravestone back in time for the official exhumation.
Unfortunately, Fox and Oglanda send Fox’s incompetent nephew Benny Whitefish to do it, and there’s been so much activity round the graveyard by now that they’re caught – and the ostensible Redcorn grave ends up with a twenty-four hour guard to prevent further grave robbing. And restoration of the correct headstone.
This is where John can really get involved, and bring in Stan Murch and Murch’s Mom. The body that’s going to get DNA tested is Buford Strange, who is in no way an ancestor of Little Feather. Simple solution: provide DNA from one of his descendants. Is this getting confusing yet?
By a stroke of luck, Strange’s son was a famous artist whose preserved mansion, full of art treasures, is being curated by one of his daughters. So Dortmunder concocts a scene that involves stealing a sand-spreader and driving it from Cleveland, Ohio to upstate New York. A convenient storm saves them the job of knocking out the electrics in pretence of a storm so the security systems are down. Stan drops off his Mom at the house as a supposed stranded motorist seeking shelter until Stan finishes his sand-spreading duties, she keeps the family together whilst certain small and portable treasures vanish and, just before leaving, collects some hair from a hairbrush.
She also engages in some impromptu marriage counselling that results in saving a rocky marriage and, as a bonus side effect, concealing the fact that anything’s been stolen at all.
After that, it’s plain sailing. Dortmunder and Co offload their ill-gotten gains to a prozaced-but-still-obnoxious Arnie Allbright, Little Feather palms off the purloined hair onto the DNA expert, and the scam succeeds gloriously
Sadly, Fitzroy and Irwin are not around to see this, having embarked on long trips to the West Coast, on account of their having still believed themselves to be smarter than Dortmunder and Co and believing that their allies wouldn’t expect being bumped off now their usefulness was over. In their separate ways, both come to bad ends.
Little Feather is welcomed with open hearts to the Three Tribes as a long lost Pottaknobbee. This warmth does not extend to Fox and Oglanda, who react in different fashions. Fox empties out every bank account and decamps via Canada to commence a life of keeping himself and the money one step ahead of investigators. Oglanda gets drunk, tries to burn the books, and burns the casino down.
The casino that, in Fox and Oglanda’s greedy urge to skim absolutely everything off that they could, was uninsured.
No casino, no one-third share, and an eight-year wait until the Indians can get a licence to build another.
So ends another Dortmunder job. Mind you, there’s the money from the art treasures so our gang at least make something out of it. And Little Feather has a tribe to belong to, and Benny Whitefish wrapped round her little finger. And Fitzroy and Irwin brought it all on themselves, after all. And Judge T. Wallace Higbee can go back to having to deal with simple, straightforward cases involving nothing more than the blatant stupidity of ordinary people.
It’s enough of a happy ending.
As for the peripherals, Andy and Anne Marie have now settled into a solid relationship, like John and May, and Tiny and J.C. (this is demonstrated by an unusually domestic Thanksgiving Dinner that even John enjoys), whilst the O.J. Bar and Grill meeting makes explicit a little meme that’s been emerging inchoately over the last couple of books, that nobody (except Tiny) wants the chair with its back to the door.

Discovering Dortmunder: That Shared Chapter

So, here’s the deal. After writing about Drowned Hopes, and its shared chapter with Joe Gores’ 32 Cadillacs, I got curious for the first time about the other side of the coin, and what this shared chapter means in the other book. Using that tainted source of cheap books, Amazon, I ordered a copy of 32 Cadillacs for the princely sum of 1p, and my curiosity is now satisfied.
32 Cadillacs is a relatively early part of Gores’ DKA series, the DKA being Dan Kearney Associates, a San Francisco based firm of repomen. Which, for those unfamiliar with the term, means that their job is to repossess cars whose owners have fallen behind on the payments. And, whilst not technically being private detectives, having to use all the skills of such beings when dealing with skip-traces, i.e., tracking down delinquent car owners who have fled into the night.
Personally, whilst I’ll read anything readable once, I can’t imagine wanting to read a whole series, but then I’m not American, and I don’t have the same kind of relationship with my cars, and especially in the symbolic sense of how they relate to my masculinity/psycho-sexual self-image. This sort of stuff just goes deeper with Brother Jonathan.
Either way, Gores, like other crime-writers before him, was a repoman and a PI for many years so all the stuff that happens in his books is based on actual incidents, which much less tweaking than  you might fondly imagine. Not that I found myself boggling at, well, anything in this novel, not like in Homicide – Life on the Street, where some of the crimes are utterly bizarre, yet are based, sometimes word for word, on a book of non-fiction.
Anyway, to 32 Cadillacs: the story starts by setting up an ingenious scam by two tribes of Gypsies to simultaneously acquire 32 Cadillacs. Their purpose, apart from the fact that Gyppos (I am using the word bandied about freely in the book, this once) scam the Gadje as a way of life, is because the King of the Gypsies is dying as a result of a fall, so the Gypsies will need to choose a new King, or Queen, and everyone is seeking to impress the outgoing King, who will choose his successor.
(The back cover blurb promises “the ultimate scam of all”, and you don’t have to read far to realise that the King is not going to die, he’s just scamming the entire world).
But there are 32 Cadillacs that require repo-ing, which means that Dan Kearney puts his top men (and one woman) on it, and, give or take some sub-plots and a generous amount of Gypsy – let’s say Rom instead – scamming, that’s more or less the story.
Where our favourite gang come in is incredibly late in the story, chapter 42, pp 304-311 out of 335. As we already know, from Drowned Hopes, the Dortmunder gang come into this because of Andy Kelp’s propensity for stealing cars with MD plates. On this occasion, the Cadillac might have Doctor’s plates, but they’re fake, part of a Rom scam.
The guy trailing this particular Cadillac is Ken Warren, who we only know from Drowned Hopes as having a serious speech impediment, that makes him sound like Donald Duck. Warren’s only just been taken on at DKA, to cover the ordinary cases whilst the top team binge on Cadillacs. Warren turns out to be a phenomenal repo machine, breezing through repos in quantity and quality, which is why he’s seconded to the Cadillac team.
We already know what happens: the action and the dialogue are identical to Drowned Hopes and this brief chapter is an hilarious insert into a story that, according to the cover blurb, was supposed to be funny, but which wasn’t making me laugh. Even when they’re being looked at from the outside, the Dortmunders are inherently absurd and recognisable, and Gores sort of sums this up by having Warren leave the scene deflated that he hasn’t had anything resembling a fight to get the Caddy, and thinking that the only one who got things right in that episode was Tom Jimson.
Funnily enough, the scene is funnier and works better in 32 Cadillacs  than in Drowned Hopes. In both books, it’s an in-joke, albeit a big in-joke, but in Westlake’s book it’s wholly unrelated to the story, and it’s an interruption to the flow, whilst in Gores’ book, it’s an episode that, whilst calling attention to itself in a manner that interrupts the story, is structurally more acceptable, because the book is strongly episodic in its nature.
I’m reluctant to be dogmatic about this, since this is the only shared chapter I’ve ever come across, but my immediate impression is that they’re not really a good idea, because they are so detachable. The scene is more naturalistic in 32 Cadillacs but calls attention to itself in a slightly ‘how clever am I?’ manner but is an irrelevancy in Drowned Hopes. In both cases, the book stops whilst you admire the trick. And even if you don’t know that this is going on, the atmosphere changes as the two completely different milieu drift past each other, and you’re jolted, ever so slightly, out of the reality of whichever book you’re reading, which is always detrimental to the story.
I can think of circumstances in which the trick could be employed more seriously, and thus more successfully, but unless the authors were collaborating to an unlikely degree in their separate plotting, I can’t see it working as an integral part of both stories. As a serious part of the plot of one, and a convenient moment in another (e.g., disturbance created in book A to further protagonist’s plans also provides cover for protagonist in book B, who just happens to be in the same place), but it would take a lot of hard work to stop the exercise being, well, just a diversion.
At least I know now. And as for Gores’ work, based on this single example, it’s ok but it doesn’t pull me back for more. And, to be honest, the description of the activities of the Rom in this book as being a racial thing, does repel me.
Back to the Dortmunder gang!

Discovering Dortmunder: What’s the Worst that could Happen?

What’s the worst that could happen? was the point at which, for the first time in over twenty years, I caught up with the Dortmunder series in real time. I hadn’t gotten hold of Good Behavior at this point, but from here until the end of the series, I was grabbing each new book as it appeared on import to the Crime Fiction section of Waterstone’s on Deansgate, Manchester.
And the book is every bit as funny, and tight, and beautifully-plotted as I remember finding it first time round. And that’s because it’s based on a very simple, utterly gorgeous premise.
Let us lay out the setting. Dortmunder agrees with Gus Brock to join him on a visit, a visit here being a visit to a house whose owners are guaranteed not to be present at the hour of this social call. In this case, it’s out on Long Island and it’s a well-appointed, lavishly adorned property owned by a company in Chapter Eleven Bankruptcy, hence its lack of use.
However, the ultimate owner, of the company that owns the company that’s in Chapter Eleven is one Max Fairbanks, billionaire. Max comes from a shady European background that did involve killing people who got in his way, at least until he went legit and started collecting businesses, billions, art treasures, discreet mistresses. Max has a tremendous respect for the Law, until they try to apply it to him.
So, having been barred from the house on Long Island, Max is naturally there (with Miss September). And just as naturally, it is Dortmunder on whom he gets the drop, whilst Gus discreetly departs.
Dortmunder plays along. It’s the way of it: the arrest, trial, conviction. Third fall, habitual, life in prison. Not going back to May. He’s resigned to it. Until Max steals his ring.
Dortmunder is wearing a ring that arrived that very day for May: a sentimental keepsake from her late Uncle, the raceplayer, his ‘lucky’ ring. Naturally, given that John is maybe needing an uplift on the luck front, she gives it to him. And it fits perfectly, like it was meant for him. Until, later the same day, Max decides to thieve from the thief, to rub his nose in it that bit much more, to demonstrate his absolute power over the universe. And besides, the ring is decorated with Max’s personal trigram from the I-Ching, so obviously it was meant to be his all along.
That makes things different for Dortmunder. It’s not right. It’s outside the rules of the world he inhabits, and he’s not going to stand for it. There he was, all ready to go down for life,until this rich guy pulled this fast one, and John Archibald Dortmunder is not going to stand for that. He wants his ring back.
And, just as in Don’t Ask, Dortmunder surges into action. He escapes from the police car, evades detection and goes back to the house, though Max and his ring is gone now. So he has to complete the original visit, arriving back at the apartment with $28,000 in cash, and in disgust at his failure.
That’s the story of the book. Dortmunder grimly pursues Max Fairbanks, intent on getting back his ring. Each time, a whim or a chance diverts Max elsewhere, leaving Dortmunder frustrated, even though each failed raid nets an increasing amount of cash. All his associates are clustering about him, all aware of John’s little humiliation – gee, once you admit something to Andy Kelp, it really does go around – but all the more interested in these lucrative capers that are falling into his unconcerned and disappointed hands.
Meantime, Max cottons on to the fact that he’s made an inadvertently costly enemy of this ragged burglar and, in a bid to take control of the situation and win, as Max Fairbanks always does, he sets things up for one final crack at him, in Las Vegas, in Max’s casino/hotel.
Dortmunder has to take on the challenge, even though he knows it’s a trap. One thing though: by now he’s got so many associates rooting for him that a virtual criminal army travels cross-country to Nevada to take part in a plan whose principal difficulty is not getting in, nor getting out with a) everybody’s freedom and b) several million dollars in cash, nor even c) – which is A) in Dortmunder’s eyes – getting May’s ring back.
No, the real difficulty is finding something for everyone in a string this big to actually do.
Of course it comes off, not just like a dream for everyone concerned (even Dortmunder is happy with the payback), but in the process Max, like Frank Ritter and Harry Hochman before him, gets the kind of comeuppance that should more often happen in real life to smug, self-centred, grasping rich people.
Because, with loving irony, the Detective investigating the heist at the hotel/theatre in New York, where Max’s wife lives, is Andy Kelp’s occasional contact Bernard Klematsky. Klematsky, observing that Lutetia Fairbanks sleeps in this apartment every single night, except the one in which she goes with her husband to this Long Island house she’s never ever visited, and that’s the night they’re burgled of some serious art treasures, comes to the erroneous conviction that Max is in it and it’s all an insurance scam. It’s a conviction that Andy does nothing to discourage, as a result of which Klematsky stays on Max’s trail all the way to the end.
And whilst Max may be innocent of this one, there are things of which he is not innocent that will undoubtedly come to light if someone starts investigating…
Westlake’s increasing enthusiasm for seeing Financial Giants brought low for not observing the Law is almost socialist in its zeal, and adds another layer of delight to this outcome.
What else? Surprisingly, this is almost another Dortmunder/Kelp two-hander for most of the book. Stan and Tiny don’t come into the picture until the Casino caper, by which time we’ve reached page 200, and even then they’re just part of a bigger group.
There’s no Arnie Allbright this time round. Arnie has twice mentioned how people prefer to go to Stoon, even though he pays lower rates, just so they don’t have to talk to Arnie, and that’s what Dortmunder does throughout this book.
Of more importance to the series is the introduction of Anne Marie Carpinaw. Now Anne Marie is not of the profession (well, she’s a Congressman’s daughter so she’s no stranger to lies and law-breaking). Anne Marie is a more than attractive mid-western housewife on holiday in New York, whose marriage has just expired mid-holiday, and who’s staying on alone wondering what to do. Anne Marie is in the mood for change, for unpredictability and a certain amount of letting it happen.
Which is why she starts talking in the bar to Andy Kelp, starts seeing him and decides not to be shocked when he reveals that he and his pal John are crooks. This is because the next heist is going to have to be in Washington, DC. John and Andy have no local knowledge but Anne Marie does. She even goes to Washington with them, to help show them around the place where Max is staying.
Which is, of course, the Watergate Complex, and which leads to a running gag that goes over the disinterested Dortmunder’s head every time someone comments about planning a third rate burglary at the Watergate… You too? Shame on you.
By the end, Anne Marie isn’t entirely certain but she’s willing to extend her vacation a lot longer – until the end of the series, in fact.
What’s the worst that could happen? was filmed under the novel’s title in 2001, starring Martin Lawrence in the Dortmunder role (re-named Kevin Caffrey), with Danny DeVito as Max Fairbanks. I’ve never seen the film, though the synopsis (  in Wikipedia does show that the film did stick pretty close to the book. I can certainly see DeVito as Max.
Whether the film is any good or not, I can’t say, though the guy who wrote the filmscore regards it as the worst film he ever worked on, so you pays your money…
It’s also, to date, the last film made of any of the Dortmunder books.
Westlake wouldn’t write another Dortmunder book for five years, but that was the beginning of a fecund spell that saw the last five stories appear in a period of eight years. Hey, I wasn’t complaining!

Discovering Dortmunder: Don’t Ask

I don’t honestly know why, but whilst I’d remembered that Don’t Ask was based upon a similar premise to The Hot Rock, I’d completely forgotten just how funny it is. After the relatively paucity of laughs in Drowned Hopes, this book goes for the comedic jugular from the outset and provides more than its fair share of fun from start to tightly-plotted end.
Though there’s no formal division of the story into seconds, the book does fall naturally into two parts, the caper and the revenge. And the revenge is a true tour-de-force, not merely from Westlake, but also from the put-upon John Archibald Dortmunder. This time it’s a real shame that the much-expanded gang doesn’t get away with the loot.
But before we can get into just what Dortmunder wants revenge for, we need to get a handle on the caper.
We start, as always, with the failed heist. It seems to be a simple job, just the removal of a truckload of freshly caught fish to another destination. But Dortmunder, Kelp and Murch get stuck on the Williamsburg Bridge under the hot sun for four hours, with John in agony from the air-conditioning dripping ice cold water on his ankles. So he switches the A/C off. The reason for not doing so is duly revealed four hot hours later when they open the truck. So they lose it by parking it in some out of the way lorry park, waiting for someone to notice.
I don’t normally go into such detail about the failed heist, but I’d like you to remember this little incident, even though it’s not going to be mentioned again for a very long time.
In the meantime, Tiny’s got a job for them, as delivered by his cousin, Grijk Krungk, and it’s right up Dortmunder’s street. That’s because it involves these two countries that hate each other, because they used to be one country before they were two, and they had this national relic that both worshipped, only one country’s got it and the other country wants it and they want John to swipe it for them.
As it happens, the object is not an emerald but rather a bone: to be precise, the  femur of Saint Ferghana. And there’s something valuable as stake: whichever of these two Eastern European countries has the real bone will get the United Nations seat of the old country. Outlandish as this may seem, there is a perfectly good explanation for why this is so, which Westlake has taken the trouble to set down in the book, so that means I don’t have to go into that here, because you are going to go out and read this now, aren’t you?
The initial snag is that Tesrgovia is a poor country and, whilst Tiny’s prepared to do this one for the old country, payment in Tsergovian draffs, spendable only in Tsergovia doesn’t really live up to Dortmunder’s family crest, Quid lucrum istic mihi est (What’s in it for me?)
That snag is gotten past when Tsergovia take out a Bank Loan to pay in US Dollars (that is one loan application I’d love to see), but the second snag is that the Vostkojek Embassy is a converted tramp steamer moored on the East River, which means that to case it in any meaningful manner, the gang have to take to the waters.
Unfortunately, after recent events, Dortmunder has developed an aversion to large bodies of water. So much so that, partway through the voyage, he insists on being returned to dry land at the nearest point, which is basically the land attached to the Vostkojek Embassy.
However, here he meets Hradec Kralowc, the womanising Vostkojekian Ambassador. Hradec starts of by suspecting a Tsergovian invasion, but rapidly comes to sympathise with the sea-sick John Diddums (the first appearance, at least in the novels, of Dortmunder’s reluctant alias, being the only word that ever comes into his head when he has to give a false name: he claims it’s Welsh). So much so, he insists on giving his fellow sea-loather on a tour of the Embassy, showing him everything, including St Ferghana’s femur. It’s the first time John’s ever had the householder help him case the joint.
The caper is planned to perfection, leaving aside those unpredictable hitches that could happen to anybody. The scientist on the shift before ‘Dr’ Andy Kelp is a bit too meticulous over his tests, delaying Kelp’s departure with the purloined femur until Dortmunder’s diversion is almost done. Kelp panics, blows Dortmunder’s cover, makes his escape onto the boat Murch has stolen, but Dortmunder can’t bring himself to jump and is captured.
Matters are further complicated when Murch and Kelp land their boat, only to find themselves surrounded by a task force from the DEA: they’ve only stolen a noted drug-runner’s craft.
For a time, the story runs in parallel. Hradec doesn’t report the theft to the Police because the gang got away with the bone. Instead, he plans to use Dortmunder to get the bone back, but naturally a professional won’t crack. Not unless he’s been drugged by Doctor Zorn, flown out out the country to a far away land where he’s lodged in the dungeons and will be tortured until he cracks…
Several episodes of the Diary of a Prisoner ensue, intertwined with scenes of Kelp and Murch managing to convince the DEA that not only are they nothing to do with the drug-runner, they haven’t even stolen the boat. They get released but the boat does get impounded, as do any suspicious looking bones that got kicked out of sight under a tarpaulin, and are taken away.
Tsergovia makes it clear that it expects its bone, so Kelp and Murch have to go it alone in tracing the whereabouts of the bone and stealing it back, whilst worrying about the absent John. Meanwhile, Diary of a Prisoner turns into Diary of an Escapee, and when Andy and Stan finally deliver the bone to Grijk and his new Deputy Security Chief, they can’t understand why he doesn’t seem more excited.
Until they’re two blocks away and just recalling that Tsergovia is too poor to afford two Security Chiefs, and that Vostkojek has just stolen the bone back.
Well, everybody’s been paid, except Tiny, who’s been doing this for nothing, and it’s not the gang’s fault Tsergovia lost the bone, and besides, Dortmunder’s back. Except that Dortmunder is back not from Vostkojek but from Vermont, where Hradec and his good friend, and would-be investor in Vostkojek, Harry Hochman, have worked a con on him.
Dortmunder is not happy. He’s been played for a rube and he doesn’t like it. In fact, he wants revenge. Revenge on Hradec, Doctor Zorn, Harry Hochman, Vostkojek. Revenge that gets Tsergovia its bone and its UN seat, no questions asked. Revenge that, incidentally, involves the heisting of $6,000,000 in art treasures
And he’s only got about 72 hours in which to come up with a plan.
I said tour-de-force and I meant tour-de-force. It’s Dortmunder’s finest hour, a bigger theft than even the Byzantine Fire (Why Me? This book is full of references to old jobs: only Jimmy the Kid goes unrecalled). It requires three jobs in three locations, one of them overseas, a string of eleven, in violation of his sternest maxim – if a job can’t be done with five men, it’s not worth doing at all.
And it all comes out the way Dortmunder plans it, at high speed, especially the bit where the gang trains the staff at Harry Hochman’s chateau into ignoring the burglar alarm when it goes off. There’s a tremendous joy in watching all the dominos fall in the correct order, bringing down humiliation, exposure and destruction on Hradec, Zorn and Hochman, colapsing into deserved ruin and disgrace of which they’re each completely innocent. It’s a masterpiece.
All that’s left is to collect on the $6,000,000 in Art Treasures. The goods are being kept safe in a truck, parked in a lorry park out in New Jersey. Every couple of days, Murch takes the ferry over and moves the truck into another anonymous lorry park.
Are you hearing a ball ringing? Or, more appropriately, are you smelling anything fishy?
If you recall, that failed heist from nearly 340 pages back involved leaving a truck in a New Jersey lorry park. The smell’s gotten bad enough that the truck’s been found and the Police have come to tow it. Unfortunately, they tow the wrong truck…
And so the eternal verities of a Dortmunder prevail yet again and wesettle ourselves down in happy anticipation of the next one.
Good as the first half of this book is, it’s that gloriously plotted and executed revenge scenario that makes Don’t Ask an awesome success, and which undoubtedly inspired the next Dortmunder novel. Even if the job ultimately goes sour, the back half of the book is so rich and successful on every other level that an unusual degree of happiness surrounds the end of the story, especially when the seemingly unimportant detail that Vostojek’s application for independent UN admission is now queued behind that of Maylohda is discovered to come unusually close to home by the end.
There are just too many things in the book overall to give all of them away, but mention must be made of a couple of first en route. There are cameos for J.C.Taylor early on, listening in on the gang and Grijk, and taking her own inspiration from Tsergovia’s ambitions, and from Arnie Allbright, as obnoxious as before, providing credit cards with a strictly limited shelf-life.
There’s the rather solidly built Head of the Tsergovian Mission who turns out to be the only person on this Earth who can intimidate Tiny Bulcher, because she has a crush on him, and the rather matter of fact way in which we learn that Tiny’s first name is actually Tchotchkuss, though this is  not a matter to be repeated, and certainly not in front of Tiny.
Oh, and whilst he never graduates beyond a minor background character, we do have our first meeting with Ralph Winslow, a brilliant one-handed locksmith: one-handed because he always has in his other hand a glass of something amber in which ice cubes tinkle merrily. Always.
The next book I do remember as being one of the most hilarious of the series on first reading. I shall shortly confirm if it repeats the trick.

Discovering Dortmunder: Drowned Hopes

At 453 pp, Drowned Hopes is by a stretch the longest Dortmunder novel (it’s more than two and a half times as long as Jimmy the Kid) and if it has a failing it’s a sense that it’s got the usual amount of laughter in it, but having to fend for itself in more open territories.
It’s not a bad book, and I’m not suggesting that Westlake has stretched his idea out beyond its natural length. Rather, it’s the technical problem that Dortmunder has to solve that, perfectly naturally, requires time and space to tackle. Added to that a genuine sense of menace from the book’s seriously bad apple, and overall, Drowned Hopes, turns out to be an unexpectedly serious book, in amongst the absurdities.
Other than that, it’s what we all expect and look forward to. The gang is now fixed as a core quartet with an off-beat fifth member performing as a descant. May is once again something of a conscience for the book, Murch’s Mom plays a part – as well as giving up her first name as being Gladys – and it’s made perfectly clear that Tiny and J.C.Taylor are a shared-apartment item, even though the lady herself stays offstage this time.
Time has moved on, the big score the gang made last time out has gone the way of all money, and Dortmunder’s again working on the small heists that are bread and butter. This time his job goes wrong even before the book starts: the jeweller’s moved away, the antiques shop has switched to Disney collectibles, the cheque-casher’s got in a mean dog. It takes a page or two before May can get through to him that he’s got an even bigger problem: he has a visitor.
The newcomer is Tom Jimson. He’s not an old friend, but an old cell-mate: a bony, grey, tall guy notorious for being the only guy to come out of capers in which his erstwhile colleagues end up either in the hands of the Law or those of the Grim Reaper. And he’s not supposed to be here: he’s serving seven life-sentences. But, on account of prison overcrowding, and as a seventieth birthday present, the state has sent Tom Jimson out once more into the outside, where he intends to collect a $700,000 stash from a long ago job and head off to somewhere the other side of Acapulco.
Jimson is the sort of guy that nobody will miss having around. He calls Dortmunder Al, not John, on account of John’s middle name being Archibald, which he hates: Jimson knows that. However, he has a proposition for ‘Al’. It seems that, not long after he did the job that enabled him to bury that $700,000 behind the library in Putkin’s Corners, the New York State Government put a reservoir on top of it: the stash is protected by fifty feet of water. If Dortmunder, with or without whoever he calls in, helps Jimson retrieve his stash, he can have half.
This presents Dortmunder with two problems in the long and short terms. The long term problem is the way Jimson’s partners never really get to enjoy their share of the cut. The short term one is that Jimson doesn’t really want him for his skills at planning jobs. Tom has a plan: he just wants Dortmunder to help him place the dynamite when he blows the dam. That way, they don’t have to worry about the water, and they won’t get disturbed because people are just naturally going to be ore concerned about this great big wave of water sweeping down-valley and engulfing these half-dozen or so towns along the way.
Dortmunder is horrified. Actually, he’s appalled too. And he finds himself forced to take on this job, to find away of getting the loot, under the reservoir, under fifty foot of water, out without killing thousands of people in doing so. After all, it’s not going to be that difficult for Jimson to find partners whose desire for $350,000 won’t be hindered for a second by other considerations.
That’s where a lot of the book’s length comes from: you just can’t come up with simple, straightforward plans to tackle a job like that, and there’s a familiar Hot Rock-esque aspect to seeing the gang pulling the same job several times over. Westlake makes sure we don’t get bored with this repetitive task by providing several amusing distractions that weave themselves into the story.
The first of these is Wally Knurr, a four and a half foot tall, naïve but highly intelligent butterball of a computer geek who is, naturally, an acquaintance of Andy Kelp. Wally, who is not a crook, lives in a world of computers and interactive games, and is brought in by Kelp to ‘assist’ Dortmunder’s planning by running things through a very accurate model of the valley. Wally starts out being an innocent, but given that he’s very far from stupid, soon works out what’s going on (primarily through conversations with his computer, which tends to reduce things to the level of an interactive game, involving the hero (Wally), the warlord (Jimson) and the princess.
The Princess is Myrtle Street, who lives on Myrtle Street in Dudson Center, a town down-valley of the dam. Myrtle, a pretty but somewhat unformed girl of twenty-five, is a librarian, taking after her elderly, bad-tempered, fault-finding mother Edna, who’d borne her out of wedlock. Myrtle’s never really thought about her birth-father, not until her mother launches into some uncharacteristic obscenities one day in the car because she’s just unexpectedly seen Myrtle’s father again.
Edna’s shock is every bit as great as Dortmunder’s, and for the exact same reason: Myrtle is the daughter of Tom Jimson. And when strangers start turning up and showing an interest in the same long ago, pre-reservoir robbery that Myrtle’s already worked out is the probable cause of her father’s absence from her life, her already-fixated interest grows insatiable.
One of those strangers is Wally, but another is Doug Berry, a diving expert who, having gotten intrigued by Dortmunder and Kelp’s need for compressed air from a registered diver who won’t ask too many questions, is trying to muscle on on their job (and is soon trying to muscle in on what’s underneath Myrtle’s cotton dress). Doug has to be incorporated in the job, just like Wally.
Unfortunately, the job is not going well. It might have seemed easy just to suit up and walk in to find the stash, but Dortmunder and Kelp are complete novices at diving (even when they’re not diving) and Dortmunder soon develops a healthy and not entirely irrational fear of a reservoir that, quite seriously, is out to kill him.
Indeed, Dortmunder wants out. In an unusual twist, the extended gang stays behind, still trying to make the job work, whilst he goes home to New York. Until the day he returns to the apartment to find Stan Murch waiting for him with the news that May has moved out. No, she’s not left him, she’s just taking a holiday, her and Murch’s Mom. They’re renting a house in a nice, relaxing, upstate New York community. In Dudson Center. In front of the dam.
So now John has an incentive to come up with a plan that will keep Tom Jimson away from the dynamite.
That’s when things start to get complicated, when Westlake starts drawing together all the strings he’s been running out, including the more-than-crazed ex-partner of Jimson’s who wants revenge, and everything comes to a head out on the reservoir, in a boat, with the job working smoothly and everything going right, and Jimson preparing his usual double-cross.
Oh, it goes wrong of, course, and this time the twist is that Dortmunder’s the one who blows it, and there goes the $700,000 and this time no more chances. Still, Tom Jimson isn’t going to be bothering anyone any more, and the dam is still in one piece, even if the gang’s return for all their efforts is zip, zilch and nada.
Somebody does profit, however, as the final chapter reveals, much to everyone’s disgust.
Drowned Hopes is still a good book, and I wouldn’t suggest overlooking it, but don’t expect the same degree of fun as with others in this series. Whether he intended to or not, Westlake’s decision to use a character like Tom Jimson – who is a satire of the kind of people the late writer Jim Thompson (whose novel The Grifters, Westlake had adapted for the very successful 1990 film), a very hard-boiled writer, is known for – anchors the book in a greater level of criminal reality than anything since The Hot Rock.
Jimson’s really something of an inimical figure in Dortmunder’s world, which has over the past six books taken on something of a cartoon feel. We read the Dortmunder books because, whilst they are steeped in the reality of the criminal world, they are actually fantastic and improbable stories that are anchored to reality by that verisimilitude, when we know (but don’t want to understand) that neither these people nor these settings can actually exist. Jimson’s just that bit too much truthful, with too few comic edges to soften the blow.
Incidentally, there’s another crime fiction nod of the head in this book. Chapter 57 features the gang congregating in Dudson Center in a variety of stolen vehicles, one of which is a silver Cadillac, being pursued by a very intent repo man named Ken Warren, who has a speech impediment. Warren is intent on taking that car, but finds himself boxed in by vehicles on all four sides, not to mention Tom Jimson wanting to kill him. The moment he gets out that he’s a repo man, everybody is all smiles and clear his way.
This is, I understand, a crossover, or rather a ‘shared chapter’ with the book 32 Cadillacs by Joe Gores, part of his DKA series (novels featuring private detective Dan Kearney which apparently feature thinly-disguised accounts of Gores’ own experiences as a sleuth and a repo man). The same events appear in 32 Cadillacs, but from the point of view of Gores’ characters.
I’ve never read any of Gores’ books (apparently, Westlake and Gores had done this before, with a Richard Stark Parker book) though it would be interesting to see the other side of this. Unfortunately, whilst it’s a neat in-gag, the knowledge of it, for me at least, turns an otherwise throwaway gag into something of undue significance, blowing the gag.
Still, if Drowned Hopes was a minor disappointment, there would still be another story to come, of tighter length, even if there was a certain amount of familiarity to its theme…

Discovering Dortmunder: Good Behavior

Good Behavior was the only Dortmunder novel I read out of sequence. For some reason, it seems to be the rarest of the books, having apparently not been included in the Mysterious Press uniform re-issue of the series in the early Nineties, from which I draw the majority of my collection, the covers of which I’m trying to use as illustrations.
I’d originally read The Hot Rock and Bank Shot from the library, in English hardback publications, but Westlake’s works have rarely since then been available in the UK and I’ve had to rely on imports thereafter. In 1977, in a long ago closed London bookshop of good repute, I got hold of the next three of the series, but it was easily another decade before I found it had continued. I managed to get hold of the seventh and eighth books, and then the two after these as they were published and imported into the Crime Section at Waterstones in Manchester, but I had to wait until the Amazon era before I could backtrack to this missing gem.
Once again, the story opens with Dortmunder out on a job that quickly goes wrong, and when I say quickly, I’m talking within the first ten words here. Dortmunder’s partner here is not, for once, Andy Kelp but instead Jim O’Hara, a rather colourless fellow who is shortly going to have the opportunity to work on his prison pallor. Dortmunder takes off in a different direction, only to fall off a roof.
The scene quickly shifts to inside a convent, a convent of nuns devoted to contemplation, prayer and a vow of silence that only allows them two hours off every Thursday afternoon to talk. One nun in particular is sat there, Contemplating, whilst praying for long life to the Pope, forgiveness of the souls in Purgatory, the conversion of Godless Russia and the return of Sister Mary Grace. Suddenly, burglar’s tools start dropping from the rafters. Which is where John Dortmunder, with a badly sprained ankle, is perched. Thank you Lord, our prayers are answered.
This unlikely thought is gradually unravelled, through the medium of good will, patience and charades. Sister Mary Grace is the convent’s newest and youngest nun, faithful, devoted and determined. Unfortunately, outside the convent, she’s the youngest daughter of a very rich industrialist/financier/businessman, Frank Ritter, whose plans for her life are somewhat more conventional, and directed towards expanding the family empire, so he had her kidnapped, imprisoned on the 76th floor of the Avalon State Bank Tower, behind impregnable security, and is having her worked on (unsuccessfully) by the world’s leading deprogrammer.
It’s not a question of barter, but in unspoken exchange for not shopping Dortmunder to those very busy policemen at the other end of the block, the nuns want him to steal Sister Mary Grace back.
This improbable, but somewhat uplifting scenario makes for a strangely positive book, the first of the series, since for once – perhaps because they are working on the side of the angels – the gang gets an all-points win,including a pay-off that’s spectacular enough to see Dortmunder and May on holiday in Bermuda by the final pages. But, naturally, it’s not an easy ride.
Leaving aside the practical difficulties of breaking into a high security, 76 storey, downtown business centre to rescue Rapunzel from the apartment on the top floor (which only becomes possible because Rapunzel is not just faithful, devoted and determined, but resourceful and smart too, and gets the security spec books smuggled out to the nuns) there’s the question of manpower.
Sure, Andy Kelp – who has taken to using his credit card to bypass the lock whenever he drops in on John and May – will help, for old times sake, but Stan and Tiny will want a profit motive. However, given that the building is just chock-a-block with import and jewellery businesses, the prospect can be made tempting enough. And John’s plan is ingenious to say the least.
For the building includes, amongst its many tenants, several mail order businesses. And it is well known that wherever you get mail order businesses, you get people running scams. One such is J. C. Taylor, who is willing to allow the gang to hole up for the weekend in Taylor’s offices, breaking out on Sunday to relieve the 26th floor of its goodies, and sending these out of the building on Monday as part of J. C. Taylor’s everyday post.
The nun will be taken out separately.
It’s Tiny whose contacts have uncovered J. C. Taylor, and it’s Tiny who’s most affected by the discovery that J. C. is actually a woman: an attractive, albeit hard-faced woman, aged about thirty: self-confident, brash, cynical, and capable of having a very unusual effect upon Tiny Bulcher, hormonally, that is.
Indeed, though she’s cynical and uncaring enough to make him almost resentful of her, it’s not really surprising that, by the end, he’s calling her Josie (which nobody else ever does), and it’s clear the relationship is heading for blue waters.
J. C.’s not part of the gang, though her curiosity puts her on the scene in the latter part of the book, and she’s instrumental in driving the remaining members of the gang into doing the right thing.
The gang is, however, complete on this occasion by another of Westlake’s weird and wonderful locksmiths. Chefwick’s retired, Herman X. is now Vice-President of Talabwo (remember the Balabomo Emerald?), so Tiny brings in little old Wilbur Howey, a little old man who spends virtually all his time singing and dancing, and panting after women.
You see, Wilbur once got caught and sent down for ten years but, on account of his insistence on escaping over and over again, it’s taken forty-eight years for him to get out. Wilbur’s been locked away from women for forty-eight years and is eager to impress himself on them, though the fact that his tastes, talk and general demeanour are still set to forty-eight years ago, he’s not destined to have much luck.
You’ll remember that I said something about “the remaining members of the gang” just now? That’s because the plan is working perfectly, everybody’s busy filling their boots (almost literally) with precious items (Kelp keeps diverting himself into the Magic Shop, until Stan has to have a word about it), and Dortmunder, with Wilbur’s help, is off to the 76th floor to retrieve Sister Mary Grace, and you know how every time there’s some little obstruction, some unforeseeable detail that the plan doesn’t cater for?
This time it’s the fact that Frank Ritter has it in for some South American country which has defied him. So he plans to have its government overthrown by a small army of extremely violent, homicidally maniacal, volatile mercenaries, who are staying in the Avalon State Bank Tower before flying out on Monday.
Sister Mary Grace is on the 76th floor. They’re on the 75th…
I’ll leave the rest of it to your good idea to get Good Behavior and read it. All I shall say is that Ritter gets his proper comeuppance, the mercenaries are arrested, Sister Mary Grace is reunited with her convent (whilst supplying some assistance to the rebels of Guerrero along the way) and, in a delightful precursor of Sister Act, a bunch of singing nuns get the gang out of the building, under the not very watchful eye of our old friend, Chief Inspector Francis X. Mologna. Pronounced Maloney.
More even than Why Me?, Good Behavior represented a pivot in the series. From this point on, though Dortmunder still finds life sticking spokes in his wheel all along the way, the gang will usually come out of their capers with something for their trouble, other than the freedom to plot the next job without the attention of warders.
And the gang is a gang now, John, Andy, Stan and Tiny. Though they all continue to earn their daily bread in their own manner, with or without other professional colleagues, when there’s a serious caper going, this is the quartet that will do it. Tiny’s initial fearsomeness, though it still has plenty of rope, begins to be tempered a little in this book, a process we understand will be accelerate once Josie starts to rub a few rough edges off him (not too many, Tiny being composed entirely from an overstock of rough edges).
But the moment J.C. shamed the other four into going to rescue Dortmunder, which even Kelp had agreed wasn’t going to happen, a sense of loyalty was created.
As usual, Good Behavior is very funny. There’s a lot of charades, which Westlake handles very skilfully, keeping it funny as Dortmunder (and others) have to interpret it, but not overusing the device until it stifles. There’s also a pragmatic degree of moral relativity among the nuns in the aid they lend to the gang, especially at the end, and May – who abruptly gives up cigarette smoking near the start of the book, only to start scratching her head a lot – even has a sub-plot of her own, scaring off the guy who wants to sue Dortmunder in court to recover the fee he paid John to commit the failed robbery of page 1.
It would be another five years before Westlake returned to his gang of oddballs, during which he would publish six other novels, four of them under the pseudonym Samuel Holt. It was one of the ways in which he would keep the series fresh, and fend off the risk of dipping too much into self-parody. Because next time out, in the longest book of the series, Dortmunder would find himself again doing the right thing, and this time without a convent of nuns spurring him on.