“It was more than close,” the first suit said. “There goes Chauncey with the ten grand he promised us, and the jewels and stuff still in his house, and us with no money for airplane tickets.”
“I was thinking about that,” the second suit said. “While we were lying on the floor down there. And I think I got a terrific idea.”
“Oh?”
“Listen to this. We fake a skyjacking, but what we really do–” And at that point the eager voice faltered to a stop, because the first suit had turned its blank metal face and was gazing fixedly at the second suit. “Dortmunder?” said the second suit. “Something wrong?”
Instead of answering, the first suit raised a mailed fist and swung it in a great half circle, but the second suit jumped (clank!) backward out of the way, so that the first, following the momentum around, nearly but not quite fell down the steps. Balance regained, it advanced on the second suit, which backed away, saying “Dortmunder? Don’t be like this. You’ll regret it when you’re calm.”
The first suit kept moving forward, swinging the right arm again and this time striking a spark from a slight knick against the second suit’s nose.
“No! cried the second suit. “Dortmunder!” But then it turned and ran, out of the courtyard and down the steep stony hill in the moonlight, the first suit blundering and thundering after, both yelling now, up crag and down glen, clanking and crashing eastward toward the sunrise, one suit of armor chasing another, a thing that hasn’t been seen in that neighborhood for years and years. And years.
The End