Dortmunder, well aware of his own history of bad luck, had done his best to cover every possibility. A quick check of the timesheet Scotch-taped to the movie cashier's window had told him Sex Sorority's schedule for the evening: 7:00, 8:45, 10:30. Meaning the last show would finish at 12:15. Therefore, at 10:30 exactly on this crisp clear November night, Dortmunder had nosed his station wagon into the alley, had driven slowly past the repair shop's rear door, and had parked two or three shops farther on. Using two keys, a crowbar and the heel of his left foot, he'd effected entry into the shop, and during the next hour and a half he'd assembled most of the TVs and radios and other appliances over by the rear door, his work illuminated by a combination of the streetlight outside and an anti-crime nightlight over the empty cash register. At 12:15 by his watch, by the clock over the rear-room worktable, and by nine digital clock-radios he'd rejected as too penny-ante for the effort, he had opened the rear door, picked up two television sets – a Philco and an RCA – and stepped outside to the sudden dead-white glare of four headlights. (Leave it to cops to keep their high beams on in the city.)
Tonight – tonight – one of the cops all of a sudden had to take a leak. In fact, Dortmunder, handcuffed and advised of his rights and disencumbered of the TV sets, had had to wait in the back seat of the prowl car while the goddam cop went over to some garbage cans and proceeded to relieve himself. Relieve himself. "I could also use some relief," Dortmunder had muttered, but no one had heard him.