by Al Fray
“Which brings us to the second question. When do I get all this gold?”
“That’s the beauty of this truck escape, Mac.” Ward said, his heavy features bent into a smile. “Ed and the boys will have over half an hour to separate the cash in the van as we run. Two piles; half of it goes up to the syndicate with the boys they send down and the rest stays here. Vehon will take care of it for a few days and then we’ll make the divvy—share and share alike.”
“It worries me,” I said simply.
“So stop sweating. We’re right here; you’ve got us over the barrel too, you know. And nobody’s going to get smart and try to hold out and risk having somebody squeal. It happened to the boys in the big Brink’s job—a million-dollar score booted away—but it isn’t going to happen to us, because we’re cutting the pumpkin carefully and evenly. We share and share alike, McCarthy, all the way.”
All the way!
We rode back to town and over and over in my mind went the phrase all the way. The big money! The big kill!
Surely they didn’t intend to let McCarthy live through this one. Not only for the money my share would come to—there were a dozen other loose ends sticking out of the pile and every one I unraveled led to the same place. And I didn’t think I’d like being in a truck cab under sixty feet of cold quarry water. There were several things I thought about doing when we went back to the union hall and I got into my Ford. A couple of shots of rum would have gone down nicely, something to ease the tension that was tightening in around me, but this wasn’t the night for drinking. Not by a long way, but I needed smokes, so I stopped for a pack and a word with Marty Bruno.
I asked how the family was and only half listened to his reply. He said something about it beginning to rain and I was surprised to see that the streets were already wet. I hadn’t even been aware that the drops were falling.
Back in my car again, I drove past the Tyler bungalow and on toward the edge of town. Farther on the hobo jungle was off to the left and small fires dotted the misty darkness. I parked the car and watched a switch engine moving along the tracks, its yellow light cutting a bright cone of raindrops out of the night.
A lot had happened since I’d come back to River City and the time of decision was at hand. I hadn’t come up with any good way to smear the forthcoming deal that Ward and Vehon were planning but at least this time I knew where each of them fitted into the action. I knew where they would be; it might be possible to pull the rope and trip them both. But even so I wouldn’t be any better off than I was four years ago. How do you beat a syndicate? If they couldn’t afford to let Swede Anderson live after Bernie Miller’s execution, how were they going to like a sellout on this job? About seven of their men would be racked up on a long-time count for attempted robbery and maybe some of these could be caught with Doberman’s killing. Again I would be the witness; again I would point the finger. And after that?
Fifty men—a hundred men? Men who had never even heard of me, yet after that trial they would be gunning for my hide.
But if I stayed in town I would certainly try to upset the apple cart. I’d been aced into my part in Doberman’s death with a fast line about shifting materials; I had no intention of going that far again.
Which brought me to another point—just where would they unload McCarthy? For sure I was slated to ride with the rig when she plunged into the quarry. I would be alive to drive it that far; only Ken Miller would be with me in the cab. He’d hardly be assigned the task of cutting me down alone and that meant I was going to be around until the point where they were to rough me up for my alibi.
They’d simply overdo that part of the plan—it figured now, that phony breakdown Ken had pulled and why he wanted to handle my truck. Somebody had to start the thing over that embankment.
I looked down toward the yards again and thought about Captain Domms and his advice four years ago. Run from tomorrow! Peddle my hack in the morning, grab a few things out of the apartment that evening, and catch a freight. Warm California winters, a change of scenery as the harvest shifts, and no syndicates skimming off all the dough.
Big, fat, money-hungry syndicates!
A warm tingle started low in my spine and worked its way upward. I looked at the glowing tip of my smoke, then took a long slow drag.
Why hadn’t I thought about it before?
So maybe this thing could be done. Catch the right moment and stay one jump ahead, unhorse the boys in command and grab the reins…
I burned up two more cigarettes as I sat in my car and looked down into the freight yards, my mind tracing again and again the maze that Sam Ward and Ed Vehon had worked out.
They had made two mistakes. Both were serious. And maybe those two mistakes were going to raise complete and holy hell with seven trusting souls who expected to bump off a hobo truck driver and gather in fast money any day now.
Chapter 17
I was going to need two props, both of them easily obtainable and neither very fancy. The first was a pocket knife and at a local hardware I made my selection. Passing over the assortment of scout knives and screwdriver-canopener jobs, I settled on a good sized snap blade model that looked plenty lethal and wasn’t kidding one bit. It was strictly functional, no pearl in the handle and no fancy fringes, but mechanically sound. A slight pressure on the button sent four inches of business-like steel sliding out of the end and a small dog clicked into place to lock the mechanism.
When I pulled into Tyler’s yard after my next day’s run, I pawed through a couple of boxes of junk and came up with a reasonably fine stone. A small investment in time added to the edge already produced by a proud manufacturer and when I wet a thumbnail and drew the knife across, the blade didn’t slide. There was that slow steady drag that brought a grim smile to my face and reminded me of world series broadcasts, the three bells, and a well-known razor maker’s phrase about the sharpest edges ever honed.
I put the stone aside, sheathed the blade, and put the knife away. The second item would cost me nothing; it was purely a matter of choosing among the many at hand. So I went to the box of tire irons under the bench and sorted through until I found a piece of spring leaf just over a foot in length. My fingers closed nicely around it and the balance felt just right as I slapped the hard steel into the palm of my other hand. Locating a rag and some gas, I went to work and when the spring leaf was clean I dropped it on the small ledge behind the backrest in the cab of my truck.
A couple of weeks, Sam had said, and I would have to sweat out the time. Driving with just a little more care than usual and staying alert for any sign of contact, I went about my daily chores. Saturday there was a ball game; Gail, Bub and I went to a show in the evening.
Sunday night, and the first week was behind me. Then five more days, anxious hours as the time drew closer and I waited for the word to come. Friday night I got in late and had to bounce back early Saturday for a day of overtime. Which was good. Physical work helped to ease the mounting tension. When I climbed down from the cab in the early evening, checked the rig over, and then backed her into the stall to await Monday morning, I went into the glass office.
“How’d the ball game go?” I asked. Gail looked up from her desk and smiled, then pushed a wisp of hair into place.
“We lost, but it was a close game, Mac. I—I was wishing you were there.”
“Where’s Bub?”
“Over at Tip’s house,” Gail said, “along with some other boys. Tip’s dad is taking them into the city tomorrow for a round at the zoo and a big league game later, so they’re leaving early in the morning.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said, “and as long as you’re liberated for the evening, why don’t we spend a little of this time and a half you’re paying me and have some fun?”
“Such as?”
“Well, we could start with—”
Gail held up her hand, then turned to push the papers in front of her into a pile, and when she had them together she dropped the whole works into a w
ire basket. “Don’t tell me, Mac. I’ll buy it sight unseen; we could both use some fun. I can’t help noticing that you’ve been a little keyed up this week.”
“Strictly your imagination,” I lied. “Never felt better in my life. I’ll clean up and be back about eight-thirty. That all right?”
“Sure, Mac. Eight-thirty.”
“Don’t eat,” I said. Gail stood in the door and watched me drive out of the yard and when I turned into the street and headed toward town, she was still there.
Half past eight would leave me more than an hour and a half so I glanced through the evening paper, then stretched out on the bed, and folded my hands behind my head for a bit of meditation.
It was common talk around town that Doberman’s Trucking was falling apart at the seams, now that Big Bob was no longer at the helm, and the way it looked Ward’s Trucking would be cutting into the business soon. I had a feeling that Ward might even bid for the thing, if it came to the point that Doberman’s heirs were willing to sell. If that happened there was going to be an even more lop-sided transportation picture in River City than there had been. Not a very hopeful outlook for Tyler’s—that much was for sure.
But there’s a limit to how long I could stay on the fringe of what was really trying to fill my mind—the caper that was soon to begin to roll. Ken and Sam and Ed! And four men I’d never even seen, but one of these days before long the eight of us, working according to a well-timed plan…
Later, when I parked my Ford in front of Tyler’s and tapped on the door, Gail called a cheery “Come in,” and a low whistle escaped me as I stepped in and closed the door behind me. She moved across the room to put away some tiny bottles and the aroma of nail polish drifted lightly through air.
“That whistle is appreciated, sir.” Gail laughed, turning toward me.
“Credit where credit is due,” I said, nodding approval. She’d made the most of black and yellow, and the total effect would have made an Egyptian mummy sit up, unwind his linen, and take off in hot pursuit. Her pumps were patent leather with heels as high as they make them, her nylons were sheer, and a yellow ballerina skirt swirled around her smooth legs. She wore a wide patent leather belt into which was tucked, and very trimly, a yellow blouse fabricated from something light and frilly. A choker of black beads and earrings to match, and that long black hair completed the picture and it was enough to make a man appreciate being reasonably young and healthy.
“As soon as I pull these eyes back into their sockets,” I said, “we can be on our way.” It drew a small laugh and then she turned once slowly like they do in those fashion show quickies you see in the newsreels.
And it turned out to be a pretty good evening. The salads were crisp and the dressing tasty, the steaks done to perfection, the french fries hot. After dessert we shifted to the piano bar in a far corner, ordered drinks, bought one for the man at the ivories, and joined in. There was music and song and laughter, a combination that made time slip by with amazing speed and somehow, without our quite realizing it the clock said two and the bartender was making noises about this being the last round.
When we were back in the Tyler bungalow Gail snapped on a light, then turned to stand very close, her arms circling my neck.
“It’s been nice,” she said softly. I didn’t answer, just kissed her upturned lips and held her close. When we broke apart I stroked her long black hair. My foot found the lamp cord and I jerked it out of the wall plug.
“That’s doing it the hard way,” she murmured. I kissed her again, this time in the almost complete darkness and felt the warm quick response. She clung to me as I slipped an arm under her knees and picked her up.
“Mac, we—I—”
I kissed her once more and her lips were partly open, her eyes closed, and her arms tightened around my neck as I carried her toward the hall.
It was nearly four when I got back to my own apartment and started to roll the car windows tight, then stopped as lights flashed on half a block behind and moved toward me. The sedan stopped beside me and I rolled the window back down and looked across at Sam Ward.
“The boys are getting nervous, McCarthy,” he said, leaning toward the window, “and they’re afraid we might bungle the getaway. They want a rehearsal.”
“A dry run?”
“That’s right. Just a practice trip to be sure everybody knows what he does where. The time is two-fifty. Two-fifty in the afternoon, Mac—the zero hour for backing your rig into the empty garage. Got it?”
“Sure,” I said, and a chill that had nothing to do with the night air crept up my back. “Tomorrow?”
“No, but soon; we’ll let you know the day. The boys, they’ll walk past the bank instead of out of it, and meet me, and after that we’ll go through the steps laid out.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be with it all the way.”
“Good. And timing’s important so let’s not make any slips. We have to make them know we’re on the ball.” Sam waved and straightened up in the seat and turned on the lights and drove away.
Soon!
One way and another this wasn’t a night for me to get an oversupply of sleep.
A preliminary run would be a big help to me; would probably enable me to guess pretty close where they intended to tap McCarthy on the head, but even so I drove the next two days on the edge of the seat. Then on Wednesday, when Gail handed me the clipboard there was a shipment of appliances for Westcott’s.
Westcott’s! It had been Westcott’s the day Doberman was killed!
“They want this load to come out as close after lunch as you can make it, Mac,” Gail said.
“That figures,” I said grimly.
“Figures?” Gail raised her eyebrows and looked at me.
“What I mean is—well, it figures I’ll be able to get the shipment there when they want it,” I said, and turned toward my truck. When I rolled out onto the street I forced myself to sit back against the cushion. Hit it with the practice swing, I told myself; this isn’t the hand where the blue chips are on the table. Just roll with the punch.
My first haul was three tons of tires out to River City Tire Exchange and it was easy merchandise to load. By eleven o’clock I was back in the freight depot and I went for a sandwich while the boys loaded me up with the appliances for Westcott’s. But somehow food had lost its appeal by the time the waitress set it in front of me. I toyed with the sandwich and sipped the coffee and finally paid my tab and went back toward the depot. Ed Vehon sat at the wheel of a car a few yards from the corner and he pulled away from the curb and timed his movements to make me wait for him to pass. The window was open and for one brief moment, as the car was exactly even with me, Vehon turned my way.
“Today, Mac. Two-fifty. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said softly, and then the car moved on.
I had the appliances out to Westcott’s and off of the truck by two, well ahead of schedule, and it left me with time to kill. Ken Miller and Sam Ward may have put in a longer day waiting from dawn in that garage, but at least there were two of them. They could play gin. I put the empty rig on the side near a restaurant and tried again to down some lunch, but no go. And it only used up fifteen minutes—thirty-five still ahead of me. I stopped at an open top service station, checked the air in my tires, and made a call at the little boy’s room, then checked my watch once more. Twenty minutes.
You couldn’t park the truck anywhere without it being in someone’s way and there wasn’t any place to hide the thing. You couldn’t eat it; all you could do was drive it so I got into the cab once more. I drove seven minutes into the country, then wasted two minutes backing around, and finally rolled back at an even slower pace than I’d gone out. My hands were wet on the wheel and I kept rubbing my fingers on the leg of my pants. Even the dry run was beginning to crack me a little.
At two forty-eight I swung into the street, passed in front of the garage, stopped, shifted into reverse, poked my head out of the cab, and put the wheel ov
er. As the truck moved slowly backward, the high garage door began to raise. Carefully I maneuvered the big steel van through the opening and when my hood was inside Ken Miller ran the door down. It was dark inside, but gradually my eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through a cobwebbed window above. When I could see fairly well I placed the big timbers that would serve as the ramp.
“I’m right on time,” I said, and wasn’t quite successful in keeping the voice even.
“Good, McCarthy,” Sam said. He lit a smoke and I noticed his match wasn’t any too steady. When I had the planks just right I took one of my own smokes, lit up, and blew a cloud of smoke into the gloom. Sam glanced at his watch and grunted and I heard Ken Miller loading something into the cab of my semi. I hurried over.
“Now what the hell’s that?” I wanted to know, and pointed toward the boxlike piece of equipment on the seat. A metal arm protruded from one side and there was a clamp arrangement on the end. Sam Ward had come up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Gizmo to send the truck over the quarry side,” Sam said. “A simple radio control and it works to beat hell.”
“Like when?” I asked quickly, and before the words were all the way out I knew the answer to my question. Sam mumbled something vague and went on to another topic with all possible haste; but my mind, still with the automatic device, was putting together the details.
Arno Walchek’s wreck! Full tilt into the embankment with never an attempt to turn away and I thought I understood that now. Unconscious and riding in the truck, he’d hurtled to his death as a car behind guided the truck by remote control. And first on the scene, it would be no trouble to disengage the clamp from the steering wheel, get the equipment out and into their car before anyone arrived. Arno hadn’t used his safety belt. It was entirely possible that the belt had been used to hold the box in place, something they’d have to arrange differently in my truck.