We continued our flight south, Donohue trying to put on the miles. He said we’d hole up for some sleep at Rocky Mount, N.C., or maybe drive straight through if traffic was light. Dick and I dozed off. I remember hearing Jack and Hymie talking in low voices, and the next thing I knew, the car was slowing. Jack was cutting to the right lane to make a turnoff.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Rocky Mount,” Jack said. “Hyme and me have got to pee.
“Me, too,” I said.
“Me, too,” Dick Fleming said, rousing, yawning, stretching.
“There’s a place, Jack,” Hymie Gore said after we were off the highway. He pointed to a sign on our right.
It was in the shape of a rooster, outlined in red neon, with the name spelled out below in blue tubing: “The Game Cock.” It looked like a roadhouse, with beer signs in the windows. We pulled into a graveled parking lot. There were a half-dozen cars, a pickup truck, a van, two motorcycles, and an enormous tractor-trailer. We heard a juke blaring country-western.
“A real fun place,” I said. “I can tell.”
“As long as they got a can,” Donohue said, “who cares? Everyone heeled? Okay, let’s lock up and see what the Game Cock’s got to offer.”
What it had to offer was a squarish room with bare wood floors, scarred and pitted. There was a stained bar along one wall. No stools; strictly for stand-up drinkers. There were tables and booths, and an empty space that apparently served as a dance floor, maybe on weekends.
When I tell you that the most attractive objects in the Game Cock were the juke box and cigarette machine, you’ll get some idea of its glories. Ugly seediness? You wouldn’t believe. The dim lighting did nothing to hide ramshackle furnishings and a general appearance of spit-on-the-floor slovenliness. There was a fly-spotted sign on the wall listing the prices of hamburgers, ribs, chili, ham and cheese sandwiches, apple pie, coffee. The small kitchen was located in the rear. I had smelled it the moment I walked in: a rancid grease odor competing with the stench of stale beer and an eye-smarting disinfectant.
There were five men drinking at the bar, and about twenty men and women at the tables and booths. All the men had a rough, red-faced, outdoorsy look: farmers, construction workers, telephone linesmen—like that. The women looked like—well, to tell you the truth, all the women looked like me, Bea Flanders, blond or red wigs, tight sweaters, hooker’s heels, and enough makeup to drive a covey of clowns mad with envy.
Conversation died down when the four of us entered and heads turned. We got blank, faintly hostile stares, reserved for interlopers who lived more than ten miles away from the Game Cock. But, after we slid into a booth, the regulars went back to their dirty jokes, arm wrestling, and loud arguments competing with the thunder of the juke.
The lone waitress came over to take our order. She looked to be about fifteen years old, but obviously had to be older to be working in a joint like that. She was wearing low-slung, hip-hugger jeans. Her midriff was bare (I should have such a slender waist!), and a puckered bandeau kept her pointy breasts from stabbing a customer in the eye when she bent over a table. She had a great mass of brassy hair swinging halfway to her waist.
She took our order and went sashaying back to the bar. We all watched the swing on that hard, tight ass. A good three-inch displacement there, side to side.
“I bet she does all right on tips,” Donohue said. “You like that, Hyme?”
“Well … yeah, sure, Jack. You want I should ask her if she’d like a lift to Miami?”
“Oh no,” Donohue said hastily, “don’t do that. We just don’t have the room.”
“Whatever you say, Jack,” Gore agreed amiably. “But I’m getting—you know. Like lonesome.”
“Sure, Hyme, I understand. Hang in there, old buddy. Another day or two and we’ll be in the land of the string bikini, and you won’t be lonesome anymore. Okay?”
When the hip-twitcher returned with the drinks, Jack asked her where the restrooms were. She said they were in back of the kitchen. Actually she said, “Trew duh kitch’.”
“Me first,” Donohue said. “I want to check the place out.” He slid out of the booth. I watched him walk to the back of the room, and noticed a few of the other women were doing the same thing.
He was back in a few minutes.
“No men’s room or women’s room,” he reported. “Just one closet marked Toilet. Beautiful. Hold your nose. And that goes for the kitchen, too.”
He wasn’t kidding. How the local health inspectors had missed that dive I’ll never know. That toilet was the pits, the absolute pits. There was a sign tacked over the sink that virtuously stated: “All employees must wash their hands before leaving this lavatory.” Very nice. But no hot water, of course, and no soap. The roller towel looked like it had been used to wipe down a coal truck.
There was a back door leading outside, and a little hallway between toilet and kitchen. Two telephone booths in that hall, and a swell vending machine that sold breath-freshening mints, squirts of perfume, combs, pre-moistened tissues, and condoms. The only thing not offered patrons of the Game Cock was a quick cure for leprosy.
And that kitchen! A cesspool. The smell was enough to put you on a starvation diet. The grill was crusted with grease, and grease had coated the walls, hung in the air, and shone on the pimply face and bare arms of the gangly cook. When I walked through, he was poking at a pot of chili, tasting it from a long-handled wooden spoon. Then he used the same spoon to stir the pot.
We took turns using the john and then had one more round of drinks. After a while the waitress swayed over to ask if we wanted anything to eat.
“Yeah,” Donohue said, “but not here. Just the check, please.”
He paid, left a generous tip, and we moved to the door. Hymie Gore went first, exited, then held the door open for the rest of us. We came out into the night. I looked up: a clear sky, a million sharp stars. After the Game Cock, the air tasted polished and pure.
Buy Hymie Gore wasn’t looking at the stars.
“Jack,” he said in a low, hard voice. “On the right.”
We all looked. A black car parked head-on. Two men standing close to it, one on each side, hands deep in topcoat pockets. As we stared, powerful headlights came on. We blinked in the glare.
Almost at the same time we were hit by bright lights from the left. Another car, facing the door of the Game Cock. I shielded my eyes. I could make out, dimly, three men standing in glare. One in particular …
“Inside,” Jack Donohue said, his voice unsteady.
“Everyone inside. Don’t panic. Don’t run.”
We turned, went back into the Game Cock. Black Jack led the way to the end of the bar. We huddled.
“Back again?” the bartender asked, wiping the bar in front of us with a grimy rag.
“One for the road,” Donohue said with a ghastly grin. “Four double-Seagram’s, water on the side.”
“You got it,” the bartender said.
“Jack,” I said in a low voice, “who are—”
“Shut your yap,” he shot back viciously.
“The back door?” Dick suggested.
Donohue showed his teeth.
“You think they won’t have it covered?” he sneered. “Those guys are professionals. Don’t believe it? Just step outside back there. Bye-bye.”
The bartender brought our drinks. Jack paid with a ten, pushed the change back for a tip. No one spoke until the bartender moved away. Then Donohue turned, faced the crowded room. He rested his elbows on the bar. He surveyed the customers.
“They haven’t got anyone inside,” he said, his lips hardly moving. “I’ll bet on it. And they won’t come in blasting. They’ll wait for us to come out.”
“Our car!” I burst out desperately. “They must know our car. Why don’t they just break in and take the rocks?”
“You think that’s all they want?” Jack said scornfully. “Get smart, kiddo; they want us.”
“Uh, listen,
Jack,” Hymie Gore said slowly. “It could be the Feds.”
“No way, Hyme,” Donohue said. “They’d have searchlights, bullhorns, tear gas, guys in iron vests. No, this is a Corporation gig. How in Christ’s name did they get onto the Buick?”
“Honest Percy?” Dick asked, with no irony.
“Could be,” Jack said. “Or maybe someone made the plates of the Ford when we dumped it. Hell, maybe we’ve had a tail since that last motel in Baltimore. No use worrying it. Right now we’ve got to figure out how to blow this joint.”
“Jack,” Hymie Gore said, blinking slowly, “I could go out the back door. Blasting—you know? Lots of noise. Lots of fireworks. Bring them all around to the back. Then you and the kids—”
Donohue put a soft hand on the big man’s arm. “Thanks, Hyme, but it wouldn’t work. They’d cut you down in a minute—and for what? They’ll keep the front door covered. Drink your drinks, everyone. Smile and talk. Act like everything’s just fine.”
We tried, we really tried. Stretched our mouths, gabbled to each other, sipped our whiskey. I risked a quick look out the front windows. Darkness out there; those powerful headlights had been doused.
“Hey, Hyme,” Donohue said slowly. “Before, when you were talking about going out the back door blasting, you said lots of noise, lots of fireworks. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Well … yeah, sure, Jack. You want I should try?”
“No, no,” Black Jack said. “I was just thinking about what you said. Okay, now here’s what we’re going to do …Jannie, you got change with you? Dimes and quarters?”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “You and me are going to walk to the back, slowly, easily, not a care in the world. Through the kitchen. To the phone booths in that smelly hallway. You’re going to call the fire department. Make it hysterical. The Game Cock is burning down. People trapped. The grease in the kitchen caught fire, and everyone’s frying. Get the picture? Tears, howls, screams, sobs—the whole bit.”
“I can do it, Jack.”
“I know you can. It’s a chance. The only one we’ve got. I’ll use the other phone at the same time. A call to the cops. Robbery in progress. Three bad guys are holding up the joint. Send in the Marines. If it works, in about five or ten minutes this place will look like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Hymie, you and Dick stay right here, drinking and talking. Don’t make a move. We’ve just gone to pee, that’s all. Come on, babe; let’s get the show on the road.”
I did just what he said. I sauntered ahead of him toward the back of the room, smiling and talking to him over my shoulder. Through that grotty kitchen. Into the hallway. I stepped into the old-fashioned wooden telephone booth.
That’s when I saw the sign: “Out of Order.”
I must have gone white and begun to sway, because Jack stepped close and grabbed my shoulders.
“You cave on me now,” he spat out, “and I’ll slit your fucking throat, I swear to God.”
Still holding me, he peered into the other booth. No sign there. He thrust me into the booth.
“Make the goddamned call,” he said furiously. “If they ask your name, just keep sobbing and yelling.”
He squeezed into the booth with me and pulled the door shut. It wasn’t, I guessed, the first time a man and woman (that nubile waitress?) had been together in that phone booth in the back of the Game Cock.
I got the coin into the slot with slippery fingers. I dialed Operator. It rang three times, then:
“How may I be of service?” a languid voice inquired.
“Fire department!” I yelled. “Emergency! Oh my God! The fire department. Quick!”
“Just a moment, please,” she sang pleasantly, “and I will connect you with your party.”
A clicking, and then a man’s voice came on, heavy and rasping.
“This is—” he started.
“Fire!” I screamed, my mouth close to the handset. “It’s terrible! Fire! Fire! People are burning up! We’re trapped! The whole place is—”
“Where?” he barked. “Where are you calling from?”
“The Game Cock!” I yelled. “The tavern. Near Route 95. Hurry! Oh God, please hurry! The whole place is on fire! People are burning, and—”
“What’s your name?” he shouted.
“Please hurry,” I begged piteously, getting into the role. “The flames are snapping, and—”
Donohue’s hand clamped down on the hanger, disconnecting.
“Beautiful,” he said with a thin grin. “I never realized what a ham you are. Now get out and give me a chance.”
He wrestled the folding door open, stepped out into the hallway. I got out of the booth. Then Jack reentered. He fished in the coin box, picked out the coin I had used, returned by the operator. You’ve got to admire a man who thinks of that at a time like that.
I leaned into the booth, listened to his call. He had the operator put him through to the local police department. He put his mouth close to the phone.
“Listen,” he said in an urgent whisper. “I can’t talk any louder; they might hear me. Three guys holding up the Game Cock roadhouse. You know where it is? Good. They’re doing it right now, got everyone lined up against the bar. Yeah, that’s right: three guys. Listen, be careful; they’ve got these guns. Yeah, right now it’s going down. The Game Cock. For God’s sake, get here as soon as you can. Yeah. My name is—”
He hung up suddenly. He didn’t forget to reclaim the dime. He didn’t give it back to me.
“How’d I do?” he asked, grinning.
“I think I gave the better performance,” I said loftily.
“Keep your fingers crossed, kiddo,” he said, and took me by the elbow.
We walked steadily through the kitchen, across the main room.
“Sorry I got shaky,” I said.
“You did fine,” he assured me. “Just fine.”
We rejoined Dick and Hymie. We picked up our drinks, took deep gulps.
“How’d it go?” Fleming asked in a low voice.
“Okay,” Donohue said tersely. “It went okay. With luck we may get out of this. Now here’s what we do: The moment we hear the sirens, finish your drinks. We stand around talking for a minute or so. Very relaxed. Very casual. Near the windows. We don’t make our move until the fire engines and squads pull into the parking lot. Whichever comes first. The moment they stop and cops or firemen start toward the place, then we go out. We stroll while we’re inside. Once we’re out, and it looks good, we make tracks for the car. Hyme, you drive. Go for Route 95. Turn south, and pour it on.”
“They’ll follow,” Fleming fretted. “North or south on the highway—what’s the difference? Why don’t we try the back roads?”
“Because we don’t know the back roads, dummy,” Donohue said stonily. “We’re liable to drive into a dead-end, and then we’re up Shit Creek. Pour on the juice, Hyme. If we get enough of a start, we can shake ’em.”
“I’ll shake ’em, Jack,” Hymie Gore said, nodding vigorously. “Place your money on it.”
I’ve got to hand it to the local public service departments. Less than five minutes after Jack and I made our calls, we heard the distant wail of sirens. We finished our drinks. Chatting and laughing, we moved toward the front windows.
The sirens were louder now, and we could distinguish the distinctive hoot of buffalo whistles.
“Fire engines,” Donohue said quietly. “They’re beating the cops.”
The sirens were screaming now, close by. Several customers rose to their feet, looked toward the windows. A few started moving to the door.
Then the ear-piercing wail seemed right in the room with us, and that weird, warbling whistle. A red light flashed through the windows as the engines came swinging into the parking lot, spraying gravel.
We went out the door, other customers crowding after us. There were three trucks—pumper, hose cart, a short hook-and-ladder. The firemen started dropping off even before the trucks came to a comp
lete halt. A chief’s car, red rooftop light revolving, turned into the parking lot.
Firemen trotted toward us, carrying axes, extinguishers, hook-poles. The sirens were suddenly loud again as two police cars came careening in from the road.
Now all the customers from the Game Cock were spilling out into the parking lot. Firemen and cops tried to push their way through, shouting and cursing.
Donohue looked quickly to right and left.
“Now!” he said urgently.
Hymie Gore led the way, bulling his way through the jostling mob. The big man used his hands, pushing and shoving, and his heavy shoulders. We ducked behind him, rushed along in his wake. Jack Donohue’s hand was on my back, hurtling me forward.
We made the car, unlocked, scrambled inside. Hyme got the engine started, pulled away before the doors were closed. He rammed the Buick toward the road, narrowly missed the rear of a fire truck, cut across the path of a third police car just entering the lot, swerved down into a shallow culvert, came up the other side, bounced across the bumpy verge, got onto the pavement, put the car into a tight spin with a squeal of tires, headed toward the entrance to Route 95, accelerating, whipping the Buick around turns, his broad back hunched over the wheel, trees flickering by, a blare of horns from startled motorists as we cut them off, sliced around them, their brakes squealing, our car roaring as we went sailing up the ramp, knifed into southbound traffic, angled across to the lefthand lane, went flying down to Miami, Gore staring ahead, the rest of us craning back and seeing no signs of pursuit.
“We made it!” Jack Donohue yelled, with something between a sob and a cry of exaltation. “Made it, made it, made it!”
A HEAVY LOSS
OUR EUPHORIA LASTED ALL of five minutes, with loud talk, jokes, hysterical laughter. Then we fell silent. I saw my hands trembling uncontrollably.
“Jack,” I said in a small voice. “I’m cold and scared. Can I have a drink please?”
He was in the back seat with me. He rooted around in the mess, found the bottle of brandy. He poured heavy shots in plastic tumblers, handed them across the front seat to Gore and Fleming. Then he served me. Finally he took his own. We all gulped greedily. No one proposed a toast.
Caper Page 23