“Slow down, Hyme,” Jack said. “Not more than sixty. We can’t afford to be stopped.”
We had been doing seventy, seventy-five, in that range. Gore slowed, edged the Buick over into the middle lane. It was about 1:00 A.M., but traffic was heavy.
“My God,” I said, laughing nervously, “is everyone going to Miami?”
No one answered. We drove on through the night in silence. I was afraid of sleeping.
“It’s just a guess,” Donohue said musingly, “but I’ll bet it was that scummy bartender at the Game Cock who made us. Anyone see him go to the back, to the phone, while we were in the booth?”
No one had.
“Maybe he did and we just didn’t notice.”
“Jack,” Dick Fleming said, “how could he make us? He didn’t see the car!”
Donohue came alive, began to snap his fingers.
“Right!” he said. “He didn’t see the car, but he saw us. This is how I figure the Corporation worked it: They put out the word up and down the highway—in restaurants, bars, taverns, motels, roadhouses, and so forth. Their local men took care of this. So a mob guy comes into the Game Cock, braces the bartender, and hands him a tenner. ‘This is for your trouble,’ he says. ‘Now what we’re looking for is four people traveling together, three men and a woman.’ Then he gives the bartender our descriptions, which the Corporation cut out of Angela and the Holy Ghost. ‘You spot these people,’ the local guy says, ‘you call this number. If you’re right, there’s a C-note in it for you.’ I’ll bet my bottom buck that’s how it happened.”
I sighed. “In other words, you’re gambling the bartender didn’t see the car, and that’s why there were no Corporation guys guarding the Buick when we made our break. Because they don’t know what we’re driving.”
“Surely they saw us driving away,” Fleming said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Donohue said. “That was one fucked-up scene, with the fire engines, cop cars, people running around, cars starting up and taking off in all directions. I’m betting they didn’t make us in the darkness. This car is safe.”
I sighed again. “Why do you gamble, Jack?”
He whirled on me.
“Why do you write?” he demanded. “I read your book. You called it an obsession, a kind of masturbation.”
“You never forget anything, do you? All right, you win.”
“Damned right. And we have been winning, haven’t we? I tell you I’m on a high streak. When you’re hot, you give it all you’ve got. I’ve been twisting my brain, trying to figure how to get new wheels. But we don’t need them; Honest Percy didn’t rat on us, no one saw us dump the Ford and no one’s been tailing us. I tell you, this car is safe.”
We didn’t disagree with him. Perhaps because no one had any better ideas. It was a relief to put our destinies in his hands, let him make the decisions: where to go, when to go, when to stop, how to act.
“Hyme,” Jack Donohue said, “we’ll make a detour. Take the next turnoff. We’ll go over to Raleigh, hole up and get some sleep. Tomorrow we can come east again and get back on the highway at Smithfield.”
“Yes, Jack,” Hymie Gore said obediently.
We took the turnoff at Wilson and drove west on Federal Highway 264. Got to the outskirts of Raleigh about 2:30. Found a place to sleep. My premonition had been accurate: This flight was going to be an endless succession of sleazy motels. This one thoughtfully provided a can of bug spray in every room. I bunked with Donohue. If he made any carnal noises, I was prepared to use the spray on him. But he was asleep before I was.
We all slept till noon, then went out for a steak-and-eggs breakfast. One of the things I enjoy when you get south of the Mason-Dixon Line is that, in the better restaurants, waiters come over to your table, say, “Good morning,” and pour you a cup of hot black coffee. I mean, they don’t even ask; they know. And they’re right.
So, with stomachs full, the sun shining in a bland sky, things didn’t look so bad. Jack said we should do a little peddling in Raleigh so the day wouldn’t be a total loss. We went back to the motel and pawed through the contents of the gem cases. There wasn’t much small stuff left. Most of what we had were big pieces: chokers, necklaces, bracelets, tiaras—all heavily encrusted items that could never be pawned or sold in a local mom-and-pop jewelry shop.
Jack picked through the stuff and selected the remaining small pieces: a few simple rings, some watches, brooches, cufflinks.
“I’ll see what I can do with these,” he said. “I’ll take the car. The three of you sit tight. Don’t go out. Watch TV. Have a few drinks. I should be back by five at the latest. If I’m not, you’ll know I’ve been nicked. Then just take off and do the best you can.”
“Jack …” I said hesitantly.
“Yeah?”
“Something I haven’t told you. I’m not sure about it, so I decided not to say anything. But maybe I should.”
“What, for God’s sake?”
“Remember when we came out of the Game Cock the first time? The lights of the car on the right went on. Two guys standing there. A few seconds later the car on the left flashed its headlights. I shielded my eyes. I saw three guys standing near it. I might have been imagining it, but I thought I recognized one of the men. Short, heavyset, wearing a bowler. He had on an overcoat, which means he came from up north. I couldn’t see his features, but I thought maybe it was him.”
He caught on immediately.
“Noel Jarvis?” he asked. “The manager?”
“Rossi,” I said. “Antonio Rossi.”
“Yeah, Rossi. You sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. It was just a quick glimpse. It was dark out there. I was staring into the lights. But that’s the feeling I got.”
He thought about that a moment, biting his upper lip.
“Yeah,” he said finally, “it’s possible. But it surprises me. I mean, they’re giving him a chance—probably a last chance—to run us down and waste us. He’s lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Because they didn’t burn him right away. He goofed. They know it. They know he dated you. They figure he was careless, he talked.”
“How could they know he dated me?”
“Oh, Jannie”—he sighed—“use your noodle. By this time your photograph has been circulated. So you went to that West Side restaurant with him, didn’t you? It’s in your book. So hard guys over there saw you with him. That’s why I say he’s lucky. They could have figured he was in on it and squashed him without asking questions. But the Corporation’s giving him a chance to find us.”
“And the stones,” I said.
“Fuck the stones!” Donohue said savagely. “You really think the Corporation wants that hot ice? Sure they do, but not as much as they want to fry our asses. We can’t be allowed to get away with that heist. Bad public relations. That’s why Rossi is on our tail. He’ll never give up, because it’s his cock if he fails. Lock the door after I’m gone.”
We did as he said. Had a few drinks, watched a stupid game show on TV. Then Dick and Hymie dozed off and I got busy on Project X, writing on those yellow legal pads with a ballpoint pen, writing as fast as I could. I took up where I had left off a hundred years ago and tried to catch up. But I had only finished the account of the actual robbery when it was 4:00 and time to put the manuscript aside. I took a shower and dressed, then roused the men. They got up, grumbling, stuffed their gear in suitcases. We settled down to wait for Jack.
He had said that if he didn’t return by 5:00, we should take off and do the best we could. I considered what the “best” would be. I had no idea. I literally had no idea. It was the first time in my life that my fate depended on someone else. I said that was comfortable, and it was. But when I tried to imagine what would happen if the sovereign died or disappeared, panic set in.
But he came back, before the deadline of 5:00 P.M. He came into the room quickly, carrying a package. He was trying to smile. His pale forehead was sheened with sweat.
“All set?” he said. “Good. Let’s get going. Right now. Let’s hit the road.”
We all looked at him.
“Jack,” Dick Fleming said, “what is it? Something’s happened. I can tell. What happened?”
He slumped suddenly into an armchair. He thrust out his long legs.
“I saw him,” he groaned. “I saw the bastard. Jannie, you were right.”
“Rossi?”
“Yeah. Coming out of a hotel. Thank God I saw him before they spotted me.”
“They?” I asked.
“Him and two other guys. Heavies.”
“You think they was like, you know, bodyguards, Jack?” Hymie Gore asked.
“Sort of, Hyme,” Donohue said, smiling wanly. He was beginning to lose his pallor. “I figure the Corporation is keeping him on a tight leash. They’re giving him a chance to make good, but they’d hate to see him run. So they assigned two guided missiles to keep him company.”
“What’s he doing in Raleigh?” I said sharply. “How did he follow us here if no one tailed us?”
“Just an accident,” Jack said. “They’re covering every city of any size up and down the coast. Him being here when we are is just a coincidence. I’ll bet on it.”
No one said a thing.
We got back on Route 95 at Smithfield and turned south. Donohue was driving, Dick beside him. Hymie and I stretched out in the back seat. No joking, no talking. It wasn’t the happiest of times. I kept turning to look back, expecting any minute to see a long black car coming up behind us, and at the wheel, a chunky figure wearing a bowler, velvet-collared Chesterfield, pinstriped suit, polka-dot bow tie. Eyes cold, thin lips tight. One desire: to murder the woman who had made a fool of him.
That evening we drove through Fayetteville to Lumberton. Southbound holiday traffic was heavy; it took us more than three hours. We got off the highway at Fairmont, had a quick dinner, and started off again. Dick Fleming driving. Donohue was next to him, bending over a map, trying to read it in the dashlight.
We had hardly exchanged a dozen words since leaving Raleigh. I couldn’t stand it.
“How did you make out in Raleigh, Jack?” I asked casually. “The rocks?”
He folded the map, put it away in the glove compartment. He half-turned to face me. He seemed pleased that we had decided to talk to him again.
“Not bad,” he said. “Another couple of grand.”
“What did you buy? In the package?”
“When we get to Miami, we might need some heavy green. For grease—you know? Buy some new IDs for us. Charter a plane. All that. So we’re running low on the small ice, the stuff that’s easy to peddle and hock. I figure that after buying the Buick and then picking up a couple of G’s in Raleigh, we’ve all got about fourteen-fifteen thou between us. Not enough. So I bought some tools. To cut up the heavy ice if we have to. Now what I got in there is wire clippers, awls, long-nosed pliers, a loupe, a dissolvent they use to loosen the cement when the stone is glued to the setting, a small ball-peen hammer, a few other things. All this stuff is used to break up jewelry. If things get tight, we’ll pry out the stones and I’ll pick up a little electric kiln so we can melt down the settings. The price of gold’s way up these days. Then we’ll peddle the individual rocks. No way, no way, anyone can identify those. And a hunk of gold is just a hunk of gold.”
I looked at him with admiration.
“Jack,” I said, “is there anything illegal you haven’t done?”
“Not much,” he said.
Perhaps it was about then that, for me, our flight began to take on a dreamlike quality. I was aware that we were then in South Carolina. It meant nothing. The highway kept spinning away beneath our wheels. It seemed stretched forever. If someone had said that this ribbon of concrete wound the world, I would accept that. Next stop: Hong Kong. That made as much sense as what we were doing, devouring miles, watching idly as the night fled by: neon signs glimmering in the distance, the faint glow of far-off towns, brilliant headlights of cars passing on the other side, and the occasional roar as a tractor-trailer went grinding by. Some nut in a sports car darting in and out of traffic. Vans. Pickups. Wheezing heaps striving to make the promised land.
I saw it all, and I didn’t see anything. I mean, I was aware of what was happening, but I was divorced from it. I said, prior to the actual robbery of Brandenberg & Sons, that I was both observer and participant. Now it seemed to me that my role had dwindled to observer only. I had that removed coldness.
Dick driving, we flew south. I remember noting a sign that read “The Great Pee Dee River,” and I thought that was mildly amusing. We went around Florence, Manning, Summerton, across Lake Marion.
“How much in the tank?” Donohue asked.
“About a quarter,” Dick Fleming said.
“Let’s get off,” Jack said, sighing. “I thought we’d try to make Savannah, but the hell with it. Any turnoff that looks good to you, Dick. You pick it. We’ll get some sleep. I’m beat. Are you beat, Jannie?”
“Beat,” I said, nodding. “Jack, can we find a nice place? Something decent—without bug spray in the room? And if we do, can we stay for a day or two? Just rest up? I can’t see where it would do any harm. And it might do some good. If they’re figuring our travel time, it could throw them off if we take a couple of extra days.”
“Right,” he said promptly. “We’ll do it. We’ll relax. Put our act together. Okay with you, Hyme?”
But Hymie Gore was asleep, breathing heavily. His big head was on my shoulder. I endured it. As a matter of fact I welcomed it, and tried to make the Incredible Hulk comfortable. He was really a very sweet man. Another lesson for me: You can be stupid and sweet.
We turned off toward a town called Coosawhatchie.
“Why here?” Donohue asked.
“I like the name,” Fleming said. Jack laughed and let him go.
It didn’t turn out all that funny. We drove around for a half-hour, found no motels displaying a Vacancy sign. We got back on the highway, went south to Ridgeland. The same story: No room at the inn. Back on the highway again, and south to Hardeeville, just before the Georgia border.
I have a vague recollection of stopping before a motor lodge that could only be called “imposing” compared to the fleabags we had been frequenting. At least this place had a generous lobby, an elevator, and “All Modern Advantages,” just as advertised on the sign outside. These included small refrigerators in every room, central air conditioning and, if desired, water beds. We didn’t desire.
We checked in and lugged all our luggage up to our fourth-floor rooms. I was sharing with Jack Donohue that night. After we were settled in, he disappeared for about twenty minutes. By the time he returned, I had finished a hot shower, was dried, dusted, sprayed with foo-foo. I was lying in my bed, spreadeagled beneath a single sheet. I felt like a lump. That’s the only way I can describe it: I was a lump.
I heard him, dimly, lock and chain the door. Heard him undress, curse softly as he stubbed his toe. Heard him shower. Saw through half-closed eyes the light from the bathroom as he shaved. I wasn’t sleeping, exactly, and I wasn’t awake, exactly. Suspended animation—that was me. I wasn’t even sure I was breathing. And my brain was mush. I couldn’t think, let alone concentrate. A thought would pop up and then just go drifting away before I could grab it.
That’s the way I was that night—drifting.
Jack Donohue came into bed with me and I didn’t object. He did things to me. I responded, but it was all on a physical level, reactions I couldn’t resist. Didn’t have the will to resist, or the strength. And all the time my body was leaping, heaving, twisting and thumping, my lumpish mind was going “Uhhhhh.” Nothing.
By the time I awoke, Jack was back in his own bed and I was back in my own head. He was still sleeping when I showered, wigged, dressed, and went next door to knock on the door of the room shared by Dick and Hyme. No answer. But I found them in the coffee shop downstairs and slid into their bo
oth.
I ordered what they were eating: scrambled eggs, pork sausages, and grits. Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.
Jack joined us as we were working on our third coffees, and by the time we all wandered outside, things were looking good again. I realized that was a pattern we were running: We were on a goddamned roller coaster, up and down. Right then we were on the rise.
That was quite a layout. It was a big shopping center, just off the junction of three roads. An enormous parking lot and a semicircle of department stores, shops, boutiques, a movie theater, a restaurant. Almost a little city. We were in a modern motel at one end of the curve.
It looked to me like the center had started off small, with maybe one or two buildings, and then had just grown, with more structures added over a period of years. Because it wasn’t one continuous design; there was space between buildings. And no two buildings seemed designed by the same architect or even by friendly architects; the place was a hodgepodge of crazy façades, Disneylike silhouettes, and clashing signs.
The whole thing was called Wonderland Shopping Center. Good name. It made you wonder.
“Great,” Dick Fleming said. “We can live the rest of our lives right here. Supermarket, liquor store, restaurant and bar, post office, laundry, bakery, men’s and women’s clothing, gas station. Who could ask for anything more?”
That was just about right. The four of us spent a fine, relaxing time there. The weather couldn’t have been better: up in the high 70s and sunny during the day, down in the low 60s at night. We went to the movies, ate well at the restaurant and motel coffee shop, wandered the stores and bought a few things, sat around drinking and talking about the robbery and how well it had been planned and executed. No one spoke of the future.
Jack Donohue selected a diamond necklace from the loot and showed us how it could be broken up, using his new kit of tools. The stones were gently pried loose from their settings, using a solvent when necessary, and then the chain in which they had been mounted was cut up into inch-long pieces.
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