The Town: A Novel

by Chuck Hogan

  Jem was popping Sour Patch Kids now. “Too fucking easy, man,” he hissed, resuming his pacing. He didn’t mean that something seemed wrong. He meant that he wasn’t having any fun. It was all going too smoothly and he wasn’t enjoying himself.

  The radio squawked again at 11:27. “Yogurt Man.”

  Doug stepped to the tinted lobby doors and saw, way out at the far edge of the parking lot, the white Neon, Yogurt Man climbing onto the hood with his lunch.

  Gloansy’s voice: “It’s on. Heading your way.”

  Doug yawned, pulling oxygen into his lungs, enriching the blood feed to his heart, his brain. The old fear rising nicely. Jem waited back with the prone workers as Doug pulled Cidro to his feet and at gunpoint told him how it was going to go.

  They heard the can pull up outside, the squawk of the heavy brakes, a fart-like sigh.

  Gloansy’s voice was different now: juiced, in motion. “Road’s set. Good to go.”

  This meant that Gloansy had blocked off Forbes Road, the only way in, with the boxy green Boston Globe delivery truck he had boosted from South Boston that morning—in the early hours of what was supposed to be the frogman’s honeymoon.

  Doug returned the keys to Cidro, then stood behind a Striptease standee.

  A shadow moved to the doors. The click-clack of a key tapping against glass.

  “Go,” whispered Doug, and Cidro went, fumbling the key into the lock and admitting the white-brush-mustached courier, pulling the handcart behind him. ID card on the collar, patch on the shoulder, big badge on the pocket, gun in holster, black wire earphones.

  “And how’re you today, sir?” said the courier, blustery, efficient.

  “Good,” said Cidro, a blank.

  “Good, good.”

  Cidro stared at him a moment, then the courier moved to the side, waiting for Cidro to lock the door. Cidro did.

  “Inside, and all clear,” said the courier aloud. Then, less automatedly, he said to Cidro, “Rough weekend?”

  Cidro was staring at him again.

  “Or is that new baby of yours keeping you up? Yep—been there, done that.”

  Cidro nodded. “Okay,” he said, then started them toward the office.

  Doug stepped out from behind the cardboard Demi Moore with his Beretta up, moving straight at the courier. The courier halted, seeing everything at once, the gun, the cap, the shades, the face—his mind waking up to ROBBERY!—but before he could speak or even let go of the cart, the Beretta’s muzzle was in his face like a bee on his nose.

  Doug unsnapped the guard’s sidearm, tugging the .38 free of his belt. Jem appeared and pulled Cidro away, then Doug traded Jem the guard’s gun for the walkie-talkie and Cidro’s keys.

  Adrenaline made Doug’s voice loud and strange. “Arnold Washton,” he said in the direction of the microphone in the courier’s chest, “driver of the truck. You have a wife named Linda. You live at 311 Hazer Street, Quincy, with three small dogs. Do not make the distress call. I repeat—do not make that call. Morton, tell him.”

  The courier stared, dumbfounded.

  Doug said, “Morton Harford, 27 Counting Lane, Randolph. Wife also named Linda. Two grown children. Tell him, Morton.”

  “There’s… two of them,” said Morton, the good-natured bluster evaporated from his voice. “Two I see, Arnie. Masks. Guns.”

  Doug said, “Arnold, do not make that call. The two Lindas join me in telling you that you are to sit tight in the truck and do nothing. There is a van pulling up next to you now, the driver wearing a dinosaur mask. He is monitoring a police radio and will overhear any dispatches. If you understand and agree with me, raise both hands off the wheel now so that the driver of the van can see them.”

  They waited, Doug holding up his radio. Gloansy’s voice squawked, maskdistorted. “Hands are up.”

  “Good.” Doug took one step back from Morton the courier. “Open your shirt, Morton. I want your radio and earphones.”

  Morton did, but slowly, as though stalling were the same as resisting. He lifted the microphone off the V-neck collar of his undershirt and, with Jem holding Morton’s own gun on him, surrendered the wires and the black box to Doug.

  Jem patted Morton down for an ankle holster while Doug miked himself, hanging the wires inside his ears. “Arnold,” he said, “say something to me.”

  No static over the two-way channel, Arnold’s voice entering his head crystal clear. “Look here, no money’s worth anybody getting—”

  “That’s fine. Turn off the engine using one hand, then raise them both up again.”

  Jem was getting goosey, holding the guard’s gun on him palm-down like they do in gang movies. It occurred to Doug only then that maybe he hadn’t given Jem enough to do.

  Outside, the rumble died. Gloansy said, “It’s off.”

  Doug told him, via radio, “We’re good.” Then to the truck, via the microphone now clipped to his jumpsuit collar, Doug said, “Sit tight, Arnold. We won’t be long.”

  He motioned Cidro and the open-shirted courier toward the office. Cidro entered first, then Morton pushing his hand truck. Doug remained in the doorway.

  “Empty the bag on the desk.”

  The courier lifted the blue-and-green canvas bag off the tray of rolled coins at the bottom of the dolly. He opened the bag and pulled out a standard-sized bundle of currency, ten packs of one hundred fresh-cut one-dollar bills banded in blue Federal Reserve Bank straps. Then he lowered the handles of the sagging bag, facing Doug with an If it weren’t for that gun expression.

  “Is that it?” said Doug.

  Morton did not respond. Doug cocked his head at Morton, then pulled the first safe key from his pocket. He tossed it to Cidro.

  Cidro caught it and looked at Morton. “C’mon, man, just do what they say.”

  The mustached courier’s scowl intensified. He reached back into the canvas sack and pulled out Pinnacle’s safe key.

  “Down on your knees,” Doug said. “Take the coin tray off the cart, open the safe, and start stacking bags.”

  They were bringing deposit bags out of the floor well when gunshots cracked in the lobby. Doug ducked automatically, wheeling and pointing his Beretta out the office door, seeing nothing. He didn’t know where Jem was—stopping himself from calling out his name. He turned back the other way and put his gun on Morton and Cidro, who had both dropped facedown onto the floor.

  Then another smattering of gunshots. Doug was wild with incomprehension, yelling “Fuck!” as Arnold’s voice in his head said, “Dear God, no.”

  Doug backed through the doorframe, low, still seeing nothing. Glass cracked and tinkled, the employees screaming, Arnold yelling in Doug’s head, “Morty? Mort!”

  Doug backed straight out of the office, crouching, keeping Morton and Cidro in sight as he scanned the lobby, smelling cordite, searching for Jem. Then another crack and thump—this time followed by Jem’s voice: “Goddamn! That’s a pretty fuckin’ good milk shake!”

  “THE FUCK!” bellowed Doug at him, backing into a fake ficus tree.

  Jem moved into view, the guard’s .38 at his side. He spun and brought the gun around fast, firing twice, crack-crack, shootout-style, shuddering Bruce Willis on a cardboard standee for Last Man Standing, singing, “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!” Then a shot—“Ain’t gonna be no rematch!”—into Stallone’s chin, on a standee for Daylight. “Say hello to my leettle—” Pacino got one in the gut, a promo for City Hall.

  The gun clicked twice, finally dry, sparing the animated stars of Beavis and Butt-head Do America. Jem tossed the piece aside, slipping his Glock back into his right hand and then seeing Doug crouched beneath the plastic tree. Jem’s vested chest was heaving, his face a slicing, fucked-up smile.

  Arnold screaming, “Morty!”

  Gloansy shouting from Doug’s hip radio, “Fuck is that?”

  “Arnold!” Doug said, rising to full height, elbowing the tree out of his way and checking Morton and Cidro again. “Arnold, everything is fin
e.”

  “What in fucking hell—!”

  “Do not make that call, Arnold. Your partner is fine, everyone is fine—no one has been hurt. Here—” His body pounding, Doug returned to the office and pulled the mustached courier to his knees. “Talk to him, Morton. Speak, tell him.”

  Morton said slowly, “I’m okay, Arnie. I think.”

  “He’s not hurt,” said Doug.

  “I’m not hurt,” said Morton, checking himself over, making sure it was true.

  “Mort, what they shooting at?” said Arnold—confused, thinking his partner could still hear him.

  “Do not make that call, Arnold,” said Doug, getting his breath back now, grabbing Cidro by his shoulder and hauling him to his feet. “Here is the manager.” Doug pulled Cidro out of the office and showed him his employees: still lying on the carpet, hands covering their heads. “Tell him, Cidro.”

  Cidro looked around at the target practice Jem had made of the lobby. “I don’t—”

  “Just tell him!”

  “No one is hurt!”

  “No one is hurt, Arnold,” said Doug, shoving Cidro back into the office.

  Gloansy said from his hip, “Fuck is going on, man?”

  Doug grabbed the radio. “We’re cool, everything’s cool.”

  Gloansy said, “Everything’s cool?”

  “Yogurt Man, what’s he doing?”

  “Nothing. No movement.”

  “All right. Sit tight. Almost fucking there.”

  WHEN THE SAFE WAS empty, Doug had Morton wheel the cart out into the smoke-hazed lobby. Jem got the employees up, hustling them into the windowless office—“Let’s go, fucking move it, go, go!”—putting them in there with Cidro. “Now if you’re thinking about opening this door, I am going to be standing right fucking here.” He slammed it shut and hustled away.

  Morton pushed the hand truck ahead of him to the lobby doors, looking a little hinky, his head not moving as he walked, his mind working hard. Doug came up abreast of him and caught Morton’s eyes searching the lobby for something, anything.

  “You’re thinking too much, Morton.”

  Morton stiffened, slowing down even more. His mustache rippled as he said, “No one calls me Morton.”

  “I do, Morton,” said Doug, reacquainting him with the Beretta. “You’re ripshit at me right now, Morton, I understand that. Because I brought your family into this thing, you’re super-fucking-pissed.” Reservoir Dogs suddenly coming out of Doug. “Remember this isn’t your money, Morton, and how nice it will be tonight to get home. You too, Arnold,” continued Doug, into his own collar. “We’re coming out now and you’re not gonna do a damn thing but sit tight and still. Tell me you will, Arnold.”

  Arnold’s voice in his ears said, “This ain’t right.”

  “Tell me you will, Arnold.”

  “Lord Jesus been listening in on you just like I have.”

  “Arnold, tell me you fucking will.”

  “I will,” said Arnold. “I have done my job here. I will leave the rest to Him.”

  Into his hip radio, Doug told Gloansy, “We’re coming out.”

  Doug unlocked the glass door with Cidro’s keys. They passed the imitation velvet rope and the ticket booths on either side, Doug stopping at the unlocked outside doors.

  “Okay, Morton?” said Doug.

  Morton just started straight ahead.

  They exited onto the cement landing atop the stairs, Arnold sitting inside the driver’s window of the Pinnacle can, hands above the steering wheel, watching them.

  Doug and Jem followed Morton and the cash cart down the ramp to the sidewalk, then over the fire lane markings and around the rear of the can to where the Caravan was idling. Gloansy sat there in his dinosaur mask, eyes trained on Arnold.

  Jem threw open the rear hatch of the van and tossed the bags inside, Morton standing there, his unbuttoned shirt flapping in the breeze. Doug stood behind Morton, scanning the sunny sky for helicopters.

  “Arnold,” said Doug, “the dinosaur’s gonna keep monitoring the police radio, and I’m gonna stay in touch with you until we’re outside broadcast range, understand? You don’t make a call until then.”

  Doug yanked down his earphones without waiting for Arnold’s answer. Jem slammed the hatchback shut and Doug walked Morton around to the passenger side of the van where Jem pulled open the sliding door for Doug, then climbed into the front passenger seat. Jem covered Morton from the open window while Doug backed inside and shut the sliding door on Morton’s scowling eyes.

  Gloansy floored it. They screeched through the empty parking lot toward the cliff edge. As Doug pulled a seat belt across his chest, Jem stuck his gun arm out his window, drawing a bead on sun-worshipping Yogurt Man.

  Jem did not shoot. Gloansy turned hard toward the emergency access road, banging through the gate—they had cut the lock and chain overnight—and plunging down the road. It was no steeper than Pearl Street, and Gloansy banked hard at the end, slapping through the second cut gate and bottoming out hard next to the batting cages and the driving range.

  Gloansy yanked off his mask and pushed the van for all it had, driving hard across the cracked parking lot and straight at the chain fence separating lower Forbes Road from the broad, busy highway. The fence had also been precut overnight, links snipped up the middle so that when the van bumped the curb, it smashed clean through.

  They rattled over a stripe of high grass before jumping out onto 93 at the mouth of Exit 6, cutting off another minivan and veering across the breakdown lane into the traffic flow, throwing off a pair of hubcaps like wheeling quarters. Other cars braked and honked their disapproval, Gloansy punching the horn to scare off the panicked midday commuters, zooming ahead, falling in with the traffic and running south through the highway split, toward the rail station and the switch—with the cash-filled deposit bags sliding around in back, Jem howling like a madman in front, and Doug furiously stripping off his face.

  26

  INSIDE THE TAPE

  FRAWLEY STOOD AND WATCHED the highway traffic zipping past him as though the green minivan might come around again, hours after the fact, MacRay and his crew in their ugly-face masks hooting at him out of the windows, waving fistfuls of cash.

  The tire tracks, twin stripes of churned soil cut into the high grass, drove right through the precut six-foot chain-link fence and out onto the highway. The highway split offered them a variety of escape routes… and blah blah blah blah blah.

  Thwock! Behind Frawley, the lone driving-range employee teed off again, eyeing the cops and the evidence van as he reloaded between drives. Frawley envied the guy’s bystander status, tired of cop-think, and nearly on autopilot here, having trouble finding a reason to care about this particular crime—while at the same time feeling a mounting sense of fury toward the bandits.

  The photographer was done, the tire tracks measured and cast, a fireman now cutting out that section of fence for crime lab comparison, in the event the offending tool were to be found. But it would not be found. It had certainly been chopped into several pieces and disposed of in various trash receptacles between here and Charlestown.

  Dino was saying something about estimating the time of the fence snip and the cut gate chains. He was still working the crime; Frawley was working the criminals.

  The van offered a glimmer of hope. Frawley had a BOLO out on suspicious green vans, with special attention to handicapped plates. None of the witnesses had said anything about handicapped plates, but Frawley and Dino both knew that armored-car guys loved the tags for their access, letting them park closest to business doors without attracting attention.

  None of the highway drivers who dialed 911 could pinpoint where the getaway van had pulled off the highway. Frawley guessed they had skipped the split in order to put some distance between them and the looky-loos who saw them bang through the fence—but they wouldn’t have gone too far before making their switch, not with the new highway-overpass traffic cameras.

&nb
sp; Now the TV news helicopter was making another pass overhead. A hot, muggy June afternoon, thunderstorms due to crack the heat. Frawley’s boxers clung to him like wet swim trunks he had pulled pants on over. Leaving his necktie on in this humidity had been a form of self-punishment, but now he ripped open the knot and yanked it out of his collar, stuffing it into his pocket as, with Dino, he turned back toward the access road. The heat was one more obstacle the robbers had left him in their wake, one more taunting F.U.

  “It’s them,” Frawley said.

  Dino nodded, saying, “Okay,” not doubting or disbelieving Frawley, only wanting to make him work for it. Dino’s shirtsleeves were sopping, rolled up past his hairy gray forearms. “The guards, the manager, everyone says only three doers.”

  “Could have been one more in the back of the van. Or maybe one of them was an extra pair of eyeballs out on the mall side, watching for cop patrols.”

  “But no tech whatsoever. Not one clipped wire. All manpower and coercion.”

  “None of the armored-car jobs have used tech. There can be no tech on an armored. This is them shaking it up. Knowing they’re being sniffed at.”

  “Okay. But Magloan—he goes out robbing the morning after his wedding?”

  “That’s the first thing their lawyers will proclaim in court. It’s perfect.”

  “And if it turns out Elden’s been at work all day?”

  Frawley shook his head, adamant. “It’s them.”

  A Braintree cop stood by the dented gates, waiting for someone to collect the green-van-paint transfer. The cut chain lay there like a dead snake. Frawley and Dino walked the hooked road back up to the parking lot. “Some big movie, I guess, this weekend?” said Dino. “Twister? That the movie of the game?” He was trying to pull Frawley out of his funk. “‘Huge opening,’ said the manager. What my last partner used to say about his wife, ‘Huge opening.’”