"So,” Gary prompted, turning to me.
"I've been thinking about the two guys,” I said.
"And?"
"And I think they know the schools. My guess is they're students or recent graduates."
"Or recent dropouts,” Gary added.
"Maybe,” I said. “It's just that they seem pretty familiar with the schools and what activities are going on. Plus, the guys who robbed me didn't seem that much older."
"Makes sense,” Gary said. He paused, then added: “Still a big pool of suspects."
"I also did some checking on the washcloths."
"Washcloths?” Dave interjected.
"The robbers stuffed a washcloth in Roly's mouth and tried to do the same with my mom,” Gary explained.
"Oh,” Dave said. He returned his attention to his lunch.
"So,” Gary said. “Any luck?"
"Zero,” I answered. “The police believe the washcloths are identical, but they're so nondescript that, without the tags, they'd be difficult to trace to a specific store. Still, I went to some of the bigger discounters to see what I could find out. They gave me some song-and-dance about needing to know the purchase date and approximate time before they could determine which register was used and what checker was on duty. Basically, they—"
"I'd steal ‘em,” Dave interrupted. “If I were gonna use washcloths in a robbery, I'd wouldn't buy ‘em, I'd steal ‘em."
I shrugged. “Either way, it's a dead end."
"So we're pretty much back at square one,” Gary said, his frustration apparent.
"Pretty much,” I agreed.
* * * *
I was seated near the top row at the far end of the packed bleachers, a vantage point that provided an excellent view of the homecoming football game and, when I looked over my left shoulder, the ticket booth at the stadium gate.
I was watching our team's first series of downs when my cell phone rang.
"Yeah,” I answered before it rang a second time.
"Hey, Roly,” Gary said. “Take a look."
I turned around. Absent clues to pursue, Gary and I decided our best strategy was to stake out the next likely target—the homecoming game. We decided I would find a spot where I could observe the front gate but not be noticed easily. Because Gary had never encountered the robbers face to face, or face to mask, he would wander the perimeter, watch for likely suspects, and alert me by cell phone.
"The guy and the gal?” I inquired, focusing on the couple who tarried outside the gate.
"Yeah,” Gary affirmed. “They're just kinda stalled there—lookin’ around."
The girl was shorter than the guy. The shorter guy in the robberies never spoke. Both Gary's mom and I had assumed the shorter robber was male. I stared at the couple and wondered.
They fidgeted. They looked around. We waited.
"Could be,” I said finally, just to be saying something into the phone clutched to my ear. I shivered against the breeze that was more pronounced in the upper reaches of the bleachers. The late October evening was seasonably cool but not unpleasant football weather. I noticed many fans had their hoods up and blankets shrouding their laps.
What seemed a long time but was probably only a few minutes elapsed before the suspicious couple was joined by another couple. The two guys bought tickets and all four entered and found seats in the lower bleachers.
"False alarm,” I said. I tapped the off button on the phone, turned back to the action on the field, and contemplated whether the robbers could be male and female, or both female. It seemed possible but not likely. Although I had seen them only briefly, I had a sense of the movements and mannerisms of my assailants. I was pretty sure the robbers both were male.
Again, the cell phone rang and again I answered it quickly, drawing an annoyed glance from several sophomore females in front of me who had been talking and giggling since the game began.
"I see Ronnie and some other guy hangin’ around outside the fence,” Gary advised.
"Diner Ronnie?” I asked as I turned and scanned the perimeter of the fence until I spotted him and a shorter cohort.
"Yeah,” Gary affirmed.
"Recognize the other guy?” I asked.
"No,” he answered. “You?"
"Looks like a guy who graduated a year or two ago, but I can't be sure from here."
"Think you could wander down for a closer look?"
"Could,” I said.
I turned off the cell, arose, and started descending the bleachers, much to the delight of the gaggle of gigglers.
As I approached the front gate from inside the fence, two guys who were approaching from the opposite side stopped, focused momentarily on me, then turned and walked away briskly.
"Damn,” I mumbled as I fumbled for my cell phone and hurried through the gate.
"Got your stub?” the student manning the ticket booth shouted, but already I was running, trying to catch up with the two guys. I rushed to the parking lot, stopped, and scanned the multiple rows of cars, minivans, and trucks. No movement was apparent.
Within moments, Gary caught up with me, although I never had called him. My phone was still in my hand.
"I saw you take off runnin',” Gary said. “What's up?"
"I think I saw the two guys,” I said.
"Where'd they go?"
"Don't know,” I answered. “They disappeared."
"Did they make you?"
"Make me?” I chuckled and turned to Gary. “What is this, a cop show?” I paused. “Yeah, I think they knew who I was."
"But do you think they knew what you were doin’ here?"
"You mean that I was here to ‘make’ them?"
Gary rolled his eyes. “Very funny,” he allowed. “Well, did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Recognize them?"
"They were in shadow, but there was something about the way the shorter guy was standing—so upright, so..."
"But you don't know who they are,” Gary said, more a statement than question.
"Right,” I said.
"But you're sure it was them?"
"Pretty sure,” I answered.
"So that leaves us where?"
I scanned the unlit area beyond the parking lot. “Still in the dark."
* * * *
"The dual's with I.C.” Gary said.
"What?” I asked, obviously puzzled.
"I.C.—Immaculate Conception High School,” he said, his sarcasm apparent. “Only one of our biggest rivalries in the state."
"I know what I.C. stands for, but what's a duel—wrestlers with pistols at ten paces?"
"It's dual, d-u-a-l,” he spelled.
"Which is what?"
"A wrestling match."
"Why don't they just call it that?"
"It's a wrestling term,” he explained, as if that was sufficient.
"See. That's why I don't follow sports. You've got a dialect all your own."
"And you don't?” Gary countered. “What was that chess term you used the other day—feeno-setto or something?"
"Fianchetto,” I corrected. “It refers to the strategic placement of a bishop ... oh, never mind. Point taken."
"Strategic placement,” Gary repeated. “That's what we need for the duals."
Gary explained the duals were an all-day affair that traditionally filled the gymnasium with a large crowd of students, parents, and boosters. This year's event was being hosted by our school. Gary concluded the available cash would be irresistible for our robbers.
So once again, we plotted.
* * * *
I arose early that Saturday in early November and stationed myself at my appointed post—a hallway around the corner from where the money was being collected. Although I couldn't see the ticket sales from my vantage point, I could hear every word.
After the initial bustle of student and adult wrestling fans, the hallways quieted. From beyond the closed gymnasium doors, the muffled sounds of cheers, shouts, and applau
se emanated.
I listened attentively until I heard the instructions being given to the student who was manning the ticket table. I hit the send button on my cell phone, waited about a minute, then peeked around the corner.
The chair at the ticket table was empty. The cashbox was missing.
I hurried to the nearest classroom and stood in the doorway.
"Hi,” I said to the masked man who was duct-taping Albert's wrists behind his back. “Remember me?"
The man seemed momentarily startled. Then he snorted a contemptuous laugh. “What do think you're doin'?"
"I'm here to stop you,” I said.
"Yeah,” he countered. “You and what army?"
"This one,” I said. I stepped inside the classroom to clear the doorway and, on cue, four other people funneled into the classroom. Three wore the red and black wrestling singlets denoting our high school colors.
Heavyweight Frank Sansone held the collar of a fourth man, who wore tan coveralls and now had duct tape over his mouth. His ski mask had been removed. In Frank's other hand was the cashbox.
"Hey, Gary,” the masked man said. He pulled off the ski mask, and immediately I recognized Ryan Paulson and realized the shorter man was his tennis doubles partner. “Look, you can keep the money. Just let us—"
He was cut short when Gary stepped forward and put a takedown move on him. Ryan went down face-first and hit the floor—hard.
"That's for my mom,” Gary said.
We heard the approaching sirens, and within minutes, the police I had summoned by cell phone arrived and took custody of Ryan and his partner.
After answering their questions and promising we would be available later to provide a complete statement, we began to disperse.
As some of the wrestlers started to leave, I thanked them for assisting with the plan Gary and I had hatched.
"We should be thanking you,” Frank said. “This money's for the wrestling program,” he added, lifting the cashbox. “And anytime you want to sit at our table, you're welcome."
They departed, leaving Gary and me alone.
"I've got a match in an hour or so,” Gary said.
I nodded.
He started for the door, then stopped and turned back. “Hey, Roland, when does your chess club meet?"
"Tuesday evenings in the library. Seven o'clock."
"Mind if I stop by sometime—learn some fundamentals?"
"Anytime."
Copyright © 2006 Richard F. McGonegal
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