by W. L. Heath
“Up you go,” said the new voice.
“What about the rope?” someone asked.
“Right here.”
“Tie him good, hand and foot. And leave the blindfold on his eyes.”
In the barn loft Shelley was made to lie down in the loose hay, and he was not sure whether two or three of the men had followed him up there. They tied him securely with his hands behind his back, and then went down again. He was afraid to move, because he knew he was lying very close to the edge of the loft. He could feel an emptiness in the air in front of his face.
The men left the barn briefly; then he heard the car start – his own car – and the sound of the tires on the gravel as they turned it around. After a moment he heard a man come in the barn and climb the ladder.
“Well, how’s the boy?” the new voice said.
Shelley thought it sounded like a Negro.
“Listen to this,” the man said and Shelley heard a shotgun being loaded. He heard the shells go into the magazine and the clack-clack as one was pumped into the chamber. “That’s double aught buckshot,” the man said. “But you’ll be all right as long as you don’t try anything stupid.”
“What do you plan to do with me?” Shelley said.
“Nothing. Just leave you here, nice and safe and dry. Somebody will find you eventually.”
There was a long silence; then Shelley heard the scrape of a match and smelled a cigarette being lighted.
“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to smoke in a barn?”
“I like to live dangerously. I’d give you a cigarette, only I’m not supposed to untie you. But anyway you wouldn’t smoke, would you? It’s too dangerous in a barn.”
He gave a short laugh, and Shelley knew he was nervous. He’s bluffing, he thought. He’s talking tough for his own benefit.
“What are you people up to?” Shelley asked. “It won’t hurt to tell me now, will it?”
“I guess not. By the time you get back to town it’ll be a week old in the papers.”
“All right, what is it then?”
“We’re robbing the bank.”
Shelley felt something drop inside him, sickeningly. Less than an hour ago he had given his paycheck to Helen to deposit. She was going down with Sue Harper, while he priced a television set.
Sitting at his desk in the bank, Harry Reeves could not actually see the front of the hotel, because the corner Esso station was in the way, but he could see the intersection in front of the hotel and when Miss Benson crossed on a green light – running a little to beat a car and holding her umbrella in front – he spotted her at once. Looking through the big plate-glass window, he felt his pulse give a mighty thump and a warmness suffused his groin. Miss Benson was wearing slacks. Green satin slacks that fitted her very snugly about the hips. Harry had never had the luxury of seeing Miss Benson in slacks before. This would be a real novelty. He had seen her in starched uniforms and print dresses; he had seen her in her underclothes and stark, tingling naked. But he had never before seen her in slacks. This promised a fresh delight.
He pretended to jot a memo on the pad in front of him, but actually he was waiting to see which way she would turn at the corner. If she went left it was almost certain that she was headed for the drugstore. If she went to the right it could mean anything from the beauty parlor to an afternoon movie. He hoped fervently that she would turn left, because if she went to the drugstore he could follow and get a good close look.
I’m insane, he thought. But I don’t care, I’m lost anyway. Please let her turn to the left.
At the corner, Miss Benson hesitated briefly and turned to the left. Harry Reeves leaped up from his desk and grabbed his hat so suddenly that Ted Proctor looked around from his teller window to see what was the matter.
“Got a headache, Ted,” Reeves said excitedly. “I’m going to run over to the drugstore for some aspirin.”
“I think there’s some aspirin in the bathroom, Mr. Reeves.”
“I need some fresh air anyway,” Reeves said, hurrying around the little fence and out toward the door. He had forgotten his umbrella, but it was too late now. He walked quickly to the corner and crossed the street without even looking up at the light. A car skidded to a stop and the driver honked at him angrily. Reeves paid no attention.
I belong in an institution somewhere, he told himself.
He caught sight of Miss Benson again just as she disappeared into the drugstore. Controlling himself, he walked past the drugstore a few paces, then stopped and snapped his fingers, as if he’d just remembered what it was he had to do. This was for the benefit of whoever might be looking. Then he went into the drugstore, and without so much as a glance in Miss Benson’s direction, he ordered a Coke and leaned against the fountain. Not until the Coke was placed in front of him on the marble counter did he allow himself to turn, very casually, and look.
Miss Benson was seated at one of the little wire-leg tables a few steps away, thumbing through a magazine as she drank her Coke and ate a package of Nabs. She was sitting at an angle to Reeves, almost with her back to him, and that was even better luck than he had hoped for. He could look at her now without her knowing. He took one last cautious glance around the drugstore, saw Mr. Huff staring absently toward the street, and then he turned and fed his eyes. Miss Benson’s ample buttocks were spread and flattened against the chair seat, and the thin material of her slacks was drawn so tight across them he could see the ridge of her step-ins where they curved across her hips into the pleasant declivity of her lap. It made him weak. He dragged his eyes away and swallowed a sip of Coke.
God help me, he moaned silently. I ought to kill myself for what I’m doing now, for what I’m thinking now.
With trembling weak fingers he pulled his watch from his pocket and read the time. Eight minutes till three. In eight minutes the bank closed. He had to go back.
No, he thought, I’ll stay till the last minute. I’ll take five minutes more. God help me.
He sipped his Coke, checked the drugstore again to make sure no one was watching, and then turned and fed his eyes.
Shelley lay tied and blindfolded in the rough hay and thought: there’s nothing I can do. There’s not a chance in the world.
He was lying on his side and the loose hay scratched his face when he moved. The cotton rope cut into his wrists where they were lashed behind him, making his hands numb, and his shoulders were beginning to ache a little from the position in which his arms were drawn back. For fifteen or twenty minutes now he had been lying there, listening to the rain and thinking.
Helen will probably be out of the bank and gone by the time it happens, he thought. And even if she did happen to be there, I doubt if there’ll be any trouble. No one will buck them, surely. I wonder what time it is. If I could somehow get loose, I wonder if I could get to a phone in time. Probably not. I ought to at least try though. What can I do? I’ll never get loose, and if I tried, that Negro would shoot me. If I was smart I’d sit tight and hope for the best. No, I ought to at least try. A man ought to do what he can. If something happened and Helen got hurt, I’d never forgive myself. I’ve got to make some kind of a try at it, at least. Hell, I don’t even have a pocketknife. What do I think I can do?
The man had gone down from the loft some time ago, but Shelley didn’t know where. He might be outside in the truck, or he might be standing below in the hall of the barn. Very likely he was still in the barn somewhere.
Shelley wondered about this for a while, then decided to take a chance on it. He rolled carefully over on his stomach and began trying to loosen the blindfold by rubbing his face against the hay. The hay scratched him, but he made a little progress at it. He rubbed his face and the side of his head against the floor, like a cat rubbing his ears in the grass. Now and then he would stop and listen for the man, but there was no sound except the rain falling on the tin roof. One thing worried Shelley more than the noise he was making: he knew the planking of the loft floor had wide cracks in it
, and as he rubbed his face against it he was bound to cause some of the loose hay and dust to sift through the cracks. If the man saw that, he’d know something was up. But it was a chance you had to take.
Before long he had worked the blindfold down over one ear and the bridge of his nose to where he could see over it with his right eye; and then he shook his head and it loosened and slid off his face, hanging around his neck. Now he could see everything.
It was a big barn, and as he had suspected, he was lying dangerously close to the edge of the loft. He squirmed back a little and looked the situation over. There were a dozen or more bales of green alfalfa hay and a lot of loose hay in the loft, and that was all. He had hoped for a pitchfork or an ax or something else that might be used as a weapon, but there was nothing but the hay. A single-tree was hanging on a nail down near the foot of the ladder, but it was far out of reach. I couldn’t use it on him anyway, he thought. How can you hit a man with your hands tied behind you? I haven’t accomplished a damn thing. I wonder what time it is.
Looking over the edge of the loft into the aisle of the barn, he could not see the man anywhere. Where is that bastard? he wondered. He must be out there in that truck or car or whatever it is they have out there.
Shelley got himself into a sitting position and began inching his way toward the south wall of the barn. He was able to make some progress by scooting himself backward. When he reached the wall of the barn, he pressed his eye to a crack and looked out. He saw the wet red clay of the barnyard and nothing else. He worked his way along the wall until he found another, larger crack and looked out again. This time he saw the truck. It was parked at the edge of the road just beyond the barbed-wire fence and about forty yards away. It was a closed delivery truck with the words Tate Florist scrawled fancily across it in gold letters.
How do you like that? Shelley thought. They’re coming out here in my car, ditch it and then probably go right back through town in the truck. Pretty shrewd. They leave town in a green Ford headed south, and ten minutes later they’re hid in the back of a florist truck with a colored man driving, headed west. Pretty clever, I must say. Goddam bastards.
He saw a puff of cigarette smoke come out of the truck window and drift away, dissolving in the rain. That’s where the man is, he thought. He’s out there in the cab of the truck, waiting. That’s a break for me. Maybe I can pick these knots loose on a nail. I could go out the back of the barn and he’d never even see me.
Shelley hitched his way along the barn wall looking for a nail head that was sticking out, but he couldn’t find one. It was a well-made barn, every nail driven up. This ain’t my day, he told himself. He made his way back to the edge of the loft and, being very careful, turned over on his side and began trying to saw the ropes against the plank edges. It seemed hopeless, but he had to try.
He sawed at the ropes, but it was awkward, painful work and he was in constant danger of losing his balance and falling over the edge. Not only that, it was getting him nowhere. Then as he was staring hopelessly at the green bales of hay, it dawned on him what he could do, and he got busy. Working with his feet, from a sitting position, he managed to push two bales of hay up to the edge of the loft directly above the ladder.
Now, he thought. Those babies will weigh probably eighty or ninety pounds apiece. I just hope I don’t miss. Because if I do I’m a goner. That man will shoot me as sure as hell. I’ve got to chance it though, and I’ve got to hurry. I don’t see how I can miss him.
He got himself into position then, bracing his back and planting the soles of his feet squarely against the nearest bale, and then he threw his head back and yelled as loud as he could.
“Help! Help!”
Then he listened. He heard the door of the truck open and slam shut and the man running for the barn. He heard him come in and run across the soft earth floor of the barn, and when he knew he must be reaching for the ladder, Shelley pushed the bales over quickly, one behind the other.
There was a split second of silence, and then the bales hit and Shelley knew he hadn’t missed. He heard the man thrashing around down there, making no outcry at all, just a choking sound.
Shelley waited a long time, sweating in the silence, getting hold of himself. Then he got ready to ease himself over the edge for the long drop to the ground.
About the time Reeves was leaving the bank, Boyd and Emily Fairchild were arriving. Boyd found a parking place in front of the bank, and Emily got out. He stayed in the car, thinking of this and that and watching the people pass. He saw Miss Elsie Cotter go by and he nodded to her, but she didn’t see him because of the rain on the glass. She went into the bank and Boyd wondered whether she was putting money in or taking it out. Probably putting it in, he thought. I imagine Miss Elsie has a hard time making ends meet these days. I imagine every cent she can scrape goes in the bank all right.
In the car next to his, two men were sitting. They were strangers and he wondered idly who they were. The one who sat behind the wheel kept glancing at his watch.
I need a beer, Boyd thought. I wonder if I’d have time to run over to the poolroom before Emily gets back. He lit a cigarette and let the window down a little so the smoke could get out. Now and then a raindrop would hit the edge of the glass and send a tiny spray against his neck. It was hot in the car with the windows up.
For no reason at all he began to think of the party last night, and it made him blue and remorseful again. The fuss he and Emily had on the back porch, that was bad. I wish I hadn’t accused her of that, he thought. I was drunk or I never would have said that. All day we’ve been pussy-footing around, trying not to mention it. And then this morning, that came very near being a scene too. I feel bad. I need a beer. He began to hum a tune they had played at the party last night. He drummed on the steering wheel with his fingers, letting his ring click against it on every other beat. May horse, he thought. What was that joke Dink told about a May horse? What is a May horse anyhow? Oh yes. A May horse will always lie down in water. What makes me think of a fool thing like that?
He saw the two men in the next car get out and walk to the door of the bank where they were met by a third man who had just come up. Shelley Martin’s wife and another woman stepped out of the bank just as the men were about to go in, and one of them, a man with a face like a shark, held the door open politely.
Boyd watched Helen Martin as she got in the car with her friend. Old Shelley, he thought. I bet he enjoys that. She’s got a figure, that girl has. Not what you’d call pretty, but stacked. I wonder if they ever have any trouble the way we do. Shelley has three kids, so I guess not. I envy that guy in a way. I actually do. I guess he thought I was a fool about those dye runs. Well, I don’t care. I don’t give a happy damn, and that’s a fact. I feel rotten. R-o-t-t-e-n. I’ve got to have a beer before I collapse. How does Emily do it? She’s feeling all right again already. Women are tougher than men, let’s face it. Maybe by tonight I’ll feel all right. But I need a beer. A nice, ice-cold suds. Damn these Baptists. I think I’ll run on down there. She’ll wait in the car.
He got out, pulled up the collar of his raincoat and started for the poolroom. Midway down the block he met the old Negro called Sugarfoot. Sugar had a paper sack under his arm.
“Look out there, Sugar.”
“Hello, Mister Boyd.”
“What’s in the sack?”
“Pair of shoes a fellow give me. Two-tone jobs!”
“Atta boy, Sugar.”
Sugar did a little step and went on down the street, laughing and shaking his head. He’d had a few, you could tell.
In the poolroom Boyd asked for a beer and Handy James, Kelley’s sidekick, gave it to him under the counter. Boyd laid out a half dollar and stood for a minute watching the games in progress on the smooth green tables. The colored balls rolled back and forth clicking against each other with a sound like teeth clicking together, and the players moved around the tables at the edge of the smoke-moted cones of light. Then he went into t
he rest room and latched the door behind him. It was a filthy, smelly place, with no window at all and only a single naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. There were a number of inexpertly drawn pictures of naked women on the walls. Boyd read one of the penciled limericks. “Here’s to the girl that waits on the table . . .” He began to drink the beer quickly, tilting the can up and letting the cold beer run full into his mouth from the wedge-shaped hole in the top.
He heard the gunfire just as he was finishing the beer. It was a hollow, booming sound – loud and incongruous, because there could be no doubt about what it was. In the middle of town in the middle of the day, someone was firing a gun.
He flung the can into a corner and snatched the door open almost in a single gesture. The poolroom was frozen. The players stood in various attitudes of arrested motion, like figures in a wax museum. Even the cigarette smoke, lying in pale ribbons on the stale air, seemed to hang transfixed. Then someone shouted “That came from the bank!” and they all started for the door. Boyd pushed out into the street with the first of them and immediately saw other people running – the rainy street suddenly filled with running people. Somewhere a car horn was blowing long and loud and agonizingly, like a cry for help, and the pigeons had flushed from the courthouse dome, like scraps of paper scattered wildly against the sky.
A crowd had already gathered, babbling and shouting at the front of the bank when Boyd got there. He shoved his way through and saw Harry Reeves lying in the doorway, half in and half out, with the heavy door closed across him and his watch hanging down from his vest pocket, still turning on its gold chain. There was broken glass and blood everywhere. Blood was streaked waist-high along the wet wall of the bank, as if bloody fingers had clutched at it, and in the glass of the door there were two large fuzzy-looking holes with cobwebs of cracks around them. A fresh white splinter stuck out from the frame of the door.