Dog Day Afternoon

by Patrick Mann

  Of course, in another way, Joe mused, Sam’s burst of near-killing was a big help. It told the bank people they could expect no mercy. It got that lump of shit, Eddie, out of the way. And it saved them from having to cut the son of a bitch in on the caper, or worry about what to do with him later.

  So Sam was insane. And I’m profiting from it, Littlejoe reminded himself. That’s what life is really all about, huh?

  Even the violence of the cops was working for him, Joe thought. That scene with Leroy had been worth a couple of hours of lecturing. It sort of held up a mirror for everybody to see their lives in.

  Establishment idiots like Boyle—and Marge, too, for that matter—got a good look at the establishment’s prize protectors. A terrific lesson, right? They knew they couldn’t expect anything outside but terror and death. And inside was Sam.

  Standing off to one side of the big plate-glass window in the front of the bank, Littlejoe could just see the crowd at one end of the street. The mob had grown so that he could no longer estimate how many people there were.

  In addition to several ice-cream vans, a hot-dog pushcart vendor was doing a brisk business, as was a pushcart man selling Italian ices. Men in plainclothes kept passing through the police barricade with no trouble. Joe wondered what kind of people were collecting outside. The gawkers he understood. The other people, the men who looked like cops but wore slacks and sports shirts, seemed to be drifting into the combat area without being stopped.

  As he watched, a knot of uniformed police ganged up on a boy trying to push his way through the crowd carrying what was obviously a stack of flat white pizza cartons. They gave him a hard time for several minutes, until Moretti showed up and busted ass for a while. It was the detective who escorted the delivery boy to the door of the bank.

  “Marge,” Joe called, “pick up one of them marked twenties you were trying to give me. Pay the kid with the marked twenty.” He chuckled happily as he threw her the front-door key.

  She opened the door and took the boxes of pizza and two chilled six-packs of beer. The boy turned to leave.

  “Hold it,” Marge said, handing him a twenty. “Is this enough?”

  “It’s paid for,” the boy said. He jerked his thumb at Moretti, standing behind him.

  Two cameramen with shoulder harnesses were closing in on the scene, telephoto lenses zooming out as they moved. A TV truck with a parabolic-reflector microphone swiveled like a radar antenna to catch everything being said. Marge watched this for a moment, then carried the pizzas and beer inside.

  “You can go back out for a breather,” Joe called to her. “Just remember, we’ve got your buddies at gunpoint.”

  “I know.”

  “And we’re both hardened Vietnam vets. Blood means nothing to us unless we have a spoon handy.” He made a slurping noise.

  “I know,” Marge repeated dully.

  “Hey, I got an idea. Sam, c’mere. Hold the forty-five on Marge and walk her outside. No reason you shouldn’t be on the Eleven O’clock News, right? Fair is fair.”

  “Nah, Littlejoe.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. Go ahead.”

  “Nah. You go.”

  “I been.”

  “Go again.”

  Littlejoe had been lounging against the counter. He straightened up and smoothed down his hair. Then he removed the .38 from his belt and came up behind Marge. “Let’s meet the people,” he said, nudging her left breast with the gun.

  They walked slowly through the door and stood one step outside it, face to face with Moretti. The delivery boy had disappeared. “You better eat the pizza before it gets cold,” Moretti said.

  Joe smiled at him. The sun had gone down behind the bank by now, but the evening August sky was still glaring hot—plenty of light for the TV cameras. “You’re not so bad at the publicity con either, Moretti,” he said in a low undertone. Then, in a louder voice: “Thanks for the pizza.”

  “I hope you brought this lady out to turn her over to us,” Moretti said. “Giving us the guard was a smart move. You’re earning points, Joe. Every little bit helps. My bosses figure you to be a responsible person who’ll live up to an agreement. Am I right?”

  “Are you ever,” Joe said, still grinning, but maliciously now. He painstakingly adjusted the long muzzle of the .38 so that it poked into Marge’s left ear. When he spoke again, his voice was loud and clear. “I’m glad you don’t think of Sam and me as a pair of high-strung Vietnam combat vets who learned mass killing from Uncle Sam. That would be the easy way to think of us, Detective Sergeant Moretti. That would be the cheap cop-out way. I’m glad you see us as responsible Americans, anxious to do the right thing.”

  “You don’t have to talk like that,” Moretti muttered. “Stop conning the people.”

  “Me con the people? You got it backwards, Detective Sergeant Moretti. It’s vets like Sam and me who were conned. We’re the ones who were trained to kill slopes till we killed so many, a few more deaths don’t make any difference to us.”

  Moretti removed his hat and mopped his forehead. “Knock it off, Joe,” he said in an undertone. “You’re turning this into a joke. Are you giving us this lady? Yes or no?”

  “Why don’t you ask her what she wants?”

  A TV reporter carrying a microphone had started to move in on the trio of people. Joe spotted him before Moretti did. “Here’s the guy to ask Marge questions. Are you Ron Aronowitz?”

  “I’m Rick Ericson of Channel Five.”

  Littlejoe executed a sweeping Errol Flynn movement with his free arm, as if presenting Marge at court. “Okay with you, Detective Sergeant Moretti?”

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Moretti grumbled.

  “What is?” Joe countered. “I’m not doing any of this for myself. Everybody else is copping big from it but Sam and me. They’re selling hundreds of dollars of ice cream and beer over there. You’re getting a promotion. You couldn’t escape it if you tried. And this creep is earning his bread from Channel Five. He’ll get a bonus, won’t you, Rick Ericson?”

  “Let me interview all three of you,” the newsman suggested.

  “Just Marge. And kind of remember the gun in her ear. You remember it too, Marge. And Moretti, you remember the three people inside with Sam.”

  “I don’t forget Sam,” Moretti told him. “You’re not the only one worrying about him.”

  Joe started to say something, but the on-target aim of Moretti’s remark stopped him for a moment. “Go ahead, Mr. Newsmaker.”

  “Uh, well, I understand you’re Marge.”

  “Mrs. Marjorie Haines,” she volunteered.

  “How are things inside the bank, Mrs. Haines?”

  “Well, everyone’s all right.”

  “No one hurt?”

  “No. We got one girl crying, but so far everyone’s fine, as long as nobody starts shooting. For a minute there I thought they were going to kill Leroy. They were like animals, all over him.”

  “Yes, well, what about the suspect inside the bank? He’s something of a mystery to us, Mrs. Haines. Can you tell us something about him?”

  “He’s quiet.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes. I’d like to go back in now.” She glanced aimlessly around her.

  “You mean he doesn’t talk at all?”

  “No, he talks.”

  “What does he say, Mrs. Haines?”

  “Oh.” She glanced at Joe, who nodded. “He asks Joe here, ‘Joe, do you want me to shoot this one or that one?’ That’s about it.”

  “Do you think he’s serious, Mrs. Haines?”

  “I would say so, yes.”

  “Does he seem like the killer type?”

  She looked around her again, blindly. “What is that?”

  “A killer type?”

  “Does a cop look like a killer type?” Marge asked. “Leroy might have been dead if it hadn’t been for this man here.” She indicated Moretti. “I’d like to go back in now.”

  “Jo
e,” Moretti piped up, “let her stay out here.”

  “Why? That only leaves us Boyle and the two girls.”

  “That’s more than enough.”

  “You’re playing me for an idiot again, huh? Tricking one hostage after another from me. I gave you Leroy and that’s that. Talk about good faith. Where’s yours?”

  “Joe, she’s out. Let her stay out.”

  “Cut the shit!” Littlejoe exploded. He knew his voice was shrill with anger. He knew the microphones and cameras were recording the outburst. He didn’t care. “You cops are all the same,” he shouted. “Whatever you do is right. Lie, cheat, go back on your word, trick, hide, steal. If I do it, I’m an ape, a killer type. If you do it, you’re upholding the law. I’m sick of your law, Moretti. It’s a goddamned lie.”

  He tried to cool himself down by taking long, slow breaths of the yeasty air. After a moment it worked. He took another breath and held it awhile. “Ask her,” he said then. “Ask her what she wants to do.”

  “And you’ll abide by her decision.”

  “I didn’t say that. I said ask her.”

  Moretti faced Marge. “You’re out of there, Mrs. Haines. I think we can convince Joe to let you stay outside if you want to.”

  “I can’t do that,” Marge said.

  “What?”

  “Those two young kids inside. They’re my girls. I’m responsible for them. They’re frightened to death, both of them. I’m going back in.” She turned and brushed past Joe on her way into the bank.

  “That was Mrs. Marjorie Haines,” Rick Ericson was intoning into his microphone, “in a rare demonstration of courage that we have seldom—”

  “See, copper?” Joe cut in triumphantly. “She’d rather take her chances inside.”

  “She explained why. She’s afraid for the two girls.”

  “Maybe. Maybe she figures it’s as bad out here as it is inside. Holier-than-thou cops. Tell me something, Detective Sergeant Moretti, when the city issues you a license to kill, does that make you feel terrific?”

  Moretti stood there for a moment. “When the President of the United States issued you your license to kill, how did you feel, Joe?”

  For a moment Joe didn’t know what to say. Then a slow grin crossed his face. “Hey,” he said softly. “Not bad, Moretti. Not bad.”

  One of the cameramen atop a TV van yelled: “Wave to us, Joe.”

  Joe held out both arms at shoulder height and gave a V sign with both hands. “I want to make one thing perfectly clear,” he yelled. “After this is over I’m retiring to San Clemente and live off my pension of seventy-five grand a year. And you’re gonna keep paying it till the day I die.”

  The crowd went wild with hooting and catcalls. Moretti’s frown deepened. “Nobody loves a smart-ass, Joe.”

  “And another thing, Moretti. I’m through talking to city dicks. Heisting a national bank is a federal offense. I want to talk to a higher-up.”

  “Oh, do you.” Moretti pushed the microphone away. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to get just that.” His voice sank to a whisper. “You asshole, I’m your only chance. They would’ve picked you off long ago.”

  “What about the million in cash? What about the safe conduct? What about bringing my wife here? What about the plane?”

  “We’ve got your wife,” Moretti said. “She’s on her way here now. The million we’ll get. Everything takes time.”

  “You’re stalling, that’s all. While you fill the area with plainclothesmen. I see them filtering in. I’m not blind.”

  “Those are off-duty cops. They heard the news on TV and they’re coming in from all boroughs of the city, some of them even from Long Island.”

  “The smell of blood attracts them, huh?”

  “It’s up to you, the smell. Drop your gun. Get Sam to drop his and the problem ends. It’s solved. Just that fast.”

  “Kiss, kiss.”

  Moretti turned away. “It’s no use, is it?”

  “Not without the ransom, my wife, the getaway car, and the plane. You’re making me sound like a fucking broken record, Moretti.”

  But the detective had already started back across the street, the lenses of the creepy-peepies on him. Joe went back inside the bank. Sam was standing just next to the door, his glance shifting from side to side. He looked uptight again.

  “What were you talking to him about so long?” Sam demanded.

  “Deals.”

  “You told them the deal. There’s nothing more to talk about.”

  “Nothing has changed, Sam. You gotta trust me, is all. We only have each other in this. They talk about good faith. But it’s you and me have to keep faith. I won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

  Sam’s big eyes scanned his face. “Okay,” he said at last. “You I trust.”

  “That’s how it has to be.”

  “But we’re getting out of this,” Sam went on. “Either that or they kill me. I don’t go back to jail, Littlejoe, not ever. And I kill as many of them as I can before they get me.”

  “Sam,” Joe said soothingly. “Sam, we’re getting out of it. We’re—”

  The telephone’s ring cut off his words. He’d run out of them by now anyway, and it was with a certain sense of relief that he picked up the telephone. “Grand Central Station,” he said.

  “This the Littlejoe guy?” a man asked.

  “Right.”

  “Good. I looked up the number in the phone book. Do me something.”

  “What?”

  “Kill them.”

  “What?”

  “Kill them all. Now.”

  “Fucking creep!” Joe burst out, slamming down the phone. He turned to Sam. “Christ, Sam you wouldn’t believe the kind of people walking the streets of this town.”

  18

  At seven thirty, Moretti finally concluded that—short of a miracle—it was all over.

  He hadn’t said anything to any of the cops assigned to him. He hadn’t, of course, mentioned it to Baker, the FBI agent in charge. Nor had he even hinted anything of the kind to Assistant Commissioner Mulvey, who had called only three times in the past hour. Finally, when the mayor of New York had gotten on the phone for a direct talk to Moretti, he had fed him the same optimistic lies he’d given everyone else.

  But the fact remained that the situation was damned near lost unless he got an unexpected break. Moretti had had Sam’s record pulled out of police files. He’d also pulled two arrest citations for Joe Nowicki, alias Littlejoe.

  He now knew something more about the suspects across the street, not much, but enough to realize that both had serious problems. It was amazing how much undiluted garbage lay in the files of the computer system that coughed up dossiers on both men. There was even a note on Joe that indicated he had supported Goldwater and Nixon in previous presidential elections, but had been overheard to make damaging remarks about Nixon subsequent to 1972. Moretti wondered how any system, even one as expensive as this, could sweep up such uncorroborated bullshit and, what was worse, retain it on permanent call.

  Joe’s dossier was sketchy because he’d never been brought to trial for any of his offenses. They ranged from hubcap stealing as a kid in Corona to uttering menaces, a complaint of one of his neighbors in Rego Park. Charges had never been made. His file indicated he had a hair-trigger temper, nothing more.

  But Sam’s record was disheartening. He’d obviously had such a bad time in prison that he might not want to be taken alive if they closed in on the bank.

  It was always a touchy business with hostages. Moretti was never one for meeting it head-on, the way Baker might, charging in like a bull and trampling whatever got in the way. Moretti liked a bit of the old soft shoe. He liked to tiptoe into the thing, size up all the factors and try to guess what would happen if he did this, or that.

  Often enough, when the showdown came, Moretti had had felons surrender peacefully rather than spill a hostage’s blood and their own. It could well be that way with Joe,
if no one got that blow-top temper of his riled. But the chances of Sam giving up quietly were nil.

  That meant they’d get their million bucks, and all the rest, too.

  He’d already said as much to Mulvey, and been chewed out unmercifully. “Where the hell does the Department get that kind of loot? Out of your budget, Moretti? They’ll remember you as the guy who cost them a million bucks. And they won’t be in any hurry to promote you for a thing like that.”

  “Commissioner,” Moretti had responded, holding on to his temper as well as he could, “does that go for the plane charter, too? Am I going to get this kind of magnificent cooperation all down the line?”

  “Easy, Tony. Watch the mouth.”

  “Am I?”

  “You’ll get,” Mulvey said, “what you’ll get. My crystal ball is no better than yours.”

  Reviewing the problem now, as he watched the light begin to fade out of the sky and grow rosy-orange in the west, Moretti reminded himself that Baker would not be having such money problems. The FBI simply never had money problems. But if Moretti held his breath waiting for Baker to offer a helping hand on the budget, he would strangle to death.

  He was dying, as it was, unless saved by a miracle. The crowds were now huge. The TV and radio, the newspapers, the wire services, some of the news magazines, even publications like New York and Playboy, already had in-depth reporters nosing around, asking for permission to do such lovely things as go inside the bank and tape a confidential interview.

  As if this thing had been staged for them. That was one thing Littlejoe had right. Once these things started rolling, they were for everybody else, never for the hardcore of it like Moretti and Joe and, God help him, Boyle across the street.

  “. . . telling you Al, you should send another two trucks at least,” a voice behind Moretti was saying.

  The detective turned to watch one of his own uniformed patrolmen on the telephone to his brother-in-law, the gonif who owned the ice-cream and pizza wagons that had flocked to the scene in record time.

  Moretti had heard him make two previous calls, both of them for more wagons. Of course the cop shouldn’t be using the phone. Of course there was a conflict of interest. Of course his brother-in-law slipped the cop a few bills for spotting and reporting such concentrations of gawkers. But Moretti had better things to worry about now than the usual penny-ante cop grafting.