Two for the Money

by Max Allan Collins

  Nolan said, “It can be.”

  “And you assured Shelly a minute ago that our share was safe. That we’d get paid. ‘Don’t worry,’ you said. Right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well,” Grossman said, “I don’t see it that way. Not at all. I don’t see I can trust you.”

  Nolan shifted his weight. “I don’t know why not, Grossman.”

  “Don’t move around,” Grossman said. “Goes for you too, Jon.”

  “Gross,” Shelly said, “what makes you think Nolan’s going to cheat us?”

  “Quiet,” he said. “Nolan, would you trust a man who slept with his partner’s woman?”

  Shelly’s face turned as white as it had in the bank. Only this time, Nolan noticed, no act. Jon was frozen, his mouth hanging open.

  Nolan said, “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “There’s more,” Grossman said, his voice still a matter-of-fact monotone. “How does the complexion of the situation change when still another partner comes in and sleeps with that woman? And this second partner, he was the one who told the man not to see the woman, because it was bad for the job. The one man is supposed to stay away, while his partners take turns screwing.”

  The monotone bothered Nolan, and so did the way Grossman’s eyes wouldn’t stay still, kept flicking from Nolan to Shelly to Jon and over again.

  Jon thawed enough to say, “You been watching Shelly.”

  Grossman said, “That’s right, friend. I was watching Saturday night when you went up to see her. And Sunday night when you went up to see her, old man.”

  “They just came to talk about the robbery, Gross,” Shelly said, a desperate tone working its way into her voice.

  “Sure, babe.”

  Nolan said, “There’s no reason to complicate this, Grossman. We don’t have the time for personal problems. Whatever happened, it’s over. Take your half now, if you like. Just grab one of the bags, the one that’s more full if you want. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me the briefcase, because I have a use for the bait money. But we can’t afford to fool around here any longer.”

  Grossman turned and looked at Shelly. “I think I understand some things about you, babe, I never understood before. All those guys that have . . .” He stopped and laughed, “. . . taken advantage of you.”

  Shelly looked over nervously at Jon and Nolan, then back to Grossman and said, “Are you going to kill them, Gross?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I killed for you, would it, babe? Tell me, how long after we’re in Canada is it going to be before you ditch me? Will you wait a while, till Jon gets our money to us? Or have you already made arrangements to meet Jon sooner? Or Nolan? Do you get my share of the take, too, babe, or just yours? So many things make sense now. I don’t know how I could have believed in you all this while. Unless it was just that I wanted to.”

  “If you’re going to kill them,” she said, her voice a sob now, “do it! Will you? I’m scared, I’m scared, I want to leave this place . . . it was all going along so nice . . . oh Gross, baby, babe, do something!”

  Grossman touched her arm. “You were always looking for something new, weren’t you, babe? A new start, a new way, a new kick. Always something new.”

  “Grossman,” Nolan said.

  “Old man,” Grossman said, “I’m going now. I’m not going to kill you. I don’t blame you for this, not really. Or Jon. You taught me some things, so thanks for that much. But I won’t be leaving you any money, can’t do that either. Now when I go, be smart and don’t go sticking your head out the door. I can hit targets from about anywhere, remember. Moving targets I’m real good at.”

  “This is stupid, Grossman,” Nolan said.

  Grossman got up and stood with a hand on Shelly’s shoulder. “Something new, right, babe? Try this one on, babe, it’ll blow your mind.”

  He put the .38 barrel up against the blonde hair along her temple and squeezed the trigger.

  3

  Nolan dropped to the floor. As he hit he reached an arm out and knocked Jon’s legs from under him, to get the boy down below the line of fire. Jon’s body slapped the floor, but the immediate danger was over: the slamming door signaled Grossman’s exit.

  Jon’s face was ashen. “Jesus, Nolan! Jesus Christ, what’s happening, Nolan!” The boy pushed himself to his knees and stared over at the poker table. Shelly’s lifeless figure was sprawled across its top, what remained of her face mercifully hidden by the long, now red-streaked blonde hair.

  Nolan got up and pulled Jon to his feet, standing between the boy and the table.

  “Oh Jesus, Nolan, what’ll we do now, oh Jesus . . .”

  Nolan latched onto his shoulders. “Goddamn you, kid,” he said, “don’t go hysterical on me.”

  “What’s happening here? Everything was perfect, everything was fine . . .”

  Nolan dug his fingers into the boy’s shoulders and shook him. “Shut up and snap out of it.”

  “Everything’s gone all to hell, Nolan, everything’s . . .”

  “I said snap out of it,” he said, turning the boy around and facing him toward the bedroom. “We got a lot to do.”

  “Nolan?”

  “Since there’s no back door, we’ll be going out a window. Go in the bedroom and wait for me. I’ll be right in.”

  Jon nodded his head and plodded off.

  Nolan bent down and opened up his bag, got out the Smith and Wesson .38. He dug under the clothes and found a box of shells and stuffed it in his pocket. Since Jon might get upset at the sight of the gun, Nolan shoved it in his belt, covered it with his coat, and headed for the bedroom.

  The boy was sitting in the straight-backed chair by the dresser, staring at his folded hands. Well, Nolan thought, shock treatment time.

  “Better take your .38 back, kid,” Nolan said, pointing at the dresser. “May need it.”

  Jon bent down and pulled open the bottom drawer and took out the .38. He held it loose in his hand and looked at it and shuddered. But that was all.

  Nolan allowed himself a sigh of relief and said, “Come on, kid.” He unlocked the window and pushed it up. “Don’t jump out. Hold onto the sill and slide your feet to the ground. And no noise.”

  Jon nodded and waited for Nolan to crawl out the window first, then followed him close behind.

  The farmhouse lawn did not extend to the back yard, which was a dense thicket. The thick brush came right up to the window and hid Nolan and Jon as they crept through it on all fours. When they were safely behind the barn, leaning against it, Nolan put a finger to his lips, then mouthed, “Wait.”

  A few seconds later they heard the sound of a motor starting up inside the barn, then tires spun gravel and they knew Grossman had gone.

  Jon began moving forward and Nolan grabbed his arm. “Hold it,” he said, “give him time to get out of sight.” Twenty long seconds passed and Nolan said, “Now.”

  They ran around to the front and inside the barn they found the Chevy II and the Country Squire still there, the back compartment of the station wagon open.

  “Took his own,” Jon said. “Figures.”

  “Stupid,” Nolan said. “Not enough room for the bags in the Mustang trunk. He’ll have to have one, maybe both in the backseat. Out in the open. Stupid.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Got your keys?”

  “Sure.”

  “Give me four minutes to catch him. I’ll take the wagon, then after the four minutes are gone, you come pick me up in your Chevy.”

  “How will I find you?”

  “Same way I find him: follow the dust. Gravel roads, remember?”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Nolan climbed behind the wheel of the Country Squire, got out the keys. “While you’re waiting, go in and get my bag. Bring it when you come for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “But after that come back out here and wait in your car. I don’t want you in the house moping over that side of beef i
n there.”

  The boy swallowed and said, “Don’t worry.”

  Nolan turned the key in the ignition.

  Nothing.

  “Dead?” Jon said.

  “Damn,” Nolan said, getting out and throwing open the hood. “Forgot the bastard knew engines.”

  “What’d he do to it?”

  Nolan smiled. “Just lifted off one of the battery cables,” he said, bending over and putting the connector back in place. “He’s not as smart as I thought, and I’m not as stupid as he thought.”

  This time the engine jumped to life and Nolan glided out of the barn.

  “Watch yourself, Nolan!”

  “Four minutes, kid.”

  He held it to twenty going around the cinder court, then climbed to forty-five going out the narrow gravel road leading away from the farmhouse lot. If he went too fast he’d raise so much of his own dust he wouldn’t be able to follow Grossman’s. The ditches on each side of the road were deep, at least six feet, and if he made a sloppy turn and ended up in one of those, he might as well pitch a tent and call that ditch home.

  He came to the first crossroad half a mile from the farmhouse. Grossman’s dust was to the left and Nolan followed it, building a little more speed. The road widened slightly, but the ditches were just as deep, and when he came to the next crossroad a quarter mile later, Grossman’s dust rising on the right, Nolan almost missed the turn as the wagon wheeled around the corner at the steady fifty-m.p.h. pace he’d set.

  The next crossroad Grossman’s dust trail went to the left again, and the next to the right, and still Nolan hadn’t caught sight of the little yellow Mustang. Grossman was traveling fast, he thought, too fast for a narrow road like this one, much too fast for such conditions, even for as good a driver as Grossman.

  The four-minute time limit he’d given himself was nearly up, and Nolan began to get a cold sensation of sinking futility. When the next crossroad came moments later, the feeling clawed at his gut: dust was freshly risen on both the left and right turns.

  He came to a gravel-scattering halt in the center of the intersection.

  Had Grossman purposely doubled back to confuse him?

  Or did the dust belong to some other driver?

  If that driver, should he happen to exist, got run off the road by the Mustang, or even just noticed how fast it was going and followed or reported it, things could really get tense.

  He was just about ready to flip a mental coin to decide right or left when he heard the sound, a sound coming from his right, the sound of collision, of crackup. Jolting, crunching, glass-shattering, metal-tearing impact, the sound of machine eating machine.

  Nolan spun the wheel, pressed the pedal to the floor, and careened around in a U and headed toward the sound’s source. He had to cut his speed immediately because the dust was so thick, cut it to ten and held it there, leaning his head out the window to see better, flicking on the lights in a try at penetrating the heavy fog of dust.

  Then he saw it.

  The Mustang.

  The front of its yellow body was twisted around the tail of a big tractor, whose two huge wheels were bent to either side of the Mustang’s mutilated prow, forming a cockeyed vee. Car and tractor were melded together, one gnarled piece of obscene sculpture teetering on the edge of the deep roadside ditch.

  Nolan pulled over to the opposite side and got out, leaving the motor running, went over to the Mustang, and looked in.

  Grossman was leaned over the wheel, his head bloody from where it had cracked apart the windshield, his empty eyes open and staring. The bags of money and Nolan’s briefcase were in the back seat.

  The way the metal had twisted, it took several yanks for Nolan to get the door open, but he finally did, and the force of the action flopped Grossman over toward him, hanging out into the road. Nolan heaved him back in, noticing from the tilt of his neck that it was broken. He didn’t bother checking for a pulse. He pushed forward the seat with the limp body in it and got out the two laundry bags and the briefcase from the backseat. He closed the door again, briefcase under his arm, and hauled the bags over to the wagon. He put everything into the compartment in back, in case somebody came along and he had to play innocent bystander for a while.

  He returned to the coupled machines and looked up at the vacant tractor seat. In the opposite ditch, where he’d been thrown a good thirty feet away from the wreck, was the driver. He was a short man in bib overalls, around Nolan’s age, with butched white hair. Nolan leaned over the unconscious figure. Pulse normal enough. Nothing important broken, few ribs maybe. Concussion very likely. The man wouldn’t be waking up for a while, but he would eventually.

  Nolan went back to the station wagon and shifted into drive. He pulled into a dirt inway down the road that bridged the ditch and led into a field, then backed the wagon out, turned around and began retracing his route. When he reached the nearest of the crossroads he saw another car up ahead moving through the dust, and when he was trying to decide how to handle the situation, he recognized the car as Jon’s Chevy II.

  He honked and pulled over and Jon drove up alongside him, looked out the window. “What’s happened?” Jon asked. “Is that an accident down there?”

  “Never mind,” Nolan said, “just get out and open your trunk.”

  Jon did as told and helped Nolan transfer the two bags of money from the wagon into the trunk of the Chevy. Nolan slammed the trunk lid shut, tossed his briefcase in the front seat, and said, “Wait for me here. Don’t kill your motor.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Keep your eyes open. When I come back, I’ll be on foot.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Nolan rolled up his window and shut the boy off. He pulled into another dirt drive and turned around again, headed back toward the crackup.

  Nolan unlatched the door, clutched the handle with his left hand and steered with his right. He accelerated as he approached the mangle of car and tractor, got to thirty-five and aimed the nose of the station wagon at the teetering hulk of maimed machine. A quarter second before the Country Squire smashed into its sister machines and joined with them, Nolan pushed open the door and jumped, rolling across the gravel and down into the ditch opposite. The wagon shoved the car and tractor over into the other ditch and when the three hit bottom, one of the gas tanks (Nolan wondered idly which) exploded, with the other two right behind. A big tongue of flame lashed out of the ditch and licked the air.

  If the sound of the explosion didn’t attract somebody, the fire would, so Nolan got himself up, brushed off as much white gravel dust as he could, crawled up out of the ditch, and started running. He’d been lucky when he dived out of the car, hadn’t hurt himself at all, just the bruises and scratches on his hands and face he’d expected to get anyway. And his side was starting to burn again, as he ran, but not nearly so bad as it might’ve.

  Jon saw him coming and started to drive down after him, but Nolan waved at him to stay put. He didn’t want the boy to have to turn around again needlessly. Time would be too valuable now even for something that small. He ran up to the Chevy II, pulled open the door on the passenger side and leaped in.

  “What happened to you?” Jon said. “What was the explosion all about?”

  “Where are we, in relation to the route to the Cities you memorized?”

  “Two turns’ll get us back on.”

  “Good. Get going, then.”

  Several minutes later they were on their way, and Nolan had his breath back. He lit a cigarette and leaned back and smoked it.

  Jon glanced over at him. “What happened to you?” he repeated.

  “Keep your eyes on the road,” Nolan said. “I jumped out of the wagon when I ran it into the accident.”

  “You mean you wrecked it? On purpose? What accident? That thing down the road? What was the explosion, and the flames?”

  “The explosion was when I ran the wagon into the accident Grossman had.”

  “But
. . . why’d you do that?”

  “Somebody’ll find the wreck soon. And the farmhouse, too. Maybe while they’re trying to sort it all out they’ll forget about us a little.”

  Another minute went by and Jon, his eyes never wavering from the road, asked, “What about Grossman? You kill him?”

  “No,” Nolan said. “Some farmer saved me the trouble.”

  4

  Nolan worked the key in the lock, opened the door to the hotel room, and said, “I appreciate you sitting this out with me, kid.”

  Jon shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said, stepping in, Nolan closing the door behind them. “I don’t feel like letting go of you just yet, anyway, Nolan, to tell you the truth.”

  Nolan glanced around the room and saw it to be a near carbon of the smaller of the two rooms he’d had last time he had been to the Concort. Only this time two single beds had been jammed in instead of one. He looked over at Jon, who was sitting on the bed closest to the window, and said, “Hungry?”

  “Don’t mention food.”

  “You haven’t eaten all day, you must be hungry.”

  “After what’s happened today? Are you kidding?” Jon puffed out his cheeks and covered his mouth with his hand.

  Nolan sat on the other bed and reached over to the night-stand. He lifted the receiver off the hook. “I’ll call room service anyway. You need something in your stomach.”

  The ride to the Quad Cities had been all but silent. Nolan stayed on watch for police cars (a state cop car passed going the other way, but its red tophat was off, as was the siren), and he didn’t want any talk getting Jon’s attention off the memorized route. After awhile Nolan did turn on the radio, found a station giving news on the quarter hour and heard of the “daring daylight holdup” (a phrase which caused Jon to laugh, a needed tension release) that had taken place at Port City Savings and Trust, involving a large, undisclosed amount of money. They also heard that the FBI had rushed into the case, since the “bandits,” who posed as bank examiners, had kidnapped Elaine Simmons, 20, of Port City, a teller at the bank. Then the newscaster went on to his next story and Nolan switched off the radio. When the Chevy II had crossed the Centennial bridge over into Davenport, Nolan spoke for the first time in thirty minutes.