In the camera shop, he directed two of the Leeches, each lugging a couple of footlockers they’d found at Penney’s, to take nothing under a hundred dollars, and later gave them exactly the same advice in the Singer outlet, where they loaded their hand trucks with sewing machines in cartons.
In the department stores, he had various of the players strip items off wheeled clothing racks to make room for some selective shopping, loading up on designer clothes. I. Magnin, though, had whole racks of designer duds just waiting to be wheeled out, and easily matched the Haus of Leather where furs were concerned—also, several display cases of jewelry (no vault there) were broken into and emptied into waiting luggage, some of it imported leather pieces from Magnin itself.
Nolan by no means lost himself in the work, however: he kept an eye on Comfort and Lyle, both of whom kept their distance from him. He had been thinking over what Jon had told him of the conversation between Lyle and his pa. Behind his cool supervisory demeanor, a storm brewed.
It was just after four when Nolan cornered Comfort in Magnin’s, where the coveralled, white-haired bandit was walking down the aisle with a suitcase in either hand, crammed with who knew what, thimbles and Snicker bars maybe, heading through ladies’ wear toward the double doors that would lead into the storeroom and the final loading dock.
Nolan smiled. “Satisfied with your shopping spree so far, Cole?”
Comfort stopped in the aisle, did not put down the bags; smiled back, rather nervously, Nolan thought. “I surely am. You and me, we’ve had our differences. But you come through for me on this. And I ain’t gonna forget it.”
“Good. That’s quite a wallop your boy seems to have taken.”
“He fell on the ice.”
“Looks like he got hit with something.”
“He fell on the ice. Excuse me, these is heavy.”
“I keep my promises, Cole. Remember that.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—look. We’ll shoot the fuckin’ breeze some other time. Time is money, Nolan! We’re running out of time, here.”
“Yes we are,” Nolan said.
AT FOUR-FIFTEEN, two jewelry stores under his belt, a tired but self-satisfied Roger Winch walked into the First National branch bank, duffel bag in hand; he looked like a bum, in his old clothes, but that just went with the territory: you had to be able to discard your clothes, after a job, as the telltale dust from a safe blowing clung to clothes, making prime evidence for the prosecution. Roger had never done time and had no intention, at this late date, of ever doing so.
A few lights were on, behind the row of teller cages, which were decked with holly and some twinkling Christmas lights. The big NCR safe, olive-colored, stucco-surfaced, was at his left as he entered, on a pedestal; this was to help facilitate its use as a card-activated cash machine, outside. A fully trimmed Christmas tree, under which were bogus gifts, stood next to it.
This automated teller machine—which was called Presto-Change-O, the sort of cutesy name these bank cash machines always seemed to have—was open twenty-four hours. That was one of the reasons Nolan had suggested doing the bank safes last—later at night, the less likely many (if any) customers would be hitting up Presto-Change-O for cash.
The computer within the safe would probably shut down, once Roger blew the door; but ATMs going on the blink was nothing new—though an answering service would automatically be called by Presto-Change-O in the machine’s last breaths before doing its disappearing act, no one would service the thing till tomorrow. And any stray, late-night/early-morning customers encountering the uncooperative machine would dismiss it with a “goddamn.”
The face of Presto-Change-O was actually the ass of the safe, extending out of the bank’s brick outer wall to greet the public in such a way that even if some customer did come along at four- fifteen this morning, he or she wouldn’t see Roger Winch in the process of performing what was known in the trade as a jam shot.
Normally Roger would have laid out all of his tools and equipment on the top of the safe; but, due to the pedestal it was on, the NCR was too tall for that. So Roger pulled a desk around and removed items from his duffel bag, arranging his things carefully, in order, on the desktop, like a chef assembling his ingredients. These included: soap, Fels Naphtha brand, which was malleable and just the right consistency to keep the grease (nitro) from draining through; the grease, a couple of ounces in a medicine bottle, cushioned by twice as much water; a folded strip of cellophane, eight inches long, half an inch wide; a box of wooden kitchen matches, four of which he removed and set out; a knocker—a small metal cap with fulmonite of mercury in it (a lot of guys these days used electric detonators, but the art of this game, Roger felt, was knowing how to properly use a fuse-type knocker) with five inches of fuse crimped in the knocker’s open end; a razor blade; a flashlight; a crowbar; and some rubber gloves, which he now put on.
Whistling “Strangers in the Night,” Roger inserted the strip of cellophane lengthwise into the space between the safe’s door and door frame. Then he took the soap, which he’d already limbered up at the motel before coming, and sculpted a funnel-shaped cup around the cellophane strip. He made it fit nice and snug; mustn’t allow any grease to trickle down the front of the door. Then he gently withdrew the cellophane, which left a narrow passage through the soap where the grease could flow.
He placed the knocker carefully in the cup, so as not to jar it, the fuse dangling about three and a half inches over the lip of the cup, about five seconds’ worth. With the razor blade he split the end of the fuse, spreading it like a flower till its central vein of black powder showed.
He reached for the medicine bottle of grease. He began to pour it slowly into the soap cup—smiling to himself as he did; here was where Roger shined—here was what separated the pete-men from the boys: you had to have timing better than Bob Hope, to judge if the safe was drinking the grease right. And Roger had that sense of timing. The ability to make sure the knocker went off just as the last of the nitro was draining from the cup into the safe door.
Quickly, he lit three kitchen matches at once, producing a prodigious flame, which he touched to the fuse, and took cover twenty feet away, behind a desk.
He sat on the indoor-outdoor carpeting, his back to desk drawers, and covered his ears with pressed fingers; but he enjoyed the ka-WHOOM of the safe blowing.
He stood. He walked through the smoke to the safe. Its doors were swinging on its hinges. He smiled. Perfect. He wouldn’t be needing the crowbar.
He glanced inside at the two bins of cash, tens and twenties, amid computer circuitry. The money could be gathered later. Right now he had two more safes to blow, the little night deposit safes which Nolan said would probably hold more money than Presto-Change-O, given the Christmas shopping season.
He put his tools back in the duffel bag and moved to the next safe and began again.
The explosion, the third of the night, was the loudest yet, and jarred Jon, who was out of hot chocolate and a little drowsy in the cab of the Leech Bros, truck. He decided there was no getting used to occasional explosions. No way not to jump in his seat.
A face appeared in the window next to him and he jumped in his seat again. It wasn’t an explosion, but it sure was surprising.
It was also Cindy Lou.
Her big blue eyes were red and puffy, apparently from crying, and she seemed about to cry again. Then she disappeared, hopped back down to earth, or anyway the pavement of the mall parking lot.
Jon rolled down the window and cold rushed in as he looked out, looked down at her. “What are you doing here?”
She was in the denim jacket again, which against this cold snap was no defense, and her hands were buried in its pockets, and her teeth were chattering.
“We gotta talk,” she said, looking up at him.
“Get in on the other side,” he said, and rolled the window back up.
He reached over and opened the door for her and she climbed aboard.
“It’s wa
rm in here,” she said.
“But it’s a cold world, Cindy Lou,” he said. “How did you get here?”
“Walked.”
“From where? The Holiday Inn?”
She nodded curtly. Added, “It’s not far.”
“Why did you do that? Why are you here?”
She looked at him and her lower lip was trembling. The cold had nothing to do with it.
She said, “I’m afraid . . . I’m confused . . . I been up all night . . . thinking . . .”
He touched her nearer arm. “Cindy Lou—what is it?”
She gave him a look that was part innocence and all yearning. “Did you buy that bus ticket like you said? Or were you shinin’ me on?”
“I bought the ticket. One-way to L.A.”
She pouted. “I probably missed the bus. I already missed the boat.”
“It’s an open ticket. It’s waiting at the window for you. You can take the first available bus out.”
Firmly, now, she said, “I’m gonna use that ticket.”
“Good for you.”
She looked at her lap. “My daddy’s a terrible man. It’s a hard thing to know, but I know it. Part of me still loves him, and maybe that’s why I’m scared to stick around with him. Maybe . . . maybe I’d like it, if he did it to me.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t either. Ah, shit, I don’t know what I think. I just know I gotta leave.”
“What’s going on, Cindy Lou?”
She squinched her face up. “Way after midnight, Lyle come back to the motel room. He was bleeding. He had me help him wash up some.”
“He looks pretty bad, even so.”
“He was all bloody on his face.”
“Cindy Lou. Did he kill her?”
She paused. Then she nodded.
“Shit,” Jon said. Tears came, at once; he fought them.
“I asked him what happened to the girl,” she said, a whimper in her voice, “and he said she was dead. I asked him if he killed her and he tried at first to make out like it was an accident. But then he owned up to it.”
“Jesus fuck.”
She raised her hands—they made tiny fists and she pummeled the air. “I started to hit him and hit him and he got all confused. He didn’t understand why I was so mad at him. Then he said he was afraid Daddy was going to be mad, too.”
“Yeah. Lyle lost his birthday gun.”
That startled her. “How did you know?”
Jon just shook his head. He wiped the wetness from his eyes.
“He said he’d tell me the truth,” she said, “if I didn’t tell Daddy.”
“What’s the truth?”
“He was supposed to kill the girl, but she ran away. She put up a struggle, and he lost his gun. But he finally caught up with her. He left her body at the bottom of a well.”
“Goddamn!” Jon said, and smashed a fist heel-first into the dashboard.
“Don’t be mad at me,” Cindy Lou said, pitifully. “I didn’t do it.”
Jon swallowed; worked at controlling himself. He looked at her and she was a cute kid, a good kid, in spite of it all; he felt a sudden rush of warmth toward her and touched her face with his hand.
“You didn’t have to come tell me, Cindy Lou. You didn’t have to come here and tell me at all.”
She shrugged, rather helplessly. “I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid I waited too long. See . . . Lyle admitted him and Daddy were going to kill you and the other man, too. Real soon.”
21
FIVE A.M.
It would be dawn soon.
They were gathered at the final loading dock, an open cement garagelike area within the sprawling I. Magnin warehouse, a back-room catacomb of boxed merchandise, stacked and shelved. The last dollies and hand trucks and carts bearing microwave ovens and VCRs and TVs, taken from this department store, were being wheeled toward the trailer of the third, the final, semi. Cole Comfort stood at the right of the truck, watching, relishing it; you could see in his face, in his eyes, that this night had been his life’s dream come true. Lyle was at the wheel of a hand truck of unidentifiable boxes. Fisher had a cart piled with boxed Cuisinarts and other small but relatively big-ticket kitchen appliances. A pair of Leeches were within the truck, packing things tight, making as much room as possible for still more stolen stuff. Another Leech was having a smoke over at left. Winch and Dooley had one of the several suitcases of cash from the bank up on a waist-high stack of boxes, looking in at the green stuff, contemplating how much it would all add up to—checks had been left behind at the bank, just so much worthless paper on the indoor-outdoor carpeting, some of it scattered under the Christmas tree as if by a sloppy Santa. Everybody seemed sort of wasted, understandably so, but a little high, as well. Things were winding down.
Nolan accessed the scene. He stood at the outer edge of the open cement area, I. Magnin boxed merchandise stacked on rows of ceiling-high shelving behind him. One hand, his right, was behind him, too.
This, he thought, would be as good a time as any.
“Gentlemen,” he said. Loudly.
They stopped in their tracks. Comfort seemed puzzled—probably he wasn’t used to hearing the word “gentlemen” used in reference to him. Lyle seemed stunned, but then he’d seemed stunned all night. A Leech poked his head out of the back of the van, like a groundhog checking to see if this was his day; it wasn’t. Fisher looked at Nolan, not making anything of it. But Winch and Dooley seemed to sense something.
“I’ve got something to say,” Nolan said. “I’d advise you listen carefully.”
Comfort glared at Nolan. The old man’s usually disconcertingly pleasant face became a sphincter of irritation as his mouth squeezed out the words: “What the fuck’s the idea? Don’t interrupt the work!” Then to everybody else, including the loitering Winch, Dooley and the smoking Leech, he waved his hands like an insane traffic cop and said, “Get back to it. We gotta get out of this place.”
“If it’s the last thing we ever do,” Jon said, stepping out from an aisle between shelves and stacked boxes, UZI in his hands.
Comfort’s eyes were saucers, flying from Nolan to Jon and back again. “What the fuck is this?”
“No sudden moves,” Nolan said, and showed them all the long-barreled .38 he’d had behind him.
“What the fuck is this?” a Leech within the truck said, poking his head out next to his brother’s. They looked uglier than groundhogs.
With his left hand, Nolan gestured gently toward the truck.
“Put it back,” he said.
The men looked at each other; confusion turned to smiles. Even Lyle smiled. Heads were shaking.
Only Comfort showed no signs of amusement.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he said, spitting the words.
“It means,” Nolan said, “put it back.”
He and Jon were spread apart enough to keep the men covered. The UZI could kill them all in a matter of seconds. Despite their smiles—their nervous smiles—these men knew that. Even Lyle.
Fisher, with a tiny one-sided smirk, said, “Surely you’re not suggesting we put back . . . what we . . . took.”
Nolan nodded.
“The merchandise?” Fisher said, eyebrows raised over dark-rimmed glasses. “The money . . . the diamonds . . . all of it?”
Nolan nodded.
“Nolan,” Winch said, stepping forward, looking like a raggedy man in his dusty work clothes, “it took us all night to do this job. We don’t have time to put everything back, even if we wanted to. What am I supposed to do, unblow five safes? Come on, man—the deed is done. So’s the damage. Let’s all let bygones be bygones and enjoy this coup we pulled.”
“We have plenty of manpower,” Nolan said, “and plenty of time. Merchants don’t get here till eight-thirty. The maintenance guy comes on at seven, and if we aren’t done by then, we can do something about him. We’re going to work very hard, unloading these trucks. But the first thing I want you
all to do is toss your guns on the floor. No offense, but do it. Toss ’em right over by Jon. Now.”
There were grumbles, but they complied—all but Winch, who didn’t carry a piece. Fisher threw on his clunkily futuristic-looking stun gun. Even the Leeches coughed up weapons, surprisingly small ones, .22 revolvers, Saturday night specials. Nolan kept a close eye on Cole Comfort, who tossed a Colt Woodsman .38 on the silvery pile.
“Nolan,” Dooley said, “why are you doing this?”
“You all know why,” Nolan said. “The Comforts took a hostage. The woman I live with. That’s how they forced my involvement here. I work here, gentlemen. My friends own and operate the stores we’ve looted. I’ve been made to do two things I don’t as a rule do: steal from my friends; and shit where I eat. Start unloading.”
Fisher said, “Isn’t this a little late . . .”
“You’ll all be paid for your trouble. I’ll even extend my offer to the Leech brothers . . .” He directed his words toward them: “I’m kicking in fifteen grand apiece for your trouble here tonight.”
A Leech scowled from the back of the truck and said, “This is a million-dollar score. What the fuck kind of insult is fifteen gees?”
“You’re wasting time. Start unloading.”
Winch stepped forward. “Nolan, we worked a lot of jobs together. I got a lot of respect for you. But this isn’t right. This isn’t fair.”
“They killed the girl,” Nolan said. He didn’t like saying it. Saying it was admitting it.
Winch shook his head, made a clicking sound of sympathy in his cheek. “That’s a shame. The dirty bastards.” He glanced at Comfort, who was standing near the semi, boiling, and Lyle, who was frozen at his hand truck, and shook his head again. Then he looked at Nolan and shrugged, “But really, Nolan, that’s between you and Comfort, here.”
Fisher stepped forward, too. “It’s an awful thing. But, Nolan, frankly—it doesn’t have anything to do with the rest of us. We worked our tails off, all damn night.”
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