Going in Style

by Robert Grossbach

  FBI agents streamed out of the building behind her, their guns holstered now.

  “Mistaken identity,” called Joe, smiling. “They got the wrong man.”

  An agent got into the front of the Plymouth and started the motor.

  “Anything?” asked the hawk-faced man next to Joe.

  The driver shook his head, and they pulled away from the curb.

  Joe said, “Al, Willie—that’s it. They nabbed us.”

  “What?” said the hawk-faced man.

  “Who’s talking to you?” said Joe.

  They rode rapidly through the city streets. Joe felt sorry for Mrs. Flaum, but at the same time he couldn’t help being amused—the FBI agents would tear their apartment to shreds in search of the money; the landlady would give them a lifetime supply of verbal abuse. He was still imagining the details of the confrontation when the car pulled up before a three-story, white stone building on Queens Boulevard.

  The agents ushered Joe through a crowd of reporters and photographers, several of whom shouted questions, but Joe was inside before he could think of answers. He was led rapidly through marble-tiled corridors, then up a flight of stairs, through a big room where perhaps a dozen people sat at dilapidated wooden desks, and finally into a smaller room that held only a table, two chairs, and a row of file cabinets. Searching through one of the open drawers was a neatly dressed young man with hard, brown eyes. He looked up as Joe entered. “Any problems?” he asked the blond and hawk-face, both of whom still accompanied Joe.

  The blond motioned him into a corner, and there was a tense, whispered interchange. Then the blond unlocked Joe’s handcuffs, and left with the hawk-face agent, closing the door behind them.

  “I’m Richard Tuffo,” said the hard-eyed man. “I’ve been heading the investigation of your case.”

  “Very nice,” said Joe.

  “Joe, I’d like to spend a moment explaining what will happen to you in the next few hours and days. After we’re through here, you’ll be formally booked downstairs for the crime with which you’re charged. It’s a very serious crime, Joe, I hope you understand that.”

  Joe shrugged.

  “You’ll be asked for information on your background and occupation; you’ll be fingerprinted and photographed. Then you’ll be brought back for formal questioning, during which you are entitled to have a lawyer present. Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Not me,” said Joe. “Never cared for ‘em.”

  “In that event, you’ll be assigned one,” said Tuffo. “Is this clear to you, so far?”

  “Sure,” said Joe. “Whaddaya think I am, senile or somethin’?”

  “Just want to be sure you’re aware of your rights,” said Tuffo. He sighed. “You’ll be arraigned before a U.S. Commissioner, and I guarantee you that your bail will be set so high you’ll be unable to make it.” Tuffo sighed again. “Look, none of us, nobody, really wants to see an elderly man like yourself locked up in a cell. I mean, I got a father who’s just about your age. The point I’m—”

  “Save the speech,” said Joe. “I’m guilty, I admit it.”

  “You’re missing—”

  “I ain’t missing nothing,” said Joe, “except maybe a little hair on top.”

  “Joe, so far, your accomplices haven’t been found, nor has the money been recovered. If you were to cooperate with us on these matters—and believe me, we’ll locate everything and everyone with or without your assistance—I think that the Bureau could legitimately stress your cooperation when bail is fixed.”

  Joe pretended to think. “How’d you get us?” he said after a moment. “Fingerprints?”

  Tuffo sat on a corner of the table. “All over the place. Someone got a partial on the license plate of that cab you took. We got a statement from the driver. We found the bag you discarded in the subway, got prints off that. We found bills from the robbery on the platform. Joe, believe me, the case is closed.”

  Joe shrugged. “Next time, I’ll know to wear gloves.”

  “Joe, about the others—”

  “They’re where you can’t get them,” said Joe. “They’ve left, and they’re safe.”

  “Have they fled the country, Joe?” asked Tuffo.

  “They’ve fled the world,” said Joe. “And who the hell gave you permission to call me Joe? Show some respect for your elders, will ya?”

  It was two weeks since Joe’s arrest.

  Agent Jensen, from the Washington office, walked rapidly down the hallway of the Federal Detention Center. He hated New York, hated the air, the traffic, the garbage. Most particularly, he hated the people. The New York guys were a breed apart; they regarded the Washington headquarters as a nuisance, to be granted lip service only, and then ignored. Even when they’d failed miserably at something, as they had in this case, they still maintained that patronizing air of superiority. As if success in matters of this type wasn’t worth their efforts.

  “You people here still have no grasp of the power of public relations,” he said now, his heels clicking on the marble. Alongside him, Tuffo strained to keep up.

  “We did everything we could,” said Tuffo. “There are limits.”

  “Sure,” said Jensen gruffly. “You did wonderfully. This whole thing is great. I got nothing better to do than fly all the way up here to baby-sit for you guys.”

  They climbed a flight of stairs. Tuffo was breathing heavily.

  “The old son of a bitch has no record,” continued Jensen. “Probably never even lifted a bottle of Geritol, and the whole goddamn New York City office can’t get dick out of him.”

  “He’s a tough old coot,” said Tuffo.

  “Really?” said Jensen, his voice choked with contempt. “Well, if he doesn’t open up for me, I’m gonna fry the hoary bastard.” They passed through the large bullpen area with its randomly scattered desks. “Do you know what’s gonna happen if he gets away with this?”

  “I believe so,” said Tuffo.

  “I believe so,’ “mimicked Jensen. “A moron could tell you what. In one week’s time, every geezer in the goddamn country who can get his hands on a water pistol, every dried-out, herniated, arthritic old fart who’s tired of leaning on his cane, will be out sticking up their local banks and candy stores.” He pushed open the door to the interrogation room.

  Three agents sat at the table, drinking coffee from styrofoam cups. At the far end of the room, Joe was picking his nose. Over the past two weeks he’d gotten to know this room very well, gotten to know each of the agents well too. He had told the young lawyer from Legal Aid not to bother showing up today, pledged that he would say nothing. “What can they do to me?” he argued, and the attorney had reluctantly agreed.

  Joe looked up as Jensen came toward him.

  “Hello, Mr. Harris, I’m Bob Jensen from the Washington office.”

  “Hi,” said Joe. “How are you?”

  “Mr. Harris, I’ll get right to the point. I’ve been asked to come down here because our people in the capital thought they heard that you might be a little reluctant to cooperate with our men in the local office. Actually, it’s not that unusual a situation. Personally speaking, from what I can tell about the case—”

  “Excuse me, Sonny Boy, one second,” said Joe.

  “Mr. Harris, if you’ll—”

  “Maybe I can save you some of your valuable time. I mean, from the capital yet… I’m flattered, but like I already told your buddies here—I’m guilty. Me and my two friends robbed the bank.”

  “Mr. Harris, we know that. The problem—”

  “The problem is we did it, and we buried the money, and I ain’t ever gonna tell you where. And you sure as hell ain’t never gonna find it on your own. So why don’t you just lock me up and forget about this whole thing. You’ll be doing everyone a favor.”

  Jensen sat down on a chair. He smiled patiently. “They tell me, Joe, that you don’t have any record at all. In fact, there is every indication that you’ve been a law-abiding and productive member
of your community since… well, let’s face it… since a long time before I learned how to walk.”

  The blond agent, who was chewing gum, chuckled affably. Even Tuffo forced a smile.

  “Joe,” Jensen continued, “your history, along with the fact that this whole incident has become a widely publicized social issue, has helped a lot of forces, including ourselves, to rally to your support. Bet you didn’t know you had fans right here in the Bureau, did you, Joe?”

  “Could’ve fooled me, Sonny Boy.”

  “But look,” said Jensen, suddenly serious, “you’re gonna have to meet us half way on this. Now, I can’t promise you, but if you show us that you’ve changed your attitude, I think there’s an excellent chance you’ll be able to walk away from this whole mess.”

  “You mean, you’ll just let me go?”

  “I mean”—Jensen leaned forward to emphasize the words—“scot-free.” Sincerity oozed from all his pores.

  Joe cocked his head thoughtfully, inhaled, then glanced toward the agent who was chewing gum. “Got an extra piece?”

  The agent looked at Jensen, received a nod, then handed over a stick of gum.

  “Thanks,” said Joe. “I should really stick to the sugarless, but what the hell, I figure this here is a special occasion.” Slowly, he unwrapped the gum and put it in his mouth.

  “So, whaddaya say, Joe?” asked Jensen.

  The room was absolutely still.

  Joe looked up, his jaws working. His eyes met Jensen’s. “I say, why don’t you get the fuck outta here, Sonny Boy. You give me a headache.” He turned to the blond agent. “You wouldn’t have another piece, would you?”

  A few days later, Pete stood before a desk marked Visitors. The only other furnishings in the long green room were two rows of straight chairs separated by a comb of plexiglass partitions.

  “Can I help you?” asked the uniformed officer at the desk.

  “Yeah… uh… a friend of mine is in here, and I was told I could come and visit him.”

  “Inmate’s name?”

  “Joe Harris.”

  The officer made notes on a form. “Your name?”

  “Peter McCaffrey.”

  “You have identification, Mr. McCaffrey?”

  Pete produced his driver’s license. The officer copied down the number, then motioned to another guard, who took the form and left the room. “Go down to station number sixteen and have a seat,” the desk man told Pete. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Thanks,” said Pete. He made his way along the thick plexiglass. About half the stations were empty; the rest were occupied by urgently conversing people. Though Pete could not hear any of the words, the quality of all the exchanges seemed the same—desperate, anxious, pleading. He found Station 16 and sat down. A fluorescent light above him blinked disconcertingly; its transformer hummed. Plaster was peeling from the walls. The vinyl asbestos tiles underfoot were beginning to loosen and curl. A place full of rot and decay, thought Pete. Not a place for an old man. The rusted metal door on the opposite side of the partition swung open, and Joe came stiffly forward. He smiled as he plopped into the chair.

  “Hiya, Pete.”

  “Hi, Joe.”

  “They’re gonna make me go to lunch in about a minute, so we’re gonna have to keep this kinda short.”

  Pete nodded. Joe looked tired, a bit thinner perhaps, but not as bad as he’d feared. “Kathy sends her love. She wanted to come down and see you, too, but we couldn’t get anyone to watch the kids.”

  “That’s okay,” said Joe. “Don’t you worry none. You give her my best, hear?”

  ’Sure,” said Pete.

  Joe looked off to the side. “You know my only regret in all of this? I missed Al’s funeral. Everything else is hunky-dory, but that.…” He sighed. “Well, I just would’ve liked to say good-bye, that’s all.”

  “It was a good funeral, Joe. He had a nice casket.” Pete paused. “How, uh, do you like that lawyer they gave you?”

  “The kid?”

  Pete smiled. “Yeah.”

  “He’s okay. Seems fine.”

  “I spoke with him.”

  Joe’s eyes widened. His face grew anxious. “What do you mean? About what?”

  Pete lifted his palm. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him nothing. We just talked a little about the case. He says they’re gonna be a lot tougher on you than you thought, if you don’t give them back the money.”

  Joe stiffened. “Yeah? Well, screw them.”

  “I dunno, Joe. Maybe you should just return the money from the robbery.”

  Joe shook his head. “Forget it. Al and Willie would drop dead twice if I did that. No, sir.” He hesitated. “Besides, Pete… let me tell you something. For the last couple years, me, Al, and Willie all sat on that park bench and looked at each other. Maybe a politician would come around and talk to us at election time, but that was about it. That was our life. Here, I got my own cell with a toilet and a sink. The food’s okay, and I’m feeling good. As a matter of fact, they treat me like a king around here. Everyone comes around to talk, and they all wanna do me favors.” Joe’s eyes twinkled. “And it’ll be the same anywhere they send me. I guarantee it. Because sooner or later, after a while, after they think I’m softened up, they’ll all come around asking me where I hid the money. They don’t know it, but every one of ‘em is older than me, and besides—”

  The metal door opened, and a guard came in. “All right, we’re gonna have to wrap it up now.”

  Joe shrugged and gave Pete a long, direct look. “Inside or out,” he said, “I’m a prisoner either way. So don’t worry about me, Pete. You just enjoy all your inheritance, and take real good care of Kathy and the kids. Al would’ve wanted that.”

  Pete chewed his lip. “Joe—”

  “Okay, let’s get going,” interrupted the guard.

  Joe rose and moved toward the door. When he was halfway through it, however, he spun around and yelled, “Besides… no tin-horn joint like this could ever hold me!”

  The last thing Pete saw, before the metal door swung shut, was Joe’s elfish grin.

  Hang on to your senses—and your sides. You’re about to join three incredible guys in the most unusual bank robbery in history.

  WHAT A TRIP!

  from park bench to Park Avenue

  from New York to Las Vegas

  from old shows to young showgirls

  from subway trains to jet planes

  from stick-in-the muds to stick-up men

  from existence on Social Security

  to dangerous high-living!

  Joe, Al and Willie are going places… and they’re

  GOING IN STYLE