This Side of Jordan

by Monte Schulz

  “Cut the chatter,” Chester interrupted. “Fact is, thanks to the festival, downtown’s closing early today, so we’ll be the last customers doing business at the bank. They’ll lock the doors behind us and we’ll have all the time we need. You just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking, we won’t have any trouble.”

  Chester steered over to the curb between Rexall Drugs and Foote’s hardware, a block and a half from the Union Bank. He stopped the car and turned off the motor. The air was dry and smelled of cornfields. Chester climbed out of the Packard, stretched and yawned. Alvin got out, too, then jerked his thumb in the dwarf’s direction. “What about him? What’s his job?”

  Without looking at Rascal, Chester replied, “He’s staying in the car, and keeping his mug out of sight. I doubt they have a lot of midgets around here and if they see him with us, you can be sure they’ll remember.”

  “I could disguise myself,” said the dwarf, still sitting low with his Texaco map in the backseat. “I was in a play once.”

  “Well, that won’t go around here. You’re sticking with the car, see?” Chester added, “We’ll be back in about twenty minutes, so I’m telling you straight: no monkey business. After this, we’re pulling out.”

  He reached back into the Packard and grabbed the black leather bag. He handed it to Alvin. “All right, kid, let’s go.”

  They headed up the sidewalk toward the Union Bank. Most of the blinds in the upper windows on Omaha Street were shut. Birds perched on the rooftops surveyed the empty sidewalks below. Already, the hair on the back of Alvin’s neck bristled. He searched the elm trees for black crows, a sure omen of death. Probably he ought to have borrowed Granny Chamberlain’s corncob Cross of Jesus out of Momma’s chifforobe and brought it west with him. That old crucifix, his momma had maintained, held sway against all manner of jinxes and evil. Granny Chamberlain lived to be eighty-nine so far just by hanging it on a nail over her bed and whispering the Lord’s Prayer before sleeping every night. She prayed for Alvin when he was in the sanitarium and he came home cured, so everybody knew its power was genuine. Of course, he had also gotten sick again, which just proved nothing was on the level anymore.

  As they came up to the Union Bank, Alvin saw a fellow in a blue pinstriped suit with a white carnation on his lapel waiting behind the glass at the front door. He dangled a set of keys on a large iron ring in his left hand and cracked a big smile as he stepped outside to greet his new customers.

  Chester tipped his hat to the guy. “Afternoon, sir. Are you Jerome?”

  “Indeed, I am. And you’re Mr. Wells, I assume?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They shook hands.

  “Well, did y’all have a nice lunch?”

  “We sure did.”

  The fellow stuck his hand out to Alvin. “My name’s Walter Jerome. You’re Buddy, I presume.”

  Alvin nodded, the phony greeting stuck in his throat. He coughed and turned away.

  “He’s a little nervous,” Chester explained. “First time in town and all. Forgets himself with excitement. You know how it is.”

  “I surely do,” said Mr. Jerome, and offered his hand again to Alvin.

  Alvin’s arm began quivering, and he felt like a dumbbell. “Glad to know you, sir,” he mumbled, eyes watering as they shook hands. He hated fibbing like this.

  “Glad to know you, too, Buddy. Quite glad, in fact.” He took Alvin by the crook of the arm. “Come on in out of the sun.”

  Jerome led Alvin and Chester into the shadowy interior of the bank whose dark wood and fabrics lent a somber tone to daily financial transactions. There were no windows, except for those facing out on Omaha Street. The large safe sat against the rear wall behind the teller stations. Beside it on both sides were the bank officers’ desks and a small door leading to the president’s office. It was closed. Only Mr. Jerome and a single bank clerk were still working.

  “Let me take that for you,” Mr. Jerome said, reaching for Alvin’s bag. “Howard! We have a deposit to make. Could you give us some help?”

  The clerk behind the teller’s window got up from his desk and came around to the gate dividing the lobby from the offices and unlocked it. Mr. Jerome walked through with the black bag, which he handed to the clerk. Then he turned back to Alvin and Chester with a smile. “Howard here’ll take good care of you.”

  “This is a straight deposit, I assume,” said the clerk, adjusting his eyeglasses.

  “Yes, it is. We’ll be watching over this young man’s fortune until he decides what investments he’d like us to make for him.”

  Having no idea what they were talking about, Alvin smiled and pretended to be content with the arrangement. The clerk reminded him of a chemistry teacher he had at Farrington High School, Mr. Fisher. Both wore old-fashioned bowties and striped suspenders and were skinnier than matchsticks.

  Chester asked, “I assume the rate of interest he’s receiving will be commensurate with the amount of cash we’re leaving off today.”

  “Of course.”

  The clerk set the bag onto the desk behind him. Mr. Jerome twirled the ring of keys on his forefinger and smiled at Alvin. “This is the best decision you’ve ever made in your life, young man.”

  The farm boy mumbled, “I sure hope so.”

  “Now, if you two gents’ll excuse me,” said Mr. Jerome, “I have to be running along to the fair. My son’s showing the biggest rutabaga this county’s seen in forty years.”

  Walter Jerome stared at Alvin a moment, as if studying on something in his mind. Then he switched his attention over to Chester. “A thought just occurred to me. Do you two have any plans for supper? I ask because my wife’s planning a feast this afternoon in celebration of the blue ribbon we’re certain Jonathan’ll be bringing home from the fair and, well, you’d be more than welcome to join us, if you’d like. We’d be dining at half past five.”

  Alvin nodded his approval, hoping that eating a meal would make him feel better.

  Chester agreed. “That’s swell of you. We’d be pleased to join you and your family. Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, we live out on Route Four, north of town. Just drive in that direction three miles or so and you’ll see us up on a rise to your left. Big white house and a red barn next to it.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find it.”

  “Wonderful!” Mr. Jerome took Alvin’s hand and gave it another shake. “Thank you again, Buddy, and we’ll see you soon.”

  Alvin nodded. “Sure.”

  Then Mr. Jerome shook hands with Chester and headed for the door. Before stepping out into the street, he called back to the clerk, “Howard, be sure they get the proper papers and all that, will you? Receipts and such?” He winked at Alvin. “I wouldn’t want young Buddy here forgetting where he put his money.” Then he laughed and wandered out into the sunlight.

  The clerk took the bag over to a desk beside the safe. Chester strolled through the teller’s gate behind him. “You’ll be keeping the money here, is that right? In case he wants to pay it a visit one of these days?”

  “A visit?” the clerk asked, somewhat startled by Chester’s presence in the office area. “I’m not sure I know what you mean by that.”

  Chester put his hand on top of the cowhide bag, preventing the clerk from opening it just yet. “What I mean to say is, you keep your money right here in this safe, don’t you? It’s not all sent away somewhere a fellow can’t get to it if he chooses.”

  Still waiting on the public side of the teller’s window, Alvin watched the clerk wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. It was hot inside the bank, stuffy and humid. The clerk said, “Of course, we invest some of what’s deposited here, but our customers always retain adequate means to withdraw their funds. Certainly.”

  The wall clock above the safe chimed four o’clock.

  Waiting until it finished, the clerk said to Chester, “Excuse me a moment,” and went over to his desk, pulling open the top drawer and taking out a ring of keys similar
to Jerome’s. “It’s that time of day,” he said, smiling at Alvin as he passed through the teller’s gate. Chester sat down at the desk beside the safe and unfastened the latches of the black bag while the clerk locked the front door.

  “Now, ordinarily,” the clerk called from over by the front door, “we don’t allow anyone inside the bank after hours, but seeing as this is a unique circumstance, Mr. Jerome thought it best that…”

  The clerk’s voice trailed off as he saw Chester counting a stack of bills he had taken out of the bag. He finished locking the front door. “Perhaps you ought to allow me to…” The clerk jammed the key ring into his pants pocket and hurried back into the teller’s cage. Before he could get there, Chester had already stuck the money back into the black bag and closed it again.

  “This is a lot of kale,” said Chester.

  “Yes, it is,” said the clerk, taking the bag off the desk. “But it’s in good hands here with us. You can be sure of that.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “Great! Then let’s just take this.” The clerk unlocked the back office.

  “Say, what are you doing?” Chester interjected, as the clerk opened the door.

  Pausing in the doorway, the clerk looked back. “Pardon me?”

  “Well, shouldn’t that go into the safe?”

  The clerk shook his head. “Opening the safe after hours is strictly forbidden. Therefore, I have to put this in Mr. Jerome’s office overnight. Rules, you know?”

  Chester frowned. “So that’s your racket, eh? Why, young Buddy here brought that money a long way today to see it put in your safe. If you’re telling us now it’ll be spending the night in some desk drawer, well, I guess we’ll just have to take it back home, maybe find another bank for it.”

  “I assure you it’ll be perfectly secure in Mr. Jerome’s desk.”

  “No, I think we might have to take it with us. Sorry.”

  Chester stared the clerk in the eye. It was a standoff. Alvin studied the clerk’s face, indecision apparent in his eyes. He had a twitch in one of his eyebrows and sweat beading on his upper-lip. What would he do? And what did Chester have in mind? His plan sounded fishy.

  “Oh my,” said the clerk, glancing at the black leather bag. “I don’t know.”

  “Why not just open the safe and put the money away,” said Chester, “Nobody’ll get wise to you and it’d make us happy.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Bank regulations.”

  “They’re for hicks.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Chester glanced up at the clock. His expression was changing now, the sunny disposition he had worn into the bank dimming as quickly as the light outside. Alvin watched him unbutton his coat and look the clerk straight in the eye with the same expression he had shown Charlie Harper that night by the water trough in Kansas. “Open the safe.”

  “I’ve already told you, I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can.”

  The frail clerk shrunk back into the office doorway. “I’d lose my job.”

  “Well, here’s the lowdown,” Chester said, exposing the revolver tucked into his waistband. He offered the clerk a big smile. “I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

  The clerk looked at the gun, then quickly over at Alvin, himself surprised by Chester’s sudden abandonment of the stunt they’d been putting on. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sure you do, pal,” Chester growled. “And don’t kid yourself. I’ve taken care of plenty of birds like you. Now, open the safe.”

  “I can’t,” the clerk whined. “I tell you, I’ll lose my job.”

  Chester lunged forward and grabbed the clerk’s left hand and forced his three middle fingers backward until the clerk’s knees buckled and he tumbled into the doorframe. Chester urged the clerk’s fingers back further until they fractured with a loud crack. As the clerk slumped to the floor, eyes bulging from pain and shock, Chester seized him by the collar. Then he jerked the .38 revolver out of his waistband and pushed the barrel up under the clerk’s chin. “You’re not the brainiest fellow in the world, are you? Snap out of it and open the safe, or I’ll take this gat and blow your brains out!”

  Too scared to move, Alvin watched Chester drag the clerk over to the safe, then pick up the black bag, set it on the desk again and flip open the latches. With his left hand firmly planted on the clerk’s collar, he began tossing the neatly stacked greenback bills out of the bag with his right, dumping them onto the desktop. When he finished, Chester balled the clerk’s collar up in his fist, and rammed the man face first into the safe, shattering the clerk’s nose on the steel door. Then Chester jerked the sobbing clerk by the collar again, and positioned him eye level with the big combination lock on the front of the safe. Chester jammed the revolver into his ear. He dropped his voice. “Well, sweetheart, this is your last chance. What’ll it be?”

  Simultaneously moaning and mumbling, the clerk raised his good hand and began dialing the combination. Keeping an eye on him, Chester called over to the Alvin, “Come over here, kid, and help me stack the cash.”

  His legs trembling, Alvin took another look out into windy Omaha Street. It was still mostly empty, although here and there, a few people passed in or out of those shops not yet closed up for the day. Hoping the Stantonsburg police had gone off to the rutabaga festival with everyone else, the farm boy walked around to the teller’s gate and let himself into the office area.

  Chester yelled, “Come on, make it snappy!”

  The safe swung open. Chester shoved the sobbing clerk aside and began grabbing stacks of orangeback bills piled up on the middle shelves. Trying to keep his eyes off the clerk, Alvin hurried over to the desk and picked up the bag and held it open for Chester to shovel the money into. The clerk crawled off toward the back office doorway and lay on his side against the frame, cradling his fractured fingers in his lap while blood streamed from his broken nose. By now, his face had swollen grotesquely and the odd, mewling noise that came from his lips gave Alvin the chills.

  “Let’s go, kid. Hop to it,” Chester urged, trying to fill the black bag as fast as possible.

  There were bonds and safe deposit boxes lining the top and bottom shelves, but Chester ignored them in favor of several smaller stacks of large-denomination bills. Besides, the leather bag had only so much space in it and his plan had been for ironmen, nothing else. Alvin stacked the bills as fast as he could, filling the bag to the rim. He was scared to death, but tried not to let on. For all he knew, Chester might crack him in the skull, too.

  “All right,” Chester said, straightening up. “We’re done. No sense being greedy.”

  The farm boy closed the black bag and refastened the latches. The clerk was watching him with squinty eyes, puffy and black. Alvin felt guilty as all hell and pretended not to notice. Chester looked around, searching the office area for something. Then he grabbed Alvin by the sleeve.

  “Say, slip me that cushion over there,” he told Alvin, pointing to one of the teller’s stools that had a small blue cushion on the seat. The farm boy went over and fetched it off the stool. “All right, now beat it out of here. Wait for me down on the corner. I won’t be long.”

  Alvin stole one more look at the clerk who had lapsed into shock. The swelling had changed his features so much that Alvin had a hard time recalling exactly what his face had looked like when they had entered the bank a quarter of an hour ago. He felt awful enough for him, all right, but what could he do? “Wait a minute, kid!” Chester shouted. “Here.” He threw Alvin the key ring. It flew past the farm boy’s head and slid into the door. “Just go ahead and leave the keys in the lock. I’ll take care of them when I go.”

  Alvin picked up the key ring and unlocked the door, leaving the keys hanging from the cylinder, and hurried out of the bank into the late afternoon sunlight. The wind had risen outdoors now, sweeping dust along Omaha Street, flapping through the store awnings. Alvin hurried down to the corner by th
e lamppost and waited there while a man and a woman came along the block toward him, heading in the direction of the bank. The farm boy felt lightheaded from fear and guilt, shocked at Chester’s viciousness, and ashamed of his own culpability. He felt short of breath and dizzy, barely able to walk a straight line. He was afraid he might keel over right there on the sidewalk. The man nodded a greeting that Alvin ignored. After they passed, the farm boy walked down the sidewalk another dozen yards and got sick in the gutter.

  An amber sunset reflected in the crystal glassware of the dining room facing west through a bay window. Streams of patterned color washed intermittently on the floral wallpaper of the room and across the ivory-hued linen tablecloth and porcelain china. Steam from the kitchen clouded the mirrors behind the sideboard while a breeze from an adjoining foyer cooled the front of the room where the diners sat.

  The teenage girl was both fascinated and appalled by the dwarf. It was clear she had never encountered such a creature and found his presence at her supper table intriguing. They sat across from each other, beside Alvin and May Jerome’s father, catty-corner to her mother, and Chester Burke. Pork roast and sweet corn, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, rutabaga and biscuits occupied the center of the table.

  Rascal talked and ate simultaneously, half a biscuit in one hand, a silver fork in the other. “Well then, after he showed me the medal he won at San Juan Hill, I brought him into my bedroom and took out my collection of Indian arrowheads dug up at camp one summer on the shores of the Belle Fourche River. He was so impressed, he shook my hand and promised me a certificate of merit if I ever visited Washington.”

  “How wonderful!” said Mr. Jerome, a big cigar in his hand. “Your family must’ve been very proud. I hear Teddy cut quite a figure in his day.”

  Rascal nodded. “Yes, indeed. In truth, he and I got along famously. Had he lived longer, I’m certain we’d have become great friends. We had so much in common.”

  The dwarf took a sip of lemonade and chewed off another piece of biscuit. He smiled at May Jerome, and she blushed. Alvin listened, but he had no appetite of his own. The dwarf didn’t know yet what had occurred inside the bank. Alvin did, and it made him sick and desolate, afraid even to speak for fear of revealing his revulsion over what he had witnessed. He had let Chester bully and beat that poor clerk without offering a word in the fellow’s defense. He had proven himself gutless and was thoroughly ashamed. If God worsened the consumption for his complicity, Alvin wouldn’t kick about it. Even coughing his guts out would be less than he deserved.