Bank Job

by Robert L. Fish

  “That’s that, then,” Gilchrist said with finality, and added under his breath, “Dumb, goddam idiot. Him and his guns …” There was an odd combination of tenderness and irritation in his voice; he might have been speaking of a lost pet dead through his own ignorance. The others stood silent, watching. Gilchrist dragged the robe down, tucking it about the body, covering the face. He folded the knees, forcing the feet back into the car, closing the door. Cracker had started to stiffen; it took effort on Gilchrist’s part.

  Jimmy, the ambulance driver, broke the silence. “So now what happens to us?” he asked, suddenly aware of the sinister possibilities. After all, these men were killers; if they could have saved the wounded man’s life, there might have been a chance for mercy, but as it was—

  Gilchrist said wearily, “Nothing happens to you.” He turned to Glass and Grube. “Maybe they don’t have any drugs aboard, which I seriously doubt, but they sure as hell must have lots of adhesive tape. I want them wound up like mummies. Let’s go.”

  He held the gun almost without interest as Max and Grube bound the two prisoners with adhesive tape and added a wide band across each mouth to prevent any outcry. The red-haired intern accepted the binding with a glare that made Gilchrist seriously hope he never found himself under the knife of that particular medic in the future, but other than the glare the young intern took it well. Jimmy, however, writhed furiously, his eyes wild. Gilchrist paid equally little attention to them both.

  “Toss them in the back of the ambulance,” he said, “and take them—”

  He looked around a moment. At this point on Crocker Avenue the ridgeline to the north hid the city. Scattered clumps of eucalyptus stood gaunt against the hazy skyline.

  “Run them up there and hide the wagon as much as you can. It won’t be forever, but it’ll give us time to get away from here.” He sighed. “Jungles they don’t have around here.”

  “For which, thank God!” Max said fervently.

  “Then let the air out of the tires, in case that kid doctor knows something about adhesive tape I don’t,” Gilchrist added. “Cut the valve out completely; that’s the best way. And hurry it up. We’re lucky nobody’s been along so far.”

  “Right,” Max said, and hopped into the driver’s seat.

  “Hey!” Grube said angrily. “Who was your dog robber last week? Give me a hand with these two!”

  “What? Oh, sorry,” Max said, and hopped out again. The intern and Jimmy were dumped into the back of the ambulance, with Jimmy squirming and fighting all the while.

  “You keep that up,” Grube said, “you’ll end up with one hell of a sore throat.” He sounded truly concerned.

  “That’s why they put doctors on these wagons,” Max said lightly. He was trying desperately to forget that Cracker was dead. He closed the doors and climbed back into the front seat, Grube beside him. “I always wanted to drive one of these,” he said, and took it up the hill.

  The closest grove of eucalyptus was scarcely his idea of proper cover, but there wasn’t anything better in sight, and time was getting along. He braked the ambulance and looked around.

  “Christ!” he said. “I’d hate to try and hold this hill against a gunship!” He climbed down, followed by Grube, reached back in for the ignition key, and threw it as far as he could in the direction of the ridge. This done, the two men tramped back down the hill to the waiting black car. They both climbed into the front seat beside Gilchrist. Grube slammed the door; Max turned and glanced into the back seat. He straightened up.

  “Where’s the suitcase?”

  Gilchrist said wearily, “I stashed it in the trunk while you boys were up the hill.”

  “Then why not Cracker?”

  “Because he’s getting too stiff and I’m not going to force him.”

  “Oh,” Max said. He thought of something; worry crept into his voice. “You know, before all we had to worry about was eventually getting rid of the car, though I know damn well it could never be identified. But now we’ve got Cracker’s body to duck, as well. And Al and I have to get back to Arizona in a hurry. Some clown might just stumble on the cabin and find it empty. And remember.”

  “Don’t worry about the car. Or Cracker either,” Gilchrist said. He was stripping off his mask. The face behind it was tired, angry at the way things had turned out. He waited while the others put their masks and hats away and then started the car, swinging the wheel, beginning the descent back to Daly City.

  CHAPTER 4

  Thursday—4:15 P.M.

  Lieutenant Reardon pulled the Charger to the curb beside a street phone booth and braked to a stop. Dondero looked over at him.

  “Phone call I have to make,” Reardon said unnecessarily, and switched off the ignition.

  Dondero nodded. “Give Jan my regards.”

  “I can call Jan from the Hall,” Reardon said cryptically, and slid from behind the wheel without further explanation. He closed the door of the booth behind him, dropped his dime, and dialed a number. The phone was answered after a reasonable amount of ringing; the voice at the other end sounded as if the owner had a broken windpipe. Actually, it came from being punched in the neck too often.

  The gravel-voice said, “Sawicki Pool Hall.”

  “Is Porky Oliver there?”

  “Hang on.” Reardon winced as the receiver at the other end was apparently dropped onto some hard surface, most probably the glass of a cigar counter. Over the click of billiard balls he heard the same rasping voice, muted. “Hey, Porky. Phone.”

  There was a brief wait and then Oliver was on the line. Porky Oliver was a bookmaker by profession, running a small but honest book. However, since his regular profession often resulted in his hearing things of interest to third parties, often the law, Porky was a stoolpigeon by avocation. Porky’s mother had taught him, “Waste not, want not,” and so Porky quite naturally cashed in on this extracurricular dividend. However, anyone picturing Porky Oliver as a cringing little soul who spent his life glancing fearfully over his hunched shoulders, had an entirely wrong view of stoolpigeons. Cringing souls seldom gather fruitful information. In fact, Porky was young, handsome, and a bon vivant whose company and conversation Reardon usually enjoyed. At times, however, especially when time was short, Porky’s insouciance had a tendency to waste precious seconds, but as a general rule Reardon felt it was worth it.

  Porky’s voice, as always on the phone, was polite, suave, but cautious.

  “Yes?”

  “Porky? An old friend here.”

  “Ah, yes, old friend.” Porky’s voice dropped. “I’m afraid, however, I’m not in a position to speak as freely from this telephone as one might wish. Would you like to meet someplace?”

  “Very much,” Reardon said, “but I can’t at the moment. I’ll set up a meet later. Right now I’d just like to ask a few questions. Your answers shouldn’t mean anything to anyone listening.”

  “Very little means anything to these characters,” Porky conceded, “other than ‘eight-ball’ and, of course, ‘scratch.’ However, I shall be circumspect in the extreme. Continue.”

  “First, have you been listening to the news?”

  “The last news I heard was about noonish, when I rose from a rest well earned,” Porky said, “and I might mention it did little to make breakfast more appetizing. Since that time my listening has been limited to a few small wagers, plus billiard balls striking each other. And of course, the pleasant tinkle of ice striking glass, muffled by gin—”

  “Shut up, Porky,” Reardon said pleasantly.

  “Sorry. You were saying?”

  Reardon said, “An hour ago the Farmers & Mercantile Bank branch on Jerrold Avenue over in the Bay View district was held up—”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Porky said politely, “but, fortunately, my account is elsewhere. Besides, aren’t those things insured?”

  “Shut up and listen,” Reardon said, and this time his tone was not so pleasant. “During the holdup there was a shoot
-out and a cop was killed.”

  “Oh!” Porky’s voice became somber, not because of the chastisement, but because he honestly hated violence in any form and had an almost overrespect for death. “I’m truly sorry.”

  “Never mind,” Reardon said. “Just listen. There were four men in on the deal: three inside men and a driver. One of the men was shot—not the driver—and, we think, seriously hurt. The men were masked, full-head plastic pullover jobs; they wore gloves, wide-brimmed hats, and gray double-breasted suits. Medium height; no other identification, except one of them had a southern accent. They got away with a quarter of a million dollars—”

  Reardon paused while Porky whistled politely and then went on.

  “—a shipyard payroll, driving a dark colored sedan, maybe black, maybe a Ford, no other description. They acted completely professional, as if they had worked together before—”

  Reardon knew the facts he was reciting were being etched on Porky Oliver’s brain. Porky would have made an excellent policeman, Reardon had often thought, except that it was illegal for policemen to make book while on the force, and Porky was more or less dedicated to making book. True, this fact did not stop all police officers, but there was also the thing Porky had about violence; and even a cop making book on the side couldn’t avoid the rough stuff one hundred per cent of the time. Reardon brought his mind back to business.

  “Our guess is the man with the southern accent is the one that was hit. At least according to witnesses in the bank he was the one holding a gun when they ran out, and according to outside witnesses, the one with the gun was the one who was hit.”

  “I see,” Porky said slowly. “These men: white or black?”

  “White.”

  “But if they were all covered up—?”

  “You can tell from their voices. Also, the skin tone is visible through those plastic masks,” Reardon said.

  “Which is what happens when you use an inferior product,” Porky said, and then changed his tone of voice. It was obvious someone was at his shoulder, probably wanting to use the phone. “Well,” Porky said regretfully, “I don’t quote odds over the phone.”

  “I just wanted you to keep your eyes and ears open,” Reardon said. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  “Not too early,” Porky said, and hung up.

  Reardon dropped the receiver back on the hook and pushed from the booth, going back to the Charger, sliding under the wheel. Dondero had slid down in his seat, resting his head, his eyes closed. He opened them and came more erect as Reardon started the engine.

  “Did he hear anything?”

  “He hadn’t heard about it—” Reardon began, and then looked at Dondero sharply. The second-grade grinned back at him cheerfully.

  “Who else would you be calling if not your pigeon?” he asked.

  Reardon smiled. “Sometimes you make sounds almost like a detective,” he said and pulled from the curb.

  Thursday—4:45 P.M.

  From the office of the Chief of Homicide on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street, the hills of downtown San Francisco could be seen, reflecting the western sun from a thousand staggered windows, each competing for a better view of the bay or the bridges or Marin County over the water to the north. Captain Tower and Lieutenant Reardon had just returned from seeing a rerun of the instant-replay tapes downstairs in the sound laboratory. Captain Tower dropped into the oversized swivel chair back of his desk, reached up to adjust the venetian blinds against the reflected glare, and swung back, facing the office. Reardon sat down across the wide desk from his superior. Tower leaned over, pressing a button that activated a small cassette tape-recorder. He sat back again, studying the younger officer across from him.

  “Well, Jim, what do you think?”

  Reardon took his time before answering.

  “Several things, Captain,” he said at last. “Not that it means anything, but the first time I saw that tape at the bank, I noticed their clothes. Typical of the old Cagney movies thirty years ago. Real gangster outfits; wide-brimmed hats, double-breasted suits … I figured somebody in the gang had a sense of humor.”

  “And?”

  Reardon smiled. “I said it didn’t mean anything. But the way the three men acted also reminded me of something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time. After seeing the tape a second time, though, I think it was the precision of their movements. The whole operation made me think of some of our exercises in the Rangers during the Korean war. And that ‘Let’s move out’ had an awfully familiar ring to it. I’d say they were veterans, but as I said before, it probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  Tower remained silent, watching Reardon from under grizzled brows. Reardon sighed and went on.

  “From the pictures, I’d say they were in their twenties. Late twenties, maybe, but not more. That’s a judgment based on their co-ordination, speed of movement, tone of voice—you know what I mean, Captain. Which would make Vietnam their war, if that means anything.”

  “Could it?”

  “I don’t know,” Reardon said, and smiled faintly. It wasn’t an amused smile; it had more worry in it than a smile should have. His eyes came up. “You know, Captain, I’ve often thought how very damned lucky we cops are. Our country trains millions of men to use hand guns, machine guns, bazookas, bayonets, hand knives, grenades—you name it. Then we give them indoctrination to convince them that the only life that means anything or has any value is their own. Then we ship them overseas to some jungle to get a good deal of practice in using one and proving the other. And when we’re all done with this, we bring them back home to a country that doesn’t have enough jobs for them and then we raise our hands in horror when one of these vets breaks what we call the rules.” He raised his hand abruptly, forestalling the captain. “Don’t get me wrong, Captain. I’m not excusing what happened today. All I’m saying is that we really shouldn’t be surprised at their professionalism. After all, they probably got their skills in killing at Lejeune or Bragg or Ord. Under top tutelage.”

  There was a moment’s silence while Captain Tower studied the lieutenant. Then he said at last: “We’ve trained many millions. They didn’t all come home to rob banks and kill cops.”

  “That’s what I said,” Reardon said without a change in expression. “We’re lucky. But the important thing is that we want to find the men who shot Tom Wheaton, and the fact they were in the army might help.”

  “How?” Captain Tower asked curiously. “Five million men, at least, have gone through Vietnam. How do we pick out these particular four?”

  “I don’t know,” Reardon said slowly. “That’s if they got their training in the army at all. Maybe they all went to Virginia Military.” He smiled sourly. “Of course if I’m right, at least it eliminates anyone under eighteen and over forty, not to mention women and children. But that’s only one of the interesting points.” He leaned forward. “A more thought-provoking one comes up when we consider the gunman who was shot. Why did the others take the time to pick him up? Why take the chance? They certainly couldn’t have known that Wheaton was fatally hit; for all they knew he may have been going down to one knee to make himself a smaller target. It’s regulation.”

  “Maybe they didn’t know it was regulation,” Tower said dryly.

  “It’s regulation in the army, too,” Reardon said. “Anyway, why take the chance? Why not just leave him? They picked up the gun, too. If it was a Saturday-night special, as the guard swears it was, and the man was wearing gloves, how could we have ever traced it?” He frowned across the desk. “That’s another reason I say they’re army-trained. Picking up the weapon was purely automatic.”

  “Maybe they picked up the man because he was a pal,” Tower suggested. “Let’s assume your hunch is right, that they’re all Vietnam veterans, and close friends, as well. Wouldn’t it be part of their training not to let a friend fall into enemy hands?” His eyes were steady on Reardon’s face. “To save him?”


  “Save him from what? Torture? Prison camp?” It was rare that the lieutenant took that tone with the captain, but he couldn’t help it. He leaned forward. “Here the enemy—which is us—has the medical facilities, Captain. The man was hit, and probably badly wounded; even in the short time he was on the sidewalk, and even considering the amount of clothing he was wearing, he bled enough to leave a stain on the sidewalk. If they wanted to help their pal, the best way would be to let the police grab him. He’d have gotten good hospital care a lot faster than they’ll be able to give him.”

  “Maybe they acted without thinking—from that force of training you’re talking about.”

  Reardon shook his head stubbornly. “No, sir. The one thing complete training eliminates is doing things from force of habit or without thinking. They picked him up for a very definite reason.”

  Tower nodded. “You think to prevent his identification.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes, sir. There must be some sort of a connection between them that would allow us to nail them all if we could just identify one.”

  “Family, perhaps?”

  Reardon shook his head. “Not with those voice patterns. But there’s some strong tie-in between them, that’s sure. Which is probably why they didn’t even drop their friend off at a hospital. And my guess is they won’t, no matter how seriously wounded he is.”

  “How about private doctors?” Captain Tower asked.

  “They’ll probably stay away from doctors, too. If they’re professionals, of course, it’s possible they’ll have some doctor friend they can go to, and if that’s the case, we’re probably out of luck on that angle. Let’s just hope they aren’t professionals to that degree.”

  Captain Tower swung his chair around and then swung back.