Bank Job

by Robert L. Fish

  “Proceed,” said the voice in friendly fashion.

  “Porky? Did I wake you?”

  “You insult me, Mr. R.,” Porky said with a touch of hauteur. “I’ve been up for eight minutes.” There was a pause. “Nine, actually.”

  Reardon said, “Good! Meet me at Marty’s Oyster House in another nine minutes; it’s close to you. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “Lunch? At twelve-thirty in the afternoon? You certainly have weird ideas, Mr. R.,” Porky said musingly. “However,” he added, making a concession, “if you want me there to use my influence to get you a waiter, I’ll be pleased to oblige. At a rate to be determined, of course. Waiter-trapping comes high.”

  “You talk a lot,” Reardon said pleasantly, and hung up. He went outside, climbed into his car, and drove off.

  He parked outside the restaurant that was so famous for its generous drinks, its excellent food, and the incredible disregard with which service was tendered. He was not at all surprised to find the parking lot still largely deserted. While twelve thirty-five might be considered a reasonable lunch hour for many people, to the usual clientele of Marty’s, appearing before two o’clock for lunch was unthinkable; someone might see them and suspect they worked at menial jobs for a living. It pleased Reardon, however. As Porky had indicated, the waiters at Marty’s were sufficiently independent when the place was empty; when crowded they were impossible.

  The beery odor within—which Porky claimed was imported from Munich in perfume bottles and sprayed every hour on the hour—was quite in keeping with the red velvet drapes and the general decor of the Gay Nineties. Reardon made his way to the rear of the large room to find Porky eying him calmly from a booth adjacent to the kitchen door. It was undoubtedly the ideal spot to exchange confidences; it was also a fair location in which to trap a waiter. Reardon dropped into a seat across from Porky and raised a hand at a waiter approaching the swinging doors. The waiter didn’t even bother to glance his way as he pushed past into the kitchen.

  “Not that way,” Porky said reprovingly, and turned. A waiter was just emerging from the kitchen, one hand above his head carrying a loaded tray. Porky grasped the pink-shirted, gaitered other arm, nearly upsetting a meal. The waiter glared at him.

  “You will stop at this table after you serve that whatever-it-is, and you will be bearing two large mugs of draft ale plus a menu for this gentleman,” Porky said, giving the man a most friendly smile, “or I will trip you the next time around.” The waiter stared at him a moment, sneered in standard fashion, and went off. “That’s just the first step,” Porky said confidentially. “Next time we threaten him with something dire, like a reduced tip.”

  The intimidation was needless. To the amazement of both men the waiter returned within twenty minutes bearing a mug of foaming ale in each hand and a menu tucked under one arm.

  “You see?” Porky said, essaying insouciance, but it was difficult to hide his amazement at the rapidity of service. Porky-wise, he therefore changed the subject, assuming a serious tone, but only after the waiter had taken Reardon’s order and gone. Porky said, “I could have told you on the phone that I haven’t come up with anything, and haven’t much hope of doing so, but then you would have starved to death, here, lacking my aid.”

  Reardon drank some of his ale, watching Porky. He had known the other a long time. He wiped his lips and put the mug down. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing that means anything,” Porky amended. Now that the time for serious business had come, he put aside his lightness. “The way I hear it, the locals take exception to jobs of the size of the Farmers & Mercantile being done by strangers. It removes ready cash from the area. I’ve also heard there is active resentment on the part of some extremely large names in the Organization over the killing of a policeman.” His eyes were steady across the table. “As you are aware, Mr. R., such affairs are usually followed by excessive zeal on the part of law-enforcement agencies and—”

  He paused abruptly to allow their waiter to bring half a dozen oysters and a roast beef on rye, setting both before Reardon. Porky studied the combination as if wondering how the human stomach could tolerate such an invasion at that early hour. He shrugged, safe in his own virtues, and went on as soon as the waiter had left.

  “As I was saying, these people consider the present level of zeal on the part of the authorities as being sufficient. When they want heat, there are always saunas.”

  Reardon paused in his eating. He looked curious. “Are you even faintly suggesting that the Organization would turn these men in to us, if they knew who they were?”

  “Good heavens, no!” Porky said, shocked at the very idea. “I do think, though, that if the Organization knew who they were, it is more than possible they would be called upon the carpet and reprimanded.”

  “Severely?”

  “Severely,” Porky said. He was completely serious now. “And they wouldn’t like it. Killing a cop is a dumb thing, any way you figure it. Everybody loses; nobody gains.”

  “And if such reprimands, as you put it, were to take place, you think you would hear about it?”

  “I imagine so,” Porky said. “After all, it wouldn’t serve as much of an example if nobody heard of it, would it?”

  Reardon rightly construed the question to be rhetorical. He finished his oysters, thinking of what Porky said, and then tackled the roast beef sandwich. He chewed awhile, swallowed, washed it down with some ale, and looked over at his companion.

  “Let’s get back to the money,” he said. “After all, almost a quarter of a million dollars was taken. That much money has to practically beg to be spent, especially by that type of character.”

  Porky looked surprised. “You know what type of character? You didn’t tell me.”

  “I mean, they certainly didn’t steal the money just to sit around on the long winter nights counting it,” Reardon said shortly.

  “True,” Porky admitted. “But they don’t necessarily have to spend it in the Bay area.”

  “That’s also true,” Reardon said, “but we’re fairly sure that one of them, at least, is from around here. It’s in the papers, anyway, so I might as well tell you.” He related the details of the dredging operation and its results, while Porky listened with unabated attention. “Nobody,” Reardon finished, “would ever find that pier in a million years unless they knew they were looking for it. Or I’d say the chances against were in the neighborhood of a million to one.”

  “Higher odds than I usually offer,” Porky conceded.

  “So we’re sure one of them comes from around here. So why wouldn’t he spend his share around here?”

  Porky considered the lieutenant with curiosity.

  “You count on local pride?” He shook his head. “Mr. R., other than a Cadillac with everything hung on it, what would a man buy if he suddenly came into possession of that much money? What would you buy, for example?”

  Reardon paused, thinking. Porky nodded.

  “He might, of course, immediately think of all the girls he had always wanted, either single or together, and could never afford—but even orgies have to bear the competition of the market place. And how many can you buy before they begin to pall? He could, of course, merely put it in a safe-deposit box and hold it for old age, but that would cost him interest. Or, of course, he might actually merely use it for a winter’s night’s entertainment as you suggested, but I doubt it.” He waited a moment while Reardon watched him. “My guess, of course,” Porky said gently, “would probably be gambling.”

  “Your field,” Reardon said.

  “I know a few gamblers,” Porky admitted. “Gambling, of course, was invented to separate people from money they do not feel essential at the moment, and this applies eminently to most of the money stolen. I would guess, however, he would go to Vegas for his action. Up there, large sums neither distract nor cause the slightest suspicion; down here there would be the danger that any large loss—or win—might come to somebody’s ears. Mine, for ins
tance.”

  “It’s possible,” Reardon admitted. “Can you do anything about it?”

  “I can ask a few friends up there to keep an eye open for anyone who isn’t known, who drifts around a lot and bets a lot, but it’s not going to be easy. You see,” he said sadly, “it makes it much harder to isolate our bacterium, looking for him in an agar culture.”

  Reardon stared. “Where did you learn that?”

  “You mean it’s true?” Porky said, looking amazed. “I thought I just made it up.”

  Reardon looked at the innocent expression a moment and then raised the other half of his sandwich. He paused as a thought came to him.

  “I’ll give you copies of a picture,” he said. “The man we found dead this morning. Possibly he may have been around the casinos, either here or in Vegas. It’s been known as a reason for folks to need money—”

  He stopped as he heard his name being called. The bartender was holding one of the old-fashioned upright telephones that Marty’s sported, the receiver to his ear, the mouthpiece pressed against his chest as if he were listening to his own heartbeat.

  “Reardon! Jim Reardon! Reardon! Jim Reardon!”

  It was the standard address-style at Marty’s, replacing a public-address system, and none of the habitués at the other tables paid it the slightest attention. Reardon dropped his sandwich and arose in a hurry. He had a cold feeling that a call to him here would be like the ringing of the ship’s bell at Lloyd’s, presaging disaster. He took the phone from the bartender and brought it to his ear tightly.

  “Yes?”

  “Jim?” It was Dondero, and he sounded aggrieved. “Why didn’t you leave word where you were eating? That’s the tenth place I tried.”

  “All right,” Reardon said shortly. “You found me. So what’s the bad news?”

  “Bad news? What bad news? It’s just the opposite.” The irritation left Dondero’s voice; he sounded pleased. “We’ve tagged our boy!”

  “What!”

  “That’s right,” Dondero said, happy at the lieutenant’s reaction but not surprised by it, and told him all about it.

  Reardon listened, his facial expression betraying none of the pure joy he was feeling. When Dondero paused, Reardon said, “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” and hung up. He walked back to the table, slid in across from Porky Oliver, and picked up his sandwich again.

  “If it would help any in checking around,” he said, “the men we’re looking for were pals of a guy named George Mullin, who came from a town called Bartlesville in Florida.”

  Porky nodded. “I gather he’s the dead man you fished from the bay? The one whose photograph you are going to honor me with?”

  “He is.”

  “Fascinating!” Porky said. “Now, if you could give me the names of the three live ones, it would help even more.”

  “As soon as we get them,” Reardon promised, and took a large bite of his sandwich, his eyes shining. He might have been biting into the solution of the case from the energy he put into it. Across from him, Porky Oliver sipped his ale and watched interestedly. Energy expended by anyone at that hour of the day, no matter how expended, always intrigued him.

  CHAPTER 10

  Friday—2:15 P.M. Pacific Standard Time

  The sheriff of Stanton County, of which Bartlesville was the county seat, walked into his office at eleven forty-five his time, to be informed that some police lieutenant was calling him from San Francisco, California. The sheriff shrugged and wiped sweat from his face, for it was a warm day.

  “San Francisco?” His heavy face relaxed into a smile; he tucked his dampened handkerchief back into his pocket. “Now,” he said to his assistant, “if that had been Phoenix or Flagstaff, I’d’ve said old Cracker’s got himself in a prank again. But San Francisco?”

  “Won’t be hard to find out what he wants,” the assistant suggested, tilting his head toward the phone.

  “Guess you’re right,” the sheriff said, and dropped into his swivel chair, easing his revolver out from under his generous thigh. He picked up the phone; the lone county-courthouse operator came on the line at once. She had been waiting, eaten up by curiosity. The sheriff said, “Molly, I’ll take that call from San Francisco now. What did he want?”

  “Search me. He didn’t say,” Molly said, and then saw a possible solution. “Maybe he’s going to try and use the fact he’s a cop to ask your help in getting rooms near Disney World.”

  “Then he’s out of luck,” the sheriff said, and shook his head dolorously. “Everybody the same thing! Well, get him for me, will you?”

  “Hang on,” Molly said. “It’ll be a Lieutenant Reardon.”

  “And tune out when he comes on the line, hear?”

  “Well!” Molly said, and put the call through.

  In Reardon’s office the telephone interrupted him in the course of outlining a door-to-door expedition with the dead man’s picture in the vicinity of the bank. The three second-grades involved waited as the lieutenant answered the phone. Communications gave the lieutenant the sheriff’s name and completed the call.

  “Hello?” Reardon said, never sure of AT&T. “Sheriff Holden?”

  “That’s me, Lieutenant. Your name’s Reardon?”

  “That’s right. I’ll tell you what I’m calling about, Sheriff. We understand you have a man living in your jurisdiction named George Mullin. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Heard of him?” The sheriff chuckled.

  Reardon didn’t think it was a laughing matter. “I mean, do you have any record on him?”

  He couldn’t see it, but the sheriff was shaking his head with amusement.

  “Old Cracker!” he said affectionately. “I should’ve figured he’d get bored with Arizona and head out someplace else. What’s the old hellion done this time to catch the eye of the police out there?”

  Reardon looked at the phone with a faint frown. “Old?”

  The sheriff laughed delightedly at the ignorance of a foreigner. “No, he ain’t old in years. That’s just our way of talking down here. I guess Cracker’s maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight. No more.” He guffawed. “Hell, you’d think I’d know, wouldn’t you? Me being his brother-in-law?”

  Reardon’s frown deepened. “His brother-in-law?”

  “That’s right. Married the kid’s only sister. Course, Marie’s older, but the old man left the whole kit and caboodle to Cracker. Well, it was his to do with. Anyway, I got to admit the boy did right well with it, though. No finer groves around.…” He pulled himself up short. “But we’re getting off the track. Whatever old Cracker did, you don’t have to worry about bail, if that’s what’s bothering you. His checks don’t bounce.”

  “You’re not surprised to hear from a police department in regard to your brother-in-law?”

  “Surprised?” The guffaw strengthened. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them moon shots hit the moon and old Cracker stepped out. You don’t know the Cracker.” The laugh faded. “Only it seems you do. What’d the boy do this time?”

  Reardon disregarded the question. “You said before his checks don’t bounce. Are you saying he’s all right financially?”

  The thick southern accent suddenly sobered. “You got a reason for asking, Lieutenant?”

  “A very good reason. And it’s a bit more important than raising bail.”

  “Well,” Holden said slowly, “I don’t know what old Cracker’s got himself into this time, but his financial position isn’t any great secret, at least not around here. Hell, Lieutenant, old Cracker’s got about a buck for every orange in the county.” The sheriff laughed. “Come to think about it, he’s got about every orange in the county, too.”

  Reardon frowned. Was it possible a mistake had been made? He took a deep breath.

  “Sheriff, we have a man out here in the morgue, and his fingerprints were routed to Washington. The name that came back was George Mullin, born 1946 in Bartlesville, Florida, and still living there according to the latest
records they had.”

  The chuckle disappeared. The voice became deadly. “Cracker dead? You’re lying! Who killed him?”

  “Sheriff,” Reardon said in an even voice, “the man we have here in the morgue was killed in the course of robbing a bank. He and three other men held up a bank and shot and killed a police officer in their getaway. The man whose fingerprints we sent to Washington was shot by the policeman and died of his wounds.”

  There was a moment’s silence; when the sheriff spoke again there was relief in his voice.

  “Man, you had me going there for a spell! You have the wrong man, Lieutenant. I admit Cracker’s a bit of a hellion, but hold up a bank? What on earth for? It wouldn’t make sense. Old George practically owns the bank here in town; his old man left him the largest grove in Stanton County and George must of added another six hundred acres at least since he got out of the army and took charge. You’ve got the wrong George Mullin, Lieutenant. What the hell, Mullin isn’t an uncommon name.”

  “We got the name last,” Reardon said. “We sent the fingerprints to Washington and the FBI checked him out through the army file. No previous criminal record.”

  Holden snorted. “Of course no previous criminal record! And sure, George was in the army. Waist-gunner on a helicopter, one of those gunships. Decorated a few times, too. Anyway, what d’you mean, you checked out his fingerprints? I thought you’d maybe found his wallet, or something.”

  “There was no identification on the body we found. No scars, two small fillings in his teeth. A man in his late twenties, dark hair, brown eyes, height five foot ten, weight one hundred seventy-two …” Reardon was reading from the medical report.

  “That could fit a million guys,” Holden said, but his voice had lost some of its assurance. “You go back and check, Lieutenant. You got the wrong guy.”

  “Did Mullin gamble?”

  “Cracker? Oh, he’d pike a couple of bucks in the slots down at the Elks, but if you mean Puerto Rico stuff—casinos—not old … Hey, are you thinking maybe old George lost so much dough gambling he’d be strapped enough for a bank robbery? Man, you’re crazy, Lieutenant!”