The Getaway Man

by Andrew Vachss

  I got up to go.

  “Hold on a minute,” she said. “Would you pay a thousand dollars for my husband’s car?”

  “Ma’am, I already told you—”

  “And would you want it to be driving it yourself, or to sell it?”

  “If I had a car like that, I wouldn’t ever sell it,” I said.

  “All right. Let me go and get the papers.”

  I was still trying to figure out what was going on, when the old lady came back.

  “Here’s everything,” she said, handing me a shoebox. “My husband kept it all in the same place.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t understand.”

  “My husband was taken by cancer, young man. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. His spirit was strong right to the end, and he died right here, in his own home.

  “We had a lot of time to talk, then. A long twilight before the night came. I got to understand my husband better in that time than in the fifty-four years we were man and wife.

  “And do you know what he said about that car of his? He said, ‘Ruth Ann, I want you to sell my little jewel,’ … that’s what he called it, sometimes … ‘I want you to sell my little jewel to someone who is going to love her. Someone who will drive her around and show her off. Have pride in her. Not some merchant, now. And not somebody who is going to make a hot rod out of her, either. That’s what she deserves.’

  “Well, I said to him, ‘Hiram, how in the world am I going to read a man’s mind? You know how people will dissemble when they want something.’

  “And he said, ‘I’ve been praying over that one for some time. And the Lord sent me the answer. Ruth Ann, that little car is worth a lot of money. And that shall be the test. I want you to put my little jewel up for sale, but don’t you put a price on her. And I want you to sell her to the first person who doesn’t try and cheat you.’

  “Well, I did solemnly promise Hiram, young man. But I couldn’t bring myself to sell his car for a long time. I was frightened that I wouldn’t be able to tell when someone was trying to cheat me—I’m not sharp in those ways.

  “So I did what my husband did. I prayed on it. I didn’t get a direct answer, but I was told that, when the right person came along, I could count on the Lord to alert me.

  “And that’s what happened. Every single man who has come to my house and taken a look in that garage has tried to buy my husband’s car. Some of them asked me what I wanted for it, but I always said I wasn’t sure. Not one single person ever so much as hinted to me that my husband’s car was worth a lot of money.

  “Then you come along and you say the truth. So I know you’re saying the truth when you tell me you will drive my husband’s car and keep it like it should be. Now, do you have a thousand dollars?”

  “Not with me, ma’am. But I do have it. In fact, I have almost seven thousand dollars put aside.”

  “Never you mind that,” she said. “You come back with the thousand dollars, and you take Hiram’s car away with you.”

  Her bright brown eyes were a little damp, but she didn’t cry.

  I was jealous of Hiram, then.

  The Thunderbird’s still in primer, waiting. After I stripped the old, dull paint, I had figured on doing it in the original color—“Torch Red,” it said in the papers that came with it—but, when I thought about my dream, the one about the car coming for me, I decided to make it all black.

  It’s the perfect car for my dream. It only has room for two people. They would even share the same seat; it’s just a bench, not buckets.

  Whenever I drive this car, I think about what it means to be a getaway man. Not just for a job, for always.

  When this job is done, I guess I’ll find out.

  For this last job, we’ve got a secret weapon. That’s what J.C. calls him.

  His name is Monty. I never seen him, myself. Everything I know about him, I know from J.C. and Gus.

  The job is an armored car. It makes the run from the Indian casino every Saturday night. At four o’clock, so, Sunday morning, really. I never heard of an armored car that picks up at night, but that’s the way the Indians wanted it, is what Monty told J.C.

  J.C. said the Indians have all the power around here. The casino Indians, he means, not the ones who live on the reservation. Those ones don’t have anything.

  They keep the money in a vault with big thick walls. In between the vault and the outside is bullet-proof glass. Behind the glass, they have men with machine guns.

  Nobody could ever get in there, J.C. says. But, sooner or later, the money’s got to come out.

  The way they do it is very slick. Every afternoon, an armored car pulls up to the casino. It goes around back where nobody can see, inside a special fence with doors in it, and another set of doors behind that one. Like the sally port the bus that brings you into prison goes through. After a while, the fence opens, and it comes back out. If you follow it, you see it go right to the bank.

  The only thing is, there’s nothing in those cars. They’re empty. A decoy. The only time the money actually comes out of there is that night run, once a week.

  J.C. knows this from Monty. And Monty knows because he’s the man who drives the armored car. An inside man, like Rodney and Luther had a long time ago. Only this time, it was different—everybody was a professional.

  Monty doesn’t drive the special night run every week. He told J.C. you never know when it’s going to be your turn. There’s a list of guys who they let make that run, and Monty’s on it. He has to be by his phone every Saturday at midnight. They always call him, even if he’s not picked to go that night.

  The armored car company is real strict, Monty says. If you don’t answer your phone even one time when they call, you get taken off that special list. There better not be a busy signal when they call, either. You’re not allowed to give them a cell phone number; it has to be your home phone. And if they catch you forwarding the calls, you get fired.

  Monty says you get paid for Saturdays whether you work or not, just for being ready. Real good money. And if they do pick you, you get a nice bonus. Monty’s been there a long time, to get that high up on the list.

  J.C. told me I couldn’t steal a car for this job. What we’re going to use, it has to be fixed up special. If you steal a car, you have to use it right away. The longer you keep it, the better the chance of getting spotted, even if you switch plates. Anyway, the car we need for this job, you wouldn’t find one like it just lying around.

  J.C. bought the car a few months ago. He always fronts the money for things we need on a job. That’s part of the planner’s piece, he says, the financing.

  I’ve been working on the car J.C. bought for a few weeks now. “There’s no hurry,” he told me. “It’s like a roulette wheel. If you wait long enough, every number’s going to come up. And, if you keep waiting, that same number’s going to come up again. The trick is not to go bust while you’re waiting, see?”

  “I think so.”

  “That armored car’s like the wheel, Eddie. And every time they give the job to Monty, that’s our lucky number coming up, okay? We don’t want to jump the gun. If they call Monty out one week, and we’re not ready, we just wait. They’ll call him again.”

  It’s nice up here. Peaceful. Sometimes J.C.’s around, sometimes he’s not. When he goes away, Gus goes with him, mostly.

  I never leave. Neither does Vonda.

  She’s … I don’t know the right word for it. Not pretty like Bonnie was. I mean, she is pretty, but not the same way. Vonda has long black hair and eyes the same color as turquoise. She’s real well built, and she’s got long legs even though she’s not tall. Her skin looks like she just took a shower, and her mouth looks like it was just slapped.

  I don’t think Vonda’s much older than me, but she knows a lot more. About all kinds of things. Vonda’s smart. The only thing I know more about than her is cars.

  So I like it when she comes out to where I’m working. Because she always asks me questions, and I
know the answers for her.

  Vonda found out about my movies by accident. Sometimes, when J.C. and Gus are watching TV at night—they like sports, mostly—I go out to the barn and plug in my VCR, and watch one of my movies. I guess I could just go in my room, but the cabin is kind of small, and the noise would come in.

  I’ve got part of the barn all fixed up for when I watch my movies. I found this huge old armchair behind the cabin. It was all rotten from being left out in the weather, but I tore everything off, right down to the frame, and then I laid some pieces of carpet I found all over it. After I put enough layers on and wrapped it down tight with duct tape, it was real comfortable. You could even turn sideways in it, and put your feet over one of the arms, like a little couch. I made a footrest and a table out of some wooden crates, and I was all set.

  We had plenty of long extension cords, but I didn’t need any light in that part of the barn. I always watch my movies in the dark.

  The way I have it set up, the VCR is in a far corner of the barn, and my couch and stuff are set up to the side. So there’s a wall to my right, and I can still see if anybody comes in out of my left eye.

  At least I thought I could. But, that night, first thing I realized was Vonda, whispering in my ear.

  “What are you watching, Eddie?” she said.

  I guess I jumped a little—I never saw her come into the barn. “Nothing,” I said.

  I pushed the button, and the movie stopped running.

  Vonda came around the side of my couch. She was looking down at me. It was dark, but I could see her shape pretty good.

  “I’ll bet I know what you’re watching,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Eddie. All men like to watch those movies. It’s no big deal. Some of them can be pretty hot, too.”

  It took a second, but then I understood what she was talking about. “No,” I told her. “I wasn’t watching one of those.…”

  “Well, what were you watching, then?”

  “Just a movie.”

  Vonda sat down. On the arm of the couch, with only half her bottom. She kept one foot on the floor.

  “You wouldn’t tell me a story, would you, Eddie?”

  “I wouldn’t … oh, you mean a lie, right? No, I’m not lying. It’s just a regular movie.”

  “Where I come from, if somebody challenges you, you’ve got to show them your stuff. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I guess I do. Like in a race, right?”

  “Well, that wasn’t what I was thinking of, but it’ll do. So. Are you ready to show me?”

  “Show you?”

  “Show me the movie, Eddie. So I can see if it’s what I think it is.”

  It was Moonshine Highway, one of my most special favorites. It takes place a long time ago, when people were better, I think. The guy in the video store had been right.

  When Vonda had come in, the movie was near the end, where the guy in the Chevy goes after the guy in the Lincoln and they have their final duel.

  I thought, as soon as she saw it wasn’t porno I was watching, Vonda would go away. But she stayed perched right on the arm of the couch, watching until it was over.

  “I’m sorry, Eddie,” she said. “I never should have doubted you. I know you’re not the kind of man who would lie to a woman.”

  “That’s okay,” I said.

  “Well, it’s not okay. I make that mistake, sometimes. Thinking all men are alike. But that’s my mistake, and I shouldn’t put it on you.”

  “It’s all right, Vonda. I don’t mind.”

  She looked over at where my carton of tapes was next to the VCR. “Are these all just regular movies, too?” she asked me.

  After that, Vonda came out to the garage at night a lot. Not real late, and never for very long. First I thought she was trying to catch me watching one of those movies she thought I was watching that first time, but that wasn’t it.

  “I’m just trying to figure out what you like, Eddie,” she said.

  “Well.…”

  “Don’t tell me! I think I know. It’s cars, right? I mean, that would make sense, you being an expert and all.”

  Nobody had ever called me that exact word before. I felt the back of my neck burn, and I was glad it was dark in the barn. But I had to tell her the truth.

  “It’s not … the movies aren’t about cars,” I told her. “They’re about driving.”

  A couple of days later, Vonda asked me if I knew if there was any more of that old carpet I put on the couch. I said there was rolls and rolls of it up in the loft, but that ladder was pretty rotten and you had to be careful going up there.

  “Can you go up and throw down a roll for me?” she said. “And is it okay if I set up in that corner way over there? I won’t be in your way.”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I went up in the loft and pushed a couple of rolls of carpet over the edge.

  Vonda worked hard for the next few days. She cut pieces off the carpet, then she hung them over a line and beat them half to death with an aluminum baseball bat Gus always keeps in his car. She washed down a section of the barn floor, then she scrubbed it with a brush. When she was done, it smelled like pine over there.

  After the carpet was laid down over the section she cleaned, it looked pretty good. Vonda came out with one of those big radios, the kind that also plays tapes, or CDs, and has speakers on the sides. She was wearing stretchy black pants and a white sweatshirt. She had white sneakers on her feet, a white band around her head, and a thick pair of purple socks that went up real high over the outside of her pants.

  She turned on the radio. A lady’s voice said they were going to work on quads. Then the lady’s voice said to do things, and Vonda did them. Different exercises. For each one, the lady’s voice would count while Vonda did them.

  It went on for about an hour. Every time I looked up from what I was doing, it seemed like Vonda was doing some other exercise.

  “Now we’re going to step,” the lady’s voice said.

  Vonda went over and pushed a button and the voice stopped. She came over to where I was working.

  “Eddie, I need a step platform,” she said. “Do you think you could make me one?”

  “I don’t know what one is,” I told her.

  Once Vonda showed me what she meant, it only took a few minutes to make one. She carried it back over to where her carpet was, pushed a button, and the lady’s voice started up again.

  Vonda stepped up, then she stepped down. Over and over. Then she switched legs. After a while, she started doing things with her arms, too.

  I went back under the car.

  When the lady’s voice stopped, Vonda walked over to where I was working. She had a big pink towel wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was all dewy from the exercise, but she didn’t smell stale, the way guys in prison did when they finished lifting weights or playing basketball.

  “That is hard work,” she said.

  “I guess.”

  “Men are always like that,” she said. “It doesn’t look hard, does it? Just stretching and jumping around. But it is. And it gets the job done.” She turned sideways, stood on the toes of one leg, and pointed at the back of her thigh. “Feel that,” she said.

  I touched it, real light.

  “It’s real strong,” I told her.

  “Squeeze it,” she said. “Come on.”

  I did what she said. I hadn’t been lying before—her thigh was as hard as a piece of wood.

  “See what I mean?” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I do aerobics every other day, religiously. And I do my stretches every day. I drink eight big glasses of water every day, too.”

  “How come?”

  “How come I … ? Oh, the water? It flushes your system. Keeps it clean. It’s very important for good skin.”

  “Oh.”

  “Eddie,” she said, with her hands on her hips, “why do you keep a car tuned?
”

  “So it runs good.”

  “It’s the same thing with a person’s body. You have to keep it tuned.”

  “I guess that’s so.”

  “You wouldn’t want your car to let you down, would you?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “That’s because you rely on it, Eddie. It’s something you need to get what you want. That’s the way I am about my body, see?”

  “Like a boxer?”

  “Yes! That’s exactly it, Eddie. Just like a fighter.”

  Sometimes, when Vonda was exercising, J.C. would come out and talk to her. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Not that I would ever try and listen.

  Sometimes, she’d stop and go off with him. Sometimes she wouldn’t.

  J.C. came out to talk to me, too. About what we needed for the car, mostly. But he’d talk about the job, too, a little bit.

  When J.C. would ask me questions, it was easy. When he stopped talking, like he expected me to ask him a question, it was hard. I’m never sure about things like that.

  One time, Gus came out to the barn. He had some work to do, on the stuff he makes.

  There was plenty of room out there. Gus put together a workbench out of sawhorses and some planks, but, when he tried it, he said it wasn’t bright enough for what he had to do. So I took a couple of the trouble lights you use for working under the hood and hung them over a beam with extension cords. They dropped right down over what he was doing, and he said they worked fine.

  When Gus was done, he walked past where Vonda was working out. I couldn’t hear what he said to her, but I heard her say, “Get the fuck away from me.”

  When Vonda was done with her workout, she always drank a big bottle of water. Sometimes, she would come over and ask me if I wanted a drink. I never did.

  Vonda was always asking me about my movies. After that first time I had told her, I thought maybe she’d think it was, I don’t know, immature of me, or something. But she was real interested. And it was nice to have someone to talk to while I was doing things to the car.

  She asked me when it started. With my movies.

  I told her, when I was a kid. I saw this one movie. Not at the movies; it was a real movie, but it was on the television.