Bank Robbers (11 page)

“It was just … difficult not to notice; you were in the papers all the time.” She floundered.

He gazed at her, and let his eyes meander down the suit she was wearing; he could see her straighten up her back as his eyes lowered, almost as if he were touching her.

“I would've found something to do and taken care of you. And you gave your word you were going to wait.”

They were both silent.

“Now why would an upstanding citizen such as yourself want a gun, Dottie?”

“I got mice.”

“You gonna shoot some little tiny creatures?”

“These are big, annoying mice.”

“Don't you think shooting them is overdoing it?”

“Sell me the gun, Arthur.”

He exhaled hard, and frowned at her.

“You're right. You don't mean nothing to me and you never have.”

Her face looked as if she'd just been slapped. Good. He wanted to hurt her.

He reached behind the cash register and pulled out a small handgun. He placed it on the counter.

She blinked at it.

“How much?”

He leaned forward and stared at her.

“Don't you want to look over the merchandise first?”

She swallowed and picked up the gun, holding it with two fingers by the handle as if it were some rotten piece of meat.

“Cock it.”

“I beg your pardon?” She gaped at him.

“The gun. Cock it. Let me see you.”

He watched her blow out a breath and glare at him. She wanted a gun, fine. He was going to make sure at least she had some idea where the safety was.

She turned it around and around and he finally took it from her and cocked it. He held it up to her.

“Now it's cocked. Now you can shoot.”

He pulled the cock back with his thumb, listening to it click back into its original position.

“Now the safety's on. Now you can't shoot it. You try.”

“It's okay, I know how to do it.”

“Well, I just don't want you to get stuck with the safety on when those mice come around.”

She glared at him. “How much?”

“One twenty-five.”

She swallowed.

“Does that include bullets?”

He looked at her incredulously.

“No, that includes the gun. You want bullets, you go get bullets.”

She exhaled loudly. This was a lot more complicated than she'd imagined.

“Well—” She shook her head. “How much if I buy bullets from you?”

“You know in New York City there's a one-year mandatory for carrying an unlicensed gun?”

“That's not what I asked.”

“I know. Another twelve for a box.”

She frowned, and then looked up at him.

“How about … if I only want six bullets?”

He felt the corner of his mouth turn up into a grin at the naïveté of the question.

“You're not buying grapefruit here. Bullets come by the box. The box is twelve dollars.”

She stared at him a long time.

“All right, I'll take the box.” She was angry, and she opened her purse and took out the cash.

He took it, and then handed her the gun.

“Don't I get a bag with that for a hundred and twenty-five dollars?” she asked sharply.

He glared at her, then turned around quickly to stifle a chuckle. And then he got angry again. Not only had he been thrown over for a lowlife, but Nathan was using her to get a gun on top of it? He didn't know what Nathan was up to, but whatever it was, he wanted to slow it down. He needed something to bide the time.

He grabbed a paper bag and spun around and tossed it at her.

“There, now get out,” he ordered.

“What about my bullets?”

“Come back tomorrow night, at seven.”

“What?” she nearly shrieked. This was barely going to leave her enough money to get back downtown. “You don't have the bullets here?”

“You know I don't keep guns around for my personal use. I don't believe in them.” His eyes were steady on hers. She grabbed the gun, pushed it into the bag with a crackle from the paper and shoved it inside her purse.

“You want bullets, you come back at seven tomorrow night.”

She glared at him and walked to the door. She turned around and watched his eyes staring at her legs, and she felt a small tingle go through her in the dim shop, lit entirely by red neon.

“I hate you, Arthur MacGregor.”

“I hate you, Dottie O'Malley, and I always have,” he answered and listened to the sound of the door slamming and the rattle of the mesh gate on the glass.

He waited until he thought she was a couple doors away, then he quickly slipped the keys out of his pocket and went to the front door. He silently opened it and peeked out. She was down the block, almost at the corner. He slipped out, locking the door behind him, and pressed himself into the little vestibule. He watched her cross the street, and look around lost. He stayed there until she turned and walked onto Arthur Avenue proper.

Dammit! He had no car.

He darted across the street, keeping far back, just around the corner, keeping his eyes on her. He watched her look around when she got to the corner, and then suddenly he watched her step into the street. Dammit.

He whirled around and looked down the street. He could see one cab. He stepped into the street and his arm shot up. He cranked his neck around, and relaxed. She was still standing there and there were no cabs in sight. It seemed an interminable amount of time between the light and the time the cab pulled in front of him. He got in and sank down in the seat and stared at her through the window.

“Where to?” the cabbie demanded.

“Just run the meter and wait here a moment. Turn your ‘Vacant' sign off.” The cabbie shrugged and obliged him.

At last a cab pulled up in front of Dottie and he watched her gingerly get inside, clutching the purse as if it were some bomb that could go off if she loosened her grip.

“Hey, pal,” Arthur said, leaning forward, “you see that cab the lady just got into?”

“Yeah.”

“Follow it.”

“It's your fare.” The cabbie gave a shrug and pulled the car up to the corner.

They both watched the cab drive past them toward downtown.

The cabbie pulled the car into the intersection and stepped on the gas.

“Try not to be conspicuous about it,” Arthur added and was glad when he felt the cab instantly slow down.

The lights twinkled over the river as they hit the East River Drive, and Arthur had developed a certain admiration for the cabbie's tailing ability by midtown. He guessed he might be a cop.

Dottie's cab turned off on Houston Street, and they followed it across and onto Sullivan Street.

“Slow it down and pass them,” Arthur said easily, and hummed to himself.

His eyes bounced up to the rearview and he watched her get out, look both ways, and almost run into the building.

Good, he thought. That little tidbit about the mandatory sentence had sunken in.

“Stop the cab.”

He opened the door, and the cabbie turned around quickly.

“Keep the meter running, I'll just be a minute,” Arthur said and threw a twenty at him.

He kept his eyes on the front of the tenement building.

Nathan, it seemed, had never amounted to much, and that gave him a certain smug satisfaction.

But sending a woman to get a gun …

He opened the front door, reached into his pocket and unzipped the monogrammed leather case. He took out a pick and in one second was inside the hallway.

He went over to the mailboxes and looked for the name “Weist.” He bent down, squinting, and suddenly realized that the name “Nathan” had been scratched from the mailbox. He felt his back suddenly arch.

He silently walked up the stairs, got to the landing, and turned. Arthur walked to the door at the end of the hallway and put his ear up to it.

He heard the sound of her walking around inside, and then he heard the television snap on. He listened and listened, and then he felt his chest tense up at the noise from the television and the sounds of her moving about. He stepped back and stared at the door in almost horror.

Good God, it was true, he thought, she's alone in there.

He stared at the case of tools in his hand. He could get in there if he wanted, and for a brief second he wavered in favor of opening the door.

And then what would he do?

He knew what he wanted to do, strangle her just a little and then …

And then he got angry again.

Why the hell should he give her pleasure?

She hadn't waited for him. And what was worse, she'd thrown him over for a lowlife gambler, not even someone with his standing in crime. Although, he thought vainly, there weren't too many people who could match his talents.

And maybe it was stupid that he was still angry after all these years. But she'd broken his heart when she wouldn't go with him, and only because of her lousy middle-class Irish Catholic morals. He'd never had any use for morals. Or maybe he was still so angry because she'd turned out to be the unattainable woman.

He was not used to not being able to get anything he wanted.

But the fact she had her own mind on these things, that was what he'd loved about her as a girl. She was smug and sassy and haughty, and didn't take any crap from him.

But no. She hadn't trusted him and had played it safe with Nathan, and she'd denied him a whole lifetime of being with her and having her …

Still, he was now very uneasy about his stupidity in selling her the gun.

He turned and walked down the stairs. He could be back down here by seven in the morning, he thought.

The cab was still standing there when he got back outside. He zippered the case on the way over to it and he slid it back into his pocket, got in and slammed the door.

“Where to?”

“Rye.”

“New York?”

“Yeah, you know where it is?”

“If you got the fare, I know where it is.”

Arthur pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket and gave it to the cabbie.

The cab pulled away, and Arthur looked at her front door in the rearview.

This situation needed casing.

CHAPTER THREE

A
RTHUR
was whistling “I Get a Kick out of You,” and pondering why he could never do a job when he wasn't in disguise.

He pulled the thin black jacket out of his closet and laid it on the bed. It had thick padded shoulders and changed his shape appreciably. His middle was padded by one of those false theatrical stomachs. He pulled on the pair of extra-large black pants and belted them.

He opened the armoire and looked at himself. Between the jacket and the padded middle he looked to be a hefty size forty-two.

He walked over to the dresser and took out his kit. He opened the bottle of spirit gum and smeared some across the back of the two pieces of fake mustache and carefully placed it on the white marble surface of the dresser. He smeared more of the gooey liquid on each piece of his mustache and waited for it to dry. While he was doing that, he took out a tube of clear mascara and deftly stroked his eyebrows, making them appear heavy and bushy.

The phone on his night stand rang and he walked over and picked it up.

“Pop?”

He winced.

“Yeah? Wha—?” He murmured.

“Did I wake you?”

“What time is it?”

“Seven-fifteen.”

“Aw, Jeez.”

“You oversleep?”

He was such a nosy little bastard, Arthur thought.

“Yeah. Listen, I don't feel so good, you go ahead. I'll be there later.”

There was a silence on the other end, and he knew Moe was going through all sorts of creative reasons why Arthur was not going in today.

“Pop?” His voice was stern. “What is going on?”

“Jesus, nothing. I got in late, is all.”

“From your date?” he said, punching the word “date” as if it were the great white lie.

“Yeah. You don't believe I could have a date with a woman?”

“No.”

“Moe, go to the store, I'll be in later. Let me get back to sleep,” Arthur said and hung up.

If that kid wasn't there in twenty minutes, that meant he'd bought it.

Downstairs he heard the door open and Eva's heavy footsteps in the hallway. He'd be gone in the next ten minutes anyway. He'd leave Moe to deal with her, a zaftig woman of Polish descent whom Arthur doubted an army could get around.

He walked back over to the dresser and took out a faded shirt. He pulled it over his head, and down over his padded middle. He looked back in the mirror. His figure bore no resemblance to his real body.

He took the pieces of mustache off the dresser. Carefully he pressed one on one side, lining it up with his real mustache perfectly. He did the same on the other side, then took a small mustache comb out of the makeup case and brushed some of his real mustache over the fake hair pieces so you couldn't tell where the real hair ended and the fake hair began. He looked at himself in the mirror. He now had a mustache with heavy handlebars. He took the jacket and pulled it on, then took a cap out of the drawer and put in on. It covered his hair, or rather, covered the top of his head where his hair had thinned considerably. The hat made him look as if he had more hair than he did, and was big enough so it could be pulled down low on his face. He searched in the bottom of the armoire for the geriatric cane which completed the character, and then stood with the cane in front of the mirror. He hunched over and took a few steps.

Stanislavsky would've disapproved of his need to look in the mirror. Arthur was a big fan of Constantine Stanislavsky, he had read and reread
An Actor Prepares
many times over the years.

Of course, by the end of his career, these disguises had become utterly meaningless. The cops knew who'd done the job. Arthur went back to pondering why he felt the need to go into a heist in disguise even at the end when it didn't matter.