Bank Robbers (26 page)

“I can't live a lie.”

“Why?”

She sat up and glared at him.

“This is what I was talking about in 1962! You have the morals of, of—”

“You know how many people are out there living lies? You lived honestly. So what? You did everything right, Dottie. And now look at you. You live on broth.”

“That's not fair. I did what I had to do, and living honestly is worth something.”

“What?”

“It's … it's…” She stumbled, trying to figure out what she could say to him.

“There, you see, you can't give me any good reason not to take the money and run.”

“It's for peace of mind you live honestly. So when you're dead—”

“Ah, here it comes. So when you're dead what? You're dead.”

“You don't get into heaven by lying—”

“What if there is no heaven?”

“Shame on you, Arthur MacGregor.”

“You and your Catholic upbringing—”

“That's right. It is a sin to steal.”

“Yeah, well, I'd rather laugh with sinners than cry with saints. Like I said, why is it a sin to try and feed yourself?”

“What if everybody went around robbing banks?”

“Then we wouldn't have need of the fucking things! And people wouldn't be out there starving and everyone would have to learn to share.”

“I can't have this discussion with you.” She rolled away from him, and felt his hand on her shoulder after a moment.

“Are you telling me, Dottie O'Malley, that you never thought of saying, ‘Screw it,' and taking the money? The money you robbed, fair and square, whether you meant it or not, and the money that they're all laughing at you over…” She turned around and looked at him, and he knew he'd struck a nerve. “Are you telling me that it hasn't even crossed your mind?”

She felt her cheeks get flushed as she thought of standing in her kitchen yesterday afternoon reaching for her coat, ready to get away. Yes, it was true, she had thought of it. Hell, she'd have been out the door. She felt him nibble on her shoulder gently and then he began to kiss her neck.

“Hawaii,” he whispered so close to her ear it sent tingles through her. “We could take what you have, and I could empty out my safety-deposit boxes and we could go to the airport—”

“Stop it, Arthur.”

“And we could get on a plane going anywhere—”

“And what about Sid?”

“Sid's a lawyer. You think he's going to volunteer the information? There's client/lawyer confidence.”

“But—”

“We could just disappear somewhere.”

She closed her eyes and let him kiss her neck.

“Well?”

Her eyes snapped open. “I don't … you're mixing me all up.”

He exhaled and looked up at the ceiling.

“Dottie, do you understand what Sid is saying?”

“Yes.”

“I don't think you do. I don't think you understand that he's telling you to go in there and plead out. To say that you are guilty.”

“I am guilty.”

“Once you do that, you're at their mercy, don't you understand? You could get the whole fifteen years. And it would be wherever they choose to send you. You don't have a chance…” His voice was getting shaky. “Prison is—” His voice stopped and he was shaking his head back and forth and staring straight up with a look on his face that scared her. “When they first close that gate”—she felt a shiver go through him—“it's like you've died. You no longer have a name. You are a number. And once they've taken away your identity, they take away you. You don't matter, your very existence is insignificant. You are nothing more than some piece of meat, Dottie. And if something happens to you…” He stopped, realizing that if he didn't talk her out of this madness he was going to go crazy.

“Think about it?”

She was silent, and slowly he felt her nod. He felt a relieved smile go across his face. If he could just work on her some more …

*   *   *

T
ERESA
lay in bed with her eyes wide open.

All right, she thought, what the hell was she going to wear tomorrow? There was that bag in the cedar chest, still had some of her old dresses. She wondered if she had kept that Chanel suit Fred had come home with one night when they were first married, before the kids and the weight? He'd gotten it off the back of a truck, but no one could tell that it wasn't real. Yeah, maybe she didn't have all the first-rate items, and the first-rate house and clothes she thought she might have in the beginning, but …

Fred.

She suddenly realized that with all this craziness, she'd barely thought about him for the whole afternoon and the whole evening.

And Christ, was she grateful to crazy Dottie Weist for that! It was like a vacation having something else to focus on. She'd been through the mill the last year and a half; nothing but months of bad news and crying fits, and hospitals and funeral arrangements; how many times had she decided she was going to give up?

Hell, that day Dottie called out of the blue, Teresa'd been whimpering around like some sort of manic depressive, feeling that her life was over. And then, listening to Dottie and all the details of sticking up the bank, and all the crazy plans, then all that dirt about Arthur MacGregor, it was as if she was being pulled back into existence. Yep, Dottie might be a nut, but she was a nut who was at least still out there fighting for her life.

She was, in an odd way, a kind of role model, Teresa felt.

She'd probably never see her again, but Teresa resolved that if she ever did come across Dottie Weist again, she was gonna thank her.

Well, tomorrow was going to fix everything, she thought, and rolled over in bed. Yes, and she'd definitely wear that Chanel suit.

*   *   *

G
RAY-BLUE
light of morning was peeking through the window curtains. Dottie lay in bed in a state between waking and sleeping. Arthur moved next to her, and she pulled the covers down and felt the cool air around her face and neck. There was a sudden bang on the door, and it flew open and Dottie's heart nearly stopped as she dipped under the covers, hiding her head.

Arthur twisted around and glared.

“Pop!” Moe's voice echoed off the walls.

“Didn't your mother teach you to knock?”

“Pop.” Arthur watched Moe's eyes narrow and he stared at the lump of Dottie under the covers.

“Go out in the hall,” Arthur ordered, and Moe's mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Now.”

He watched his son turn and stomp back into the hallway and he closed the door.

“Oh, God!” he heard Dottie's muffled voice from under the covers.

“Pop, I have to talk to you
now.
” Moe's voice came through loudly from behind the door.

Dottie felt Arthur's weight leave the bed and she could hear him muttering. She half-pulled the covers off her face in time to see him pull the sleeve of his bathrobe over his arm. He opened and closed the door behind him.

Dottie threw off the covers and tiptoed to the door. She stood as still as she could and strained to hear what was being said in the hallway.

Arthur finished tying the sash and stared angrily at his son. Moe was still in his blue down coat and wearing one of the ugly ski caps Doreen knitted for him every year. In his arms was a stack of newspapers.

“What do you mean, barging into my house at the crack of dawn?” he demanded.

“Pop, that woman—”

“That woman's name is Dottie. You almost scared her to death.”

“Oh, don't give me that!”

“You damn well respect my privacy—”

Moe lowered his voice. “I think she was the one who robbed that bank Friday.”

Dottie took in a breath and waited to exhale.

There was silence. Arthur stared evenly at Moe.

“Oh, come on…” Arthur said finally.

“She matches the description. And that bag you were carrying, the green tote bag. It's just like the one in the video.”

There was another silence. “It's her, Pop.”

Arthur paced across the hallway and back, glancing at Moe. Moe was nearly Arthur's height, not in great shape, but still, he was in his thirties. Arthur began assessing his son's strength. Sid's warnings were ringing in his ears as he paced, and finally Arthur stopped and looked at Moe, realizing that getting into a fistfight with his son was not going to help, except to make Arthur feel a little better, since he sincerely felt Moe had always needed a good kick in the rear. He was going to have to level with him.

“What if she is?” Arthur's voice said quietly.

“This is serious.”

“I know.”

“Pop, she's dangerous.”

“I
know.
” Arthur chuckled.

“Be serious. She shot someone. She is
armed.
”

“No, she's not.”

“How do you know?”

“I disarmed her,” Arthur said and gave a laugh.

“Jesus, you never take me seriously. They say she might be crazy or senile or both. How do you know she's not going to take out a gun—”

“I told you, I disarmed her the night she got here.”

“Pop—”

“Frisked her head to foot every inch. Over and over…” Arthur winked at his son.

“Oh, Christ, Pop! I don't want to know—”

“Well, then you shouldn't go barging into people's bedrooms at seven-thirty in the morning,” Arthur cut him off.

“With all the diseases … I mean, you can't be serious that you, that you…”

“Yes, I certainly did.”

There was another silence.

“Look, I mean, did you take advantage of this woman?”

“Now that's enough.” Arthur stopped and stared at him, appalled by the insinuation.

“No, it's not. They say she's senile.”

“She's not senile, for God's sake.”

“Then she's crazy.”

“No.”

“She robbed a bank.”

“You have to be crazy to rob a bank?”

Moe pursed his lips, smugly.

“Well, she's not crazy or senile. She had her reasons.”

“I'll bet. What if the police find her here? You have a record. What are you going to do about that? What about our business?”

“I don't know.”

“Look, she can't stay here.”

“You're stepping over the line. This is my house. No one is going to find out about this.”

“Oh, yeah?”

There was the sound of something being dropped on the floor, and Dottie pressed her ear against the door, as if that were going to do anything.

Arthur shifted his weight onto one leg and looked down at the pile. Fuzzy black-and-white stills from the video graced the front pages of all the papers he could see.

“These are the New York papers and the Jersey papers, Connecticut, and Pennsylvania—she knocked the president off the front pages of the London
Financial Times,
for Christ's sake. Now, Pop, I think we better talk.”

There was another silence.

“Come downstairs,” Arthur ordered and Dottie heard the two of them stomp to the landing and down the stairs.

She turned and peeled off the new nightgown and shakily walked over to the table. She scrambled and pulled on her bra and underwear. She stared at the new clothes she'd gotten the day before. No. He could return all of them, and she felt a lump in her throat. She opened the armoire and pulled out the baggy dress she'd come in and slid it over her head. She looked around for her hose and cursed herself under her breath that she was wasting time. She had to get out of there. She wiggled her feet into her shoes.

If his kid knew, probably everyone knew. And Arthur had a record and she was putting him and herself in jeopardy by being there, just as Sid had said. What was she going to do? Could she run away all by herself? Or should she go back and give herself up?

She slowly turned the doorknob and peeked out into the hallway.

She could hear the sound of their voices below and she got to the top of the stairs and stared down it. She began to feel a bit dizzy again and she placed one foot on the first step.

Money. Bring the money. She tiptoed back down the hall to the bedroom and opened the armoire. In the bottom she felt for the bag. She began to feel panicky as her hands probed and found nothing.

She stood up and realized she was shaking hard. Where had Arthur put it? She opened the other side of the armoire and began opening the drawers. She stood back after closing the last one, and looked around the room, dismayed.

Had he … taken it?

She didn't know what to do now. Her eyes began darting around the room and she suddenly dropped to the floor. Under the bed she saw a lump. She reached in as far as she could and her fingers brushed the bag. She strained farther and farther. Her fingers wrapped around the soft handle, and she pulled the bag out from under the bed. All right. She took a deep breath and returned to the hallway.

She could hear them arguing in the living room as she placed a foot on the first step, and a tiny twinge of guilt went through her. Her old suspicions of Arthur MacGregor were still there.

If she could just get her old coat out of the closet, and leave the house without being seen or heard. That was all she was asking for. Just once, God should make something easy for her. She slowly and carefully descended.

“Because she needs my help. And I love her.” Arthur's voice echoed out into the hallway from the living room.

“Love her, Pop? You've never loved a woman in your whole life.”

“That's not fair.”

“Oh, right. So where has this love of your life been for thirty-some odd years, huh?”

“She … was married to somebody else.”

“Classic Arthur MacGregor. So, you had an affair with a married woman?”

“I knew her first—yes, for a very brief time. So you can add adultery to the sin pile stacked up against me as well. But, Junior, if you can find a man my age who has not ever done anything wrong in his whole life, I'll show you a man who has been in a coma.”