Bank Robbers (29 page)

They rode the elevator up in silence, got off at the twenty-sixth floor, and led her down a long carpeted hallway. She was taken into a room with a long light wood table and several chairs of the same color.

And that was where what they referred to as the “Interrogation of Teresa DeNunzio Newhouse” began.

*   *   *

“I
DON'T
believe this, where the hell could she be?” Tracy's voice rang out.

Her husband watched his wife put her hands on her bony hips and shake her head. Fred had just put the last box in the back of the van.

Tracy's eyes darted down to her watch.

“The flight's in less than two hours, Tray. Where did she say she was going?”

“Church,” Tracy spat out through clenched teeth. “I'll get her.”

Tracy clacked down the stone steps of her mother's building, mumbling angrily. She walked outside and turned up First Avenue, ignoring the throngs of kids and the old men sitting in front of the stores. She turned up 114th Street and began to walk toward the beat-up old red brick church building. She stomped up the rectory stairs and pressed on the bell. A small nun opened the door. Tracy walked inside, and down the hall toward a room. The sound of a television echoed on the stone floor. Father Dominick, a stout man of about sixty, was sitting in a lounge chair in front of the set. His collar was open at the top, and he was frowning, disturbed, at the screen. His eyes lifted to Tracy as she entered, and he slowly, but firmly rose from the chair and held both arms out to her.

“Father Dominick? My mother…” Tracy began, but before she could say anything, the priest's arms were around her, and she felt him give a heavy exhale.

“Oh, my dear, I had no idea of the trouble in your house,” he began, and she stepped back.

“Yeah, well, it ain't so bad where she's going, no matter what she says about it.”

“What?” He blanched at that, and Tracy crossed her arms over her chest.

“Oh, come on, Father, wouldn't you rather see her there than living all alone in this neighborhood—”

“But you can't mean this. Where your mother's going is … is horrible.”

Tracy stepped back, and felt her mouth drop open; she whipped the large sunglasses off her nose and stared at him, her thin lips twitching.

“I resent that! You didn't actually tell her that, did you? Don't you think that's a bit of an exaggeration? I mean, I assumed you were going to reassure her; help her get used to the idea.”

The priest took one step back and looked at her, horrified. Tracy's eyes darted around the room, and landed on a door.

“Tracy, I don't think this is an idea you get used to. I mean, she needs a lawyer.”

Tracy's eyes darted back to him, and they narrowed.

“You told her to get a lawyer? What kind of a priest are you? She doesn't need a lawyer. She needs a plane ticket and a bathing suit.”

“What?” Father Dominick asked, gaping at her.

Tracy looked at her watch again, and then at the door.

“What do you mean, ‘What?' Where is she?”

“She's not here,” he said, and he blinked, and a look of concern came over his face.

“Oh, great! Just great! She has to be on a plane for Florida in less than two hours and—”

“Tracy, when was the last time you saw your mother?”

“This morning. She said she was coming here to church to say good-bye. She's going to Florida to live with my brother and his wife.”

She watched him wince, and slowly shake his head.

“I don't think your mother's going to Florida today.”

“Why not?”

*   *   *

T
ERESA
sat in the chair chain-smoking and staring narrowly at the woman with a plastic laminated card pinned to her which read
FBI
. She blew out the smoke hard and the woman grimaced disapprovingly.

A man the other two called Ted, wearing an olive lightweight suit was sitting on the table, dangling one leg.

“You should talk to us.”

“I ain't got nothing to say.”

“It'll be better if you cooperate.”

“Give me a break.”

“Again, did you have an accomplice or not? We know you did it, we just want the details.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Teresa watched them glance, frustrated, at one another, and the female agent looked at her and smiled.

“Let's go back to the timing here. What time did you rob the bank?” she asked, studying Teresa grimly.

“Ain't you looked at the tape? It's right there in little numbers on the bottom left-hand side of it, and that's all I'm saying.”

“You have to give us more details than that. We have been at this for three hours now—”

“Yeah, and you're beginning to whine like my kids—you tell 'em what's gonna happen and they ignore you and keep pesterin' you. I told you, I ain't saying anything,” she said, stubbed out her cigarette, and crossed her arms over her chest.

Ted glared at her and came close to her face, snarling. “We're gonna keep at this. As long as it takes, maybe another three hours, how about that?”

Teresa's eyes narrowed. “Three hours? Buddy, I was trapped for four months in an apartment during winter with a three-year-old and a two-year-old in diapers … Three hours? Give it your best shot.”

The man stood up and exhaled. He put his hands on his hips and suddenly screamed out, “You're in a hell of a lot of trouble here, lady! You better talk,
NOW
.”

The other agent, in an identical suit, came up to the first agent, and Teresa narrowed her eyes at him sternly.

“Ted, calm down, she's an old woman,” he said, and then looked unsympathetically at Teresa. “Look, just tell him something, unless you'd like to sit here for the rest of your life, huh? Never see your grandchildren.”

Teresa let out a cackle, and pulled out another cigarette.

“Who the hell are youse kidding? What? You gonna make me disappear? Some ‘old' woman? You think they gonna like that?”

“Who?”

“Them newspapers, the television, the Gray Panthers … Cut the crap, boys. I ain't sayin' one word to nobody until I talk to a lawyer. Period. Now take Mr. I-Can't-Control-Him, and get the hell outta my face.”

*   *   *

A
RTHUR
M
AC
G
REGOR
stood in the main terminal just inside the doors. He watched Dottie standing on the platform outside, on a long line waiting for a cab. He found himself cursing.

They'd missed the plane.

So close. They'd almost made it. He turned and his eyes landed on the newsstand. He marched inside and pointed to a box of Partagas cigars, which was the only smokable brand in the whole case, as far as Arthur was concerned. He bought one and a cheap lighter. He bit off the end of a cigar and spit it into a garbage can, and watched a guard stare at him and clear his throat, pointing to a
NO SMOKING
sign on the wall right near where Arthur was standing.

Why the hell do they still sell smokes when you can't smoke anywhere on the planet anymore? he thought and stuck the cigar in his mouth anyway. He turned and stared across the terminal. He took the tickets out of his pocket and tried to resist the urge to rip them into confetti.

Christ, what a martyr she was. What a martyr she'd always been. How the hell had he ever gotten mixed up with her in the first place?

Stupid. That's what she was. And that's what
he
was too. Getting all out of breath over her again, only to have to watch her throw it all away.

Yeah, he thought to himself. Throw it all away, see if he cared. It wasn't as if she'd stuck around for him all those years ago. He was in for what, a trifling twenty-four months, and what had she done for him? Mailed him care packages of cookies and cakes and love letters professing her undying love for him? Was she standing at the gate along with the other women when he walked out a free man?

Hell, no. She'd gone out and gotten married and pregnant. And even that he'd been willing to overlook. But this …

Well, to hell with her! he thought, and chomped down hard on the cigar. He ought to be happy to be rid of her. He was going without her.

He looked at both the tickets.

Hell, he was going first-class to Hawaii. He was going to cash in her ticket and go in style. Then he was going to sit on a beach in Hawaii and order as many of those fruity drinks with all the toys in them that he could and drink toasts to what a sap she was.

He went back to the ticket line and stood behind a woman and two small boys. He took out the lighter and was just about to light the end of his cigar when the woman in front of him turned around and glared.

“Secondhand smoke is a killer, you know. There's no smoking in this area,” she huffed.

“Mind your own goddamned business and look after those kids like you're supposed to,” he said, being as insulting as he could.

He kept his eyes on hers until she finally turned her back on him.

He knew Dottie was going to confess to the whole thing, and then they'd have her. And Sid was going to take care of the whole thing. Sure, he'd still pay the bill. He wasn't inhuman. Why, he was downright generous. Hadn't he bought her all those clothes? Hadn't he hidden her? Hell, he'd been better to her than to most of his partners. But she'd really crossed the line. Going in to confess to a crime. Surrendering to them! No, that was the bottom line to Arthur MacGregor. Christ, in love with some jerk who was going to go turn herself in for a crime she could've happily gotten away with. And now he was going to pay so she could be a martyr, Arthur thought.

Nope. Hawaii, that's where he was going.

A pang went through him.

It wasn't as if he could even go to the trial anyway. He couldn't be seen around Dottie. No contact with her. Because Arthur MacGregor would be a liability. The ticket taker he'd bought the tickets from just a half hour before motioned Arthur to come forward.

“Something wrong, sir?”

“We had a family emergency. My—other son has been hospitalized, so my wife…” Arthur's voice stopped cold on the word “wife.”

And the vision of Dottie standing in the mall all dressed up and pretty, and with her hair done and glowing at him, well, it just popped into his head.

“Sir?”

And her head, lying back on the pillow and beaming at him, the way her body felt in bed next to his, the way she laughed and the sounds when she made love to him—it was making his chest tingle. He'd laughed more in two days than in ten years, just having her around.

And then there were all those clothes of hers in the house.

“And, sir?” the man prompted.

Arthur looked at the young man's face.

“Your wife, sir?” his voice prodded and Arthur winced at the word.

Aw, Jesus! No. He was going, he thought, and placed the tickets on the counter.

“She's going to the hospital and I'm canceling hers and I'm going on alone. Make the ticket first class,” he barked at the young man, who looked incredulous at this old man who was not going to see his son in the hospital but was going on vacation, first class now.

“Very good, sir,” the man muttered.

Arthur MacGregor puffed hard on the unlit cigar as the clerk typed numbers into the computer.

Arthur MacGregor, the liability, he thought. And just what did she expect him to do now? Just sit up in his house and watch them crucify her? Like a goddamned patsy?

Christ, she'd probably starve before they actually got to court. Hell, that was if she didn't have a heart attack when the press got to her. He remembered his last trial, how they pushed you and shoved you and treated you like game on a hunt, those animals. Only she, being all alone and naive the way she was … God, she'd be so … scared and confused … That's what did it, the confusion. Jeez, he hoped Sid would be able to calm her down. If he were there he'd know exactly what—hey, wait a minute, Arthur thought. Just stop right there.

And then Arthur felt something horrible. Something he'd never considered would happen to him.

He was having an attack of the Responsible Morals.

Just in time, the man handed him back an upgraded ticket and Arthur nodded and walked away. He stared at his lone reflection in the large sliding glass door.

Could he sit in Hawaii knowing what was going on?

He stared down at the ticket and gave himself one last going-over about what an ass he was, and what he was going to do in Hawaii and …

He cursed again, threw the cigar on the floor, and went back onto the ticket line. He could still see her through the glass. She was holding the collar of that ragged coat of hers closed, as she waited in line for a cab.

All right, he'd given his word that he was not going to be seen around Dottie or the trial. But he was not about to let her starve or get pushed around.

He got back up to the ticket booth to the same man, and he placed the ticket on the counter.

“I decided not to go. Cancel it.”

“Very good, sir,” the young man said earnestly, as though he'd won some sort of moral victory. “I'm sure it's for the best.”

“Yeah?” Arthur said, frowning at him. “For who?”

*   *   *

“M
A'AM
?” the driver prodded after a minute.

She sat still, unable to answer.

She was all alone and was facing jail. And if being alone in jail weren't bad enough, the thought that now there was not going to be a single soul on the planet outside who was going to give a damn that she was in prison had sunk in. There was not going to be anyone waiting for her letters or for her release, and the horror of it hit home.

Was this what he had felt all those years ago?

“Ma'am?”

“Vesey Street in Lower Manhattan,” she said barely above a whisper.