Dog Day Afternoon (26 page)

Joe grinned and waved at them until the cameramen noticed him and their lenses swung around to record his reaction shot. An instant later the banner wavered and dropped as some of the original bystanders charged it and knocked it down.

Joe stepped back inside the bank. “Folks, this is my day!” he exulted. “Did you see that banner?”

“Who could miss it?” Marge asked. “What I want to see is the airport limo.”

The grin faded from Joe’s face. In all the excitement he had forgotten that the arrival of the limo would be the moment of greatest danger. He was determined to doublecross Baker and, by putting Sam in the middle of the line of people getting into the car, to protect him from sharpshooters.

At the same time he knew that, with orders to shoot, the snipers might try to pick Sam off anyway. Chances were not, but you never knew with real killer types. That meant someone else would get it, probably the one in front or behind Sam. It wasn’t an easy decision to make.

“What’s up?” Boyle asked, watching his face.

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“Nothing. Say, tell me, you got a notary?”

Marge held up her hand. “I’m the notary. You want to, uh . . .” Her voice died away. The inside of the bank was unusually quiet, although outside the two sections of the crowd were busily screaming at each other. It had an odd effect on Joe, as if what was happening in here, amid deadly silence, was a matter of life and death. Which it was, of course.

“Lemme dictate it,” he told Marge. “You write it. I sign it. You notarize it, okay?”

“Shoot, I mean, uh, go ahead.”

“Start it off with all that being-of-sound-mind-and-body shit, okay?”

Marge drew a piece of paper and pen to her and began to write. “Go ahead.”

“To my darling wife, Lana, I leave three thousand from my life-insurance policy for a sex-change operation. Got that?”

“Operation. Right.”

“To my sweet wife, Tina, I leave the rest of the insurance, seven gran—seven thousand, to take care of my children and make sure they remember me.”

“. . . member me. Right.”

“To my mother . . .” Joe stopped and sighed. “You never understood me, even though you tried. I’m me. I’m different. I leave you my stamp collection. It’s worth something.”

The bank lobby was terribly quiet, except for faint shouting from outside. Sam had come over to listen to the dictating of the will. He nodded now and then, as if in approval.

“I want a military funeral,” Joe said, “to which I am entitled free of charge. God bless everyone till we are joined in the hereafter, sweet Lana, my Tina, dearest Lori and Larry and my mother.” He fell silent for a moment. “Okay. Lemme sign it.”

“Littlejoe,” Sam said then in a small voice, “it’s a will, ain’t it?”

“Right.”

“You ain’t gonna die.”

“No way of knowing that, Sam, baby. It’s a long flight over water.” He turned to the rest of them. “And just when I let my Blue Cross lapse.”

“Nobody’s getting killed,” Boyle said. “We’re going to do just what we’re told to do and nobody’s going to shoot, either, not you boys and not the men outside.”

“From your lips to Baker’s ear,” Littlejoe intoned. He was feeling great now. Dictating the will had cheered him up a lot. He turned to Sam and clapped him on the shoulder. “You wanna make your will, man? I know a cute notary does it cheap.”

“A will? Me?”

“Your folks’re still around.”

For the first time in several hours, Sam’s mouth turned up slightly at one corner, in what was for him a bit of a smile. “Fuck ’em.”

“Got that?” Joe asked Marge.

“Smart-ass,” she responded primly, shaking her head. She handed him his will, and when he had signed it she stamped the bottom of the page, filled in the stamped legend, signed it, and embossed a seal over the whole inscription. “I’d like to see somebody break
that
will,” she said then.

She folded it twice and started to hand it to Joe. He refused to take it. She looked around her, confused. Then, finally, she tucked it into a Number Ten envelope and sealed it. On the outside she wrote “To Whom It May Concern,” and propped it on her telephone. “There.”

Joe found himself wondering how to line up everyone when the limo came. He decided not to try, but just to make sure Sam was protected. He had no illusions that, once they shot Sam, he himself would have the guts to keep going. He had started Sam in motion originally, but Sam was now keeping the whole job moving. Boyle had read something of his worries from his face.

Sam now moved closer to him, as if what he had to say was not for other ears. “It’s like the crunch, huh, man?”

Littlejoe brightened for a moment at the businesslike sound of the word. “Yeah, crunch,” he said. “But between us, baby, we’re too tough to crumble, right?”

Sam shrugged, a neat, minimal gesture. “Either that or a lot of other people crumble with us.”

Joe nodded vigorously. “Right, baby. Right.” He could hear how false his own voice sounded. Joe wondered why he was bothering to protect Sam now, when, obviously, he’d already decided to sell him out in some other way. But delay the moment. Put off the betrayal. Not now. Not in front of people like Boyle and Marge, who thought he was pretty hot stuff.

Christ, if only Moretti were back in charge. The detective stood for something you could deal with, the thing that kept this crummy city turning over, without which it would have frozen into a pile of ice: compromise. That was what New York was all about. You never brought things to a total face-off. You always left room to maneuver. Baker didn’t understand that, never would. Dealing with Baker got things done fast, all right. But sometimes you didn’t want speed.

“Sweet Jesus, here it is,” Ellen moaned. Her huge eyes protruded slightly as she stared out the window of the bank.

Littlejoe turned to see a long black Cadillac limousine, six doors, luggage rack on the roof, moving slowly through the crowd and into the center of the combat zone. It had been hurriedly requisitioned from somewhere, and the side of the vehicle still bore a garishly lettered sign reading:

TOTAL RELAXATION BATHS—
OUR HOSTESSES MAKE LIFE WORTH LIVING—
24 HOURS NO WAITING

Joe went to the window to stare at the vehicle of his release.

Baker, Moretti, and several other men were converging on the limousine as the driver got out. He stood, confused for a moment, holding a clipboard. He was a tall black in broad Afro hairdo and a sleeveless sheepskin jacket, dark glasses and pants with a flare as wide as an evening skirt. Joe noticed that his boots had rhinestone buckles. He went outside and moved toward the driver.

“Keep back,” he yelled at the FBI and police.

The driver held out his clipboard. “You the relief driver, man?” Joe asked.

Joe moved past him and began lifting seats, searching under them for bombs or guns. He checked the glove compartment, then moved into the capacious rear of the limo.

“Hey, man, like, somebody gotta sign me out, you know?”

“Stick with me,” Joe muttered. “Help me with these seats.”

Together they searched a while longer. “What’s all the pig doing out after dark?” the driver asked then.

“Some guys are holding up this bank.”

“No shit? They still in there?”

“Guns,” Joe assured him solemnly. “Hostages. Smile, you’re on TV.”

“I be goddamned.” Joe gave him a long, slow smile, and the driver’s eyes lit up. “Hey! You the bandit, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Shee-it.” He glanced around for the cameras.

“Fun, huh?” Joe asked. “Here, lemme sign your sheet.” He did so and handed it back to the driver. “That was on TV, too.”

“Oh, man, I gonna remember you.”

“I hope somebody does.”

Baker had moved in closer with a younger man beside him, who was wearing the same shade of gray suit. “This is Murphy,” Baker said. “He drives you to JFK.” He jerked his thumb at the driver. “Take off, buddy.”

Two cops hustled the black driver away. Joe eyed his replacement. Murphy, like his boss, had the knack of seeming not to be there. He didn’t actually look at Joe, but at a point to one side of him. Although his hair was not gray, like Baker’s, it probably would be some day. He had already mastered the trick of not sweating. It probably came from knowing that he had a license to do anything he wanted in this world and call it justified.

Joe pictured him killing. He looked even better at it than Sam. “No way. Not this one. I want him.” Joe indicated the original driver.

“I can’t allow that,” Baker said.

“You
can’t allow! I’m running this show. Get this bastard out of here and get the dude’s black ass back over here. Now!”

The cops were hustling the black driver back. “Hey,” he was protesting. “No way, man. Not me.”

“You,” Joe said, sealing his fate.

He turned to the gay demonstrators, who had raised the big banner again, waved, and blew them a kiss. A roar went up from the homosexual contingent. One of the TV crews, standing on top of a van, had missed the whole thing.

“Hey, Joe,” the cameraman shouted. “One more time.”

Joe nodded, smiled, waited until the telephoto lens was trained on him, then gave him the old Sicilian up-yours sign, ramming his right arm forward and chopping his left against it. Both sections of the crowd, gay and straight, burst into helpless laughter. He turned back in time to find Baker and Murphy with identical looks of disapproval on their bland faces.

“Just drive us to JFK,” Joe told the black driver.

“Do I got a choice?”

“No.”

The driver eyed Baker, who, reluctantly, nodded. Littlejoe then patted down the driver in a rather professional way, checking his pockets and lingering long enough on the inside of his groin to start another chorus of sucking noises from the original bystander group. In a pocket, Joe came across a small decorated bottle with silver miniature spoon attached by a chain, a coke-sniffer’s kit. He glanced at it and then at the driver, whose eyes had widened apprehensively.

“Not on duty, man, right?” Joe asked.

“Right.”

Joe shoved the bottle out of sight and slapped the driver’s rump. “You’re gonna do fine, baby.” He turned to Baker. “I’m ready.”

“Remember,” Baker said grimly, “they come out lockstep and Sam is last. Don’t forget that.”

The driver rolled his eyes. “You mens shoot, you aim for white meat, dig?”

Joe smiled at him. There was still a remnant of the smile as he turned to Baker and Murphy. “Tell him how to get there.”

“Just follow me. That gray Ford.” Baker frowned at Joe. “What about the third perpetrator? There was a third man inside there with you.”

“Eddie? He’s sleeping it off in the vault. He’s out of it, Baker.”

Littlejoe walked back into the bank. Everyone looked up. “This is it,” Joe said. He watched Sam straighten the knot in his tie. “That’s right, baby. Show them you cared enough to wear the very best. Marge, tuck in those luscious titties.” He watched her quickly button up the front of her blouse, which had been open because of the heat.

“Boyle, you’re a mess.”

The manager got to his feet and tucked his shirt more firmly into his belt. “Can’t let down the old Chase image.”

Joe shook his head pityingly. “Still Chasing rainbows, huh?”

“What else is there?”

“I don’t know, Boyle. My life could end in the next five minutes. Nobody gives a shit if I live or die. I bust my gut and nothing do I get back in this life. Even tonight, I mean, who knows what’ll happen?”

Boyle rubbed his chin. As he talked, he raked his fingers nervously through his sparse hair, in lieu of a comb. “What makes you so special, Joe? We’re all pissed off at life. Kids get sick and die. The roof leaks. I cheat on my wife. The dog gets run over. Joe, it’s one long tale of disaster, not only here, all over. Bombings, famine, earthquakes, napalm. The name of the whole thing is life, Joe. So stop your bitching.”

In the silence that followed, Marge cleared her throat. “Another cigarette, please, somebody.”

“No more,” Sam said.

“Okay,” Joe shouted, “let’s snap into it. We form a line and we close it up very tight. Everybody takes a left step at the same time. Then a right. We move into the back of the car. There’s plenty of room.”

“In what order?” Boyle asked.

Outside the crowd was yelling for action. The gay demonstrators were chanting, “Say it clear. Say it loud. I’m gay and I’m proud.”

“Well?” Boyle persisted.

Littlejoe knew he was biting his lower lip. He tried to stop it. Didn’t look right at this point for him to seem that nervous. “Boyle, you’re so eager, you lead off the line.”

Boyle nodded and went to the open door of the bank. The limo stood about three yards from the door, nine or ten feet in which a sniper could chew Sam to chunks.

“Okay, a few more people and Sam. Then a few more and me. I come at the tail end.”

Sam was shaking his head. His big, dark eyes looked very solemn; his cupid’s-bow mouth was tight with tension. “Boyle first, then Ellen, then me,” he said. “That makes sense. But then, like, Maria and then you, Joe, and Marge at the end.”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Marge at the end,” Sam insisted, “or we don’t go.”

“Why Marge?”

“Okay, anybody but you or me. Make it Boyle.”

“I’ll bring up the rear,” Marge volunteered.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Littlejoe began. “It’s a—”

“I’m bringing up the rear,” she announced firmly. “That puts the two senior bank people at the front and back of the line.”

“Hey, man,” the driver called through the open door. “I am sweating a whole lot out here.”

“We’re coming,” Joe promised him. “Sam?”

“Let’s go.” He moved behind Ellen and shoved her up against Boyle. Then, very ostentatiously, Sam brought the .45 automatic up to her ear. “Let’s go, man,” he repeated shakily. A rim of white showed all the way around his irises. “Let’s for shit’s sake go.”

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