Spree (31 page)

They were talking as they stood in there, by the mouth of the trailer, which was still in the process of being loaded up. Though the truck was backed fairly flush up against the loading dock, the voices squeezed through.

“You
lost
it?”

“I’m sorry, Pa.”

“Well, get another one from one of the Leech boys.”

“I will. Pa, I looked all over for it.”

“Is that why you were so late?”

“Well, she gave me a little trouble. That’s how I lost it.”

“But you did do your job?”

“Sure, Pa.”

There was a pause; Jon stood there, dick in hand, bladder about to burst, and listened.

“You did good, son,” Comfort said, the anger out of his voice.

“I hate to lose my birthday gun,” Lyle said, woefully.

“It’s all right, son. I’ll buy you a new one. Too damn bad there ain’t a gun shop in this fucker, or we’d just steal you one.”

“Thanks, Pa.”

“Here comes the Leeches. Better pitch in some.”

Jon, feeling shell-shocked, moved away from the loading-dock area, and stood facing the back wall of the mall and when his urine hit it, steam rose.

NOLAN DID
his share of loading, but mostly he supervised, making sure the right things were being taken.

For example, he put Dooley in charge of the collectibles shop. He knew the locksmith would have the right touch to handle the Hummels and the collector’s plates and other valuable knickknacks; those on display had to be put in their boxes—original-boxed goods were always easier to fence, and with collectibles like these that was especially true.

In the camera shop, he directed two of the Leeches, each lugging a couple of footlockers they’d found at Penney’s, to take nothing under a hundred dollars, and later gave them exactly the same advice in the Singer outlet, where they loaded their hand trucks with sewing machines in cartons.

In the department stores, he had various of the players strip items off wheeled clothing racks to make room for some selective shopping, loading up on designer clothes. I. Magnin, though, had whole racks of designer duds just waiting to be wheeled out, and easily matched the Haus of Leather where furs were concerned—also, several display cases of jewelry (no vault there) were broken into and emptied into waiting luggage, some of it imported leather pieces from Magnin itself.

Nolan by no means lost himself in the work, however: he kept an eye on Comfort and Lyle, both of whom kept their distance from him. He had been thinking over what Jon had told him of the conversation between Lyle and his pa. Behind his cool supervisory demeanor, a storm brewed.

It was just after four when Nolan cornered Comfort in Magnin’s, where the coveralled, white-haired bandit was walking down the aisle with a suitcase in either hand, crammed with who knew what, thimbles and Snicker bars maybe, heading through ladies’ wear toward the double doors that would lead into the storeroom and the final loading dock.

Nolan smiled. “Satisfied with your shopping spree so far, Cole?”

Comfort stopped in the aisle, did not put down the bags; smiled back, rather nervously, Nolan thought. “I surely am. You and me, we’ve had our differences. But you come through for me on this. And I ain’t gonna forget it.”

“Good. That’s quite a wallop your boy seems to have taken.”

“He fell on the ice.”

“Looks like he got hit with something.”

“He fell on the ice. Excuse me, these is heavy.”

“I keep my promises, Cole. Remember that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—look. We’ll shoot the fuckin’ breeze some other time. Time is money, Nolan! We’re running out of time, here.”

“Yes we are,” Nolan said.

AT FOUR-FIFTEEN
, two jewelry stores under his belt, a tired but self-satisfied Roger Winch walked into the First National branch bank, duffel bag in hand; he looked like a bum, in his old clothes, but that just went with the territory: you had to be able to discard your clothes, after a job, as the telltale dust from a safe blowing clung to clothes, making prime evidence for the prosecution. Roger had never done time and had no intention, at this late date, of ever doing so.

A few lights were on, behind the row of teller cages, which were decked with holly and some twinkling Christmas lights. The big NCR safe, olive-colored, stucco-surfaced, was at his left as he entered, on a pedestal; this was to help facilitate its use as a card-activated cash machine, outside. A fully trimmed Christmas tree, under which were bogus gifts, stood next to it.

This automated teller machine—which was called Presto-Change-O, the sort of cutesy name these bank cash machines always seemed to have—was open twenty-four hours. That was one of the reasons Nolan had suggested doing the bank safes last—later at night, the less likely many (if any) customers would be hitting up Presto-Change-O for cash.

The computer within the safe would probably shut down, once Roger blew the door; but ATMs going on the blink was nothing new—though an answering service would automatically be called by Presto-Change-O in the machine’s last breaths before doing its disappearing act, no one would service the thing till tomorrow. And any stray, late-night/early-morning customers encountering the uncooperative machine would dismiss it with a “goddamn.”

The face of Presto-Change-O was actually the ass of the safe, extending out of the bank’s brick outer wall to greet the public in such a way that even if some customer did come along at four- fifteen this morning, he or she wouldn’t see Roger Winch in the process of performing what was known in the trade as a jam shot.

Normally Roger would have laid out all of his tools and equipment on the top of the safe; but, due to the pedestal it was on, the NCR was too tall for that. So Roger pulled a desk around and removed items from his duffel bag, arranging his things carefully, in order, on the desktop, like a chef assembling his ingredients. These included: soap, Fels Naphtha brand, which was malleable and just the right consistency to keep the grease (nitro) from draining through; the grease, a couple of ounces in a medicine bottle, cushioned by twice as much water; a folded strip of cellophane, eight inches long, half an inch wide; a box of wooden kitchen matches, four of which he removed and set out; a knocker—a small metal cap with fulmonite of mercury in it (a lot of guys these days used electric detonators, but the art of this game, Roger felt, was knowing how to properly use a fuse-type knocker) with five inches of fuse crimped in the knocker’s open end; a razor blade; a flashlight; a crowbar; and some rubber gloves, which he now put on.

Whistling “Strangers in the Night,” Roger inserted the strip of cellophane lengthwise into the space between the safe’s door and door frame. Then he took the soap, which he’d already limbered up at the motel before coming, and sculpted a funnel-shaped cup around the cellophane strip. He made it fit nice and snug; mustn’t allow any grease to trickle down the front of the door. Then he gently withdrew the cellophane, which left a narrow passage through the soap where the grease could flow.

He placed the knocker carefully in the cup, so as not to jar it, the fuse dangling about three and a half inches over the lip of the cup, about five seconds’ worth. With the razor blade he split the end of the fuse, spreading it like a flower till its central vein of black powder showed.

He reached for the medicine bottle of grease. He began to pour it slowly into the soap cup—smiling to himself as he did; here was where Roger shined—here was what separated the pete-men from the boys: you had to have timing better than Bob Hope, to judge if the safe was drinking the grease right. And Roger had that sense of timing. The ability to make sure the knocker went off just as the last of the nitro was draining from the cup into the safe door.

Quickly, he lit three kitchen matches at once, producing a prodigious flame, which he touched to the fuse, and took cover twenty feet away, behind a desk.

He sat on the indoor-outdoor carpeting, his back to desk drawers, and covered his ears with pressed fingers; but he enjoyed the ka-WHOOM of the safe blowing.

He stood. He walked through the smoke to the safe. Its doors were swinging on its hinges. He smiled. Perfect. He wouldn’t be needing the crowbar.

He glanced inside at the two bins of cash, tens and twenties, amid computer circuitry. The money could be gathered later. Right now he had two more safes to blow, the little night deposit safes which Nolan said would probably hold more money than Presto-Change-O, given the Christmas shopping season.

He put his tools back in the duffel bag and moved to the next safe and began again.

The explosion, the third of the night, was the loudest yet, and jarred Jon, who was out of hot chocolate and a little drowsy in the cab of the Leech Bros, truck. He decided there was no getting used to occasional explosions. No way not to jump in his seat.

A face appeared in the window next to him and he jumped in his seat again. It wasn’t an explosion, but it sure was surprising.

It was also Cindy Lou.

Her big blue eyes were red and puffy, apparently from crying, and she seemed about to cry again. Then she disappeared, hopped back down to earth, or anyway the pavement of the mall parking lot.

Jon rolled down the window and cold rushed in as he looked out, looked down at her. “What are you doing here?”

She was in the denim jacket again, which against this cold snap was no defense, and her hands were buried in its pockets, and her teeth were chattering.

“We gotta talk,” she said, looking up at him.

“Get in on the other side,” he said, and rolled the window back up.

He reached over and opened the door for her and she climbed aboard.

“It’s warm in here,” she said.

“But it’s a cold world, Cindy Lou,” he said. “How did you get here?”

“Walked.”

“From where? The Holiday Inn?”

She nodded curtly. Added, “It’s not far.”

“Why did you do that? Why are you here?”

She looked at him and her lower lip was trembling. The cold had nothing to do with it.

She said, “I’m afraid . . . I’m confused . . . I been up all night . . . thinking . . .”

He touched her nearer arm. “Cindy Lou—what is it?”

She gave him a look that was part innocence and all yearning. “Did you buy that bus ticket like you said? Or were you shinin’ me on?”

“I bought the ticket. One-way to L.A.”

She pouted. “I probably missed the bus. I already missed the boat.”

“It’s an open ticket. It’s waiting at the window for you. You can take the first available bus out.”

Firmly, now, she said, “I’m gonna use that ticket.”

“Good for you.”

She looked at her lap. “My daddy’s a terrible man. It’s a hard thing to know, but I know it. Part of me still loves him, and maybe that’s why I’m scared to stick around with him. Maybe . . . maybe I’d like it, if he did it to me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t either. Ah, shit, I don’t know what I think. I just know I gotta leave.”

“What’s going on, Cindy Lou?”

She squinched her face up. “Way after midnight, Lyle come back to the motel room. He was bleeding. He had me help him wash up some.”