The Green Eagle Score (11 page)

They were ready to go at ten to five. They all got aboard the bus except Stockton, who opened the garage doors. The doors had been padlocked shut, but Parker and Fusco had sawn through the padlocks so they could be removed and then replaced to look as though they were still secure.

Those in the bus slipped on their tunics and settled in seats, all toward the front. Webb got behind the wheel, started the engine, which sounded deceptively ordinary, and backed the bus out into tree-dappled sunlight. Stockton shut the garage doors and replaced the padlock while Webb turned the bus around, then came over and climbed aboard, but didn’t put his tunic on yet.

The trip down the dirt road was painfully slow, Webb being careful not to rattle the goods inside the bus too much. The toy cartons were now on the floor unobtrusively near the back seat, surrounded and hidden by the musical instruments: snare drums, electric guitar and amplifier, tenor saxophone, three or four others.

Near the exit to Hilker Road, Webb stopped the bus and Stockton got out and continued down on foot. He was just barely in sight when he stopped, and they waited for the arm signal from him that would mean no traffic in sight in either direction.

It was a couple of minutes before it came, and then Webb slid the truck down the last several yards, slewed out onto the paved roadway without touching the brakes, and Stockton swung up through the open door as the bus rolled by him. Webb tapped the accelerator and they surged forward, running south.

It was a five-minute run to the South Gate. There was talk among Kengle and Stockton and Fusco on the way, but when Webb made the turn off the road and slowed to approach the gate the talk inside the bus died away and tension clogged the air like a heavy fog. It was ten after five.

Webb stopped at the gate, slid his window open, and shouted at the AP just outside. “Which way to the Officers’ Club?”

The AP said something. Webb, playing it stupid, said, “Hah?” and the AP said it again. Webb said, “Hold it,” turned his head, and shouted toward Parker, loud enough for the AP to hear: “He says he wants to see some authorization.”

Parker took the letter out of the inside pocket of the sport jacket lying on the seat beside him. He walked up to the front of the bus, handed the letter to Webb, and Webb handed it out to the AP, saying, “This what you want?”

It had better be. The letter was written on legitimate Officers’ Club letterhead stationery, stolen last Friday by Devers. It was addressed to Sheehan & Wilcox, a legitimate booking agency in New York City as gotten out of the phone book; it was signed by Major J. Alex Cartwright, which was the legitimate name of the officer in charge of the Monequois Air Force Base Officers’ Club; and it requested the appearance of Ernie Seven and the Four Score for a one-night appearance at the Monequois Officers’ Club on Wednesday, September 30th, at terms already agreed upon in prior correspondence. “This letter,” the letter concluded, “will serve as authorization for the group’s entrance onto the base on that date. We expect them no later than five p.m.”

Parker watched through the window until he thought the AP had just about finished the letter, and then he leaned down past Webb and called, “Buddy, we’re late now. Can we go through?”

This was the tricky part. If the AP let them through they’d be all right. If he insisted on checking with Major Cartwright at the Officers’ Club the only thing for them to do was back-out of the slot, turn the truck around fast, and get the hell out of there.

The problem was the bus. They needed a vehicle in which to get the goods off the base, and if they used Devers’ Pontiac, it might be traced to him later. Gate guards would be encouraged to remember what vehicles left the base in the time immediately after the robbery. To simply steal a truck from the motor pool was no good unless they intended to crash out through the gate, which they wanted to avoid; they needed half an hour anyway in order to lay a false trail and get themselves to ground. So they had to have a vehicle with papers, even if the papers were false.

Which meant, before they could get the vehicle off the base, they would have to somehow get it on. Which was why all this.

Including a letter that indicated they were already ten minutes late. Over on the exit side, the gate was crowded with people who’d gotten off-duty at five o’clock. The AP should have his hands full now, the letter should convince him, the time element of their being late should encourage him to speed them through.

Maybe.

The AP frowned at the letter, squinted up at Parker and Webb in their gold tunics, looked at the banner on the side of the bus, looked at the musical instruments and the other gold-tunic’d passengers he could see through the windows, and finally said reluctantly, “I didn’t hear anything about you guys.”

“It’s just a one-nighter for the big wheels, buddy,” Webb said.

Parker said, “You want to see some identification? Driver’s license? Registration?” He was ready with both, in the name of Edward Lynch, one of several sets of false papers he’d picked up here and there over the years.

Still frowning, still hesitant, the AP looked at the letter again. Then the other AP, over on the other side, called something impatient to him, and he said, more to himself than Webb and Parker, “I guess it’s okay.”

“Sure it’s okay,” Webb said. “Unless we get there too late.”

“I’ll get you a pass,” the AP said, and walked into the shack.

Moving casually, Webb moved the shift lever into reverse. But when the AP came out, he had a square oblong of green cardboard in his hand.  “Display this in the windshield,” he said, handing it up to Webb. “And you’ll have to turn it back in when you leave.”

“This is yours,” the AP said, and handed the letter up to Webb.

“Thanks, pal. Now all we need is where’s the Officers’ Club.”

The AP pointed the direction they were headed. “Straight down that way to G Street, then right. You can’t miss it, it’s the big building with the stained-glass front.”

“Stained-glass front. Ain’t that nice. Thanks again, pal.”

Webb handed Parker the letter, put the bus in gear, and they rolled through the gate and onto the base.

Parker went back and sat down. Webb drove straight until he reached G Street, and then turned right, as the AP had said. After he made the turn, Parker and the others slipped out of their tunics and put on ties and jackets in their place. Webb kept the tunic on until he parked the bus on the cross-street between the Officers’ Club on the right and the NCO Club on the left, then he too switched to tie and jacket, while Kengle and Stockton got out and removed the banner from the back of the bus. A few people walked by, in both uniform and civilian clothing but no one paid them any attention.

When Kengle and Stockton were back aboard, Webb started the bus again and drove it into the Officers’ Club parking lot, putting it down at the far end, in the shade of a thick-trunked tree, one of the few trees left on the base. The other banners, tied by string to small hooks protruding from the sides of the bus, could be removed from inside by people reaching out the windows. They untied both banners, pulled them in, and rolled them carefully so as not to smear the writing on them. Then, one at a time, they left the bus and strolled across the parking lot and out to the street.

Parker went next to last, leaving Webb to lock the bus after him. It was starting to get dark with that fast-falling evening of the north country in the autumn, and about one passing car in three already had its parking lights on. Parker crossed the street and went up the walk and into the NCO Club.

Devers had said there was never any ID check at the door of the NCO Club, since the name was a misnomer. “Every base is supposed to have an airman’s club,” he’d said, “for the lower four grades, but I’ve never been on a base that does, and where there’s no airman’s club the NCO Club is open to all enlisted men. So when even Airman Basics can get into the NCO Club there’s nobody left to keep out, so there’s no check at the door.”

Devers was right, there was no one there. Parker stepped inside, into a large red velvet area that could have been the lobby of a recently built theater or of a small resort hotel. Devers had told him the bar was to the left and the dining room to the right, so he went to the right along a broad hallway that continued the red velvet motif and emptied into a large rectangular dining-room, full of tables with white table cloths. At the far end was a raised platform containing a shrouded piano. Only about a quarter of the tables were occupied, mostly by men in civilian clothing. One table had four women in blue WAF uniforms, looking like chunky truck drivers.

Stockton and Kengle were at a table midway down on the left, Fusco at a closer table to the right. Parker went over and sat down with Fusco, who said, “No menu yet. That’s the kind of service you get.”

“We’re in no hurry,” Parker said. He was facing the entranceway, and a minute later saw Webb come strolling in and go over to join Stockton and Kengle. He made no sign toward Parker, which meant everything was as it should be. If there was trouble he would have managed to let Parker know it.

The waitress showed up a while later, gave them menus, took their drink orders, and left. They took their time over dinner, and then sat with drinks afterward. They drank slowly and sparingly, needing to be at their fastest and most alert later on tonight.

About six-thirty Devers came in, in civilian clothing, with three other young men about his age. They sat in a corner table and drank beer and talked urgently together. Devers never looked toward Parker nor the other table, and he drank much more slowly than his friends.

A little after eight, Parker paid the check and he and Fusco left. Devers had showed them on the map how to get from the NCO Club to the movie theater, and they strolled in that direction now.

The problem was, the rush-hour confusion around five o’clock was the best time to bring the bus in—and any arrival much later than seven would have caused suspicion anyway—but that meant they had a long time to kill before they could go after the money and leave the base again. Part of it could go to dinner, and now some more of it would be spent in a movie.

The base theater had two showings of its feature, one at eight-fifteen and one at ten-fifteen. There was a line when Parker and Fusco reached the theater at eight-ten, and they joined it. When they got their tickets and started inside they saw Webb and Stockton and Kengle just getting on the end of the line.

There was a cartoon and then the feature. It was a musical comedy, and Parker sat there and looked at the bright colors and listened to the sounds and paid it all only the slightest attention.

They cleared the theater after each showing, so they had to get back on line and pay a second time to see the movie again. This time the other three were ahead of them in the line.

Parker paid just as little attention to the movie the second time, hardly recognizing it as something he’d just seen. When it was done and the lights went on, his watch read five minutes past twelve.

It was a six-block walk back to the bus. Parker and Fusco got there first, and stood waiting for the others to come and unlock it. The Officers’ Club was going strong, and where the parking lot had been almost empty before now it was full. A white MG squatted beside the bus, which was almost invisible now, its bright blue of the daytime now blending with the darkness.

The others showed up a minute or two later, and Webb unlocked the door. They climbed aboard and kept the bus in darkness. Parker changed out of his tie and jacket, putting on the long-sleeved high-neck black sweater in its place. Around him the others were putting on similar clothing, black and clean-lined, with no extraneous lapels or flaps.

Parker broke out the guns. There were two machine guns, stripped-down Stens, partly disassembled to fit into their boxes. Parker reassembled them in the dark, handed one to Kengle and one to Stockton, and then got out the pistols, all snub-nosed .32s, two Smith & Wesson, one Firearms International and one Colt. He took the Colt, gave Fusco the FI and Webb one of the S & Ws, and put the other S & W aside for Devers.

Next he got out and handed around sets of rubber gloves, the kind women use when they wash dishes. These were pale blue, which were less bright in the dark than either the yellow or the pink that were the only other choices. It was advertised that with these gloves on you could pick up a dime. You could also hold a gun and pick up four hundred thousand dollars.

There was a quick knock at the door. Webb opened it and Devers swung up and in. He too was in dark clothing, and when Parker handed him a revolver and a pair of rubber gloves he whispered, “Stage fright gone.”

“Good,” Parker said.

Next came the hoods, black cotton bags made from dyeing pillow cases and cutting out eyeholes. Each man stuffed his hood under his sweater, to keep it out of the way until it was needed.

Last were an Air Force fatigue cap and fatigue jacket. Webb put these on, everybody else sat out of sight on the floor, and Webb started the engine. He drove out of the parking lot and made his way slowly across the base.

It was ten minutes to one when he came to the finance office. The street was fairly well lit, and empty. There were lights on the second floor of the building, and an AP in a white helmet was marching back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the building with a carbine on his shoulder.

Devers, peeking out the window, whispered, “Is that a dumb way to guard a place? If they had him stand in front of the door they’d make a lot more sense.”

Webb whispered back, “That isn’t the Army way, my boy.”

They were almost even with the marching AP now. When they reached him, Webb hit the brakes. The building and the AP were on the right side of the bus. Webb opened the door from the handle by the steering-wheel, leaned far over, and called, “Hey, buddy! Which way to the Motor Pool Receiving Depot?”

There was no such thing. The AP looked, saw a blue bus—like any Air Force bus, if somewhat brighter and cleaner than most—saw a driver in Air Force fatigues leaning over toward him, gripping the steering-wheel for balance, and saw nothing else to make him wonder or question. Still with the carbine on his shoulder, he took a step closer and said, “What was that?”