The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Brick turned off the ignition, the wipers stopped, and we could hear the drizzle on the canvas top. We lit cigarettes and slouched down to watch. Nothing happened. Cars passed, their tires humming on the wet street, but nobody went in or out of that office, and after a while I was aware that my feet were getting cold.

  Finally Guy said, Right now, or at any time in the next fifty years, I could draw you an exact picture of the outside of Brink's office. For whatever good that will do.

  Jerry nodded slowly and said, Yeah. Then he turned to the back seat. I guess somebody ought to walk past and see what's inside. Maybe you, Al. You're the least conspicuous — in build and the way you're dressed, I mean.

  I was glad of an excuse to move, and I opened the door by the curb, squeezed out as Jerry leaned forward, then walked across the street.

  I strolled past Brink's and glanced inside, through the glass-paned door. All I saw was a little square corridor with concrete-block walls. At the left, in the little corridor, was a door leading into an office. I turned back, opened the street door, and stepped in. There was a foot-square glass panel in the inside door, greenish and heavy-looking. Facing it, in the inside office, I saw a girl at a desk, who looked up at me. I tried the door; it wouldn't open. The girl pressed a button on a gadget on her desk and spoke; her voice came through a loud-speaker over my head. Yes? she said.

  I asked her the way to the main part of town — there must have been a microphone in the little hall, though I didn't see it — and she told me. I thanked her, turned, and left. All I'd been able to see was her desk, another desk, unoccupied, and some filing cabinets; the office looked, all I could see of it, like any ordinary office.

  Outside I walked on to the corner, crossed the street, walked back to the car, and reported.

  No one said anything for a moment or so, and I think we all began to feel ridiculous. Then Jerry said, All right; we haven't learned a thing of any use here. So what? Patience is the big thing. Now let's find out what that truck does.

  That pepped us right up again, and Brick started the car, U-turned, and headed back for the heart of town. Then we toured the business streets, up and down, looking for the armored truck, for maybe forty minutes. Just as we were getting fed up with that, Guy spotted the truck parked a block off Main, angled in at the curb in front of the supermarket. Call me Ahmed Kah, the mysterious Arab! he yelled, and Brick swung into the street, and we parked half a block behind the truck, the motor running.

  Within a minute a uniformed Brink's man came out, carrying a canvas sack, another Brink's man a few paces behind him, gun in hand. The store manager, in his apron, carrying a broom, followed them out and said something; the man with the sack smiled and nodded, unlocking the back door of the truck with a key; the other man stayed on the sidewalk, watching. The first man climbed into the truck, closing the door behind him. Then he came out, slammed the door, and both men got back into the cab of the truck; the truck backed out, then lumbered away down the street.

  We followed. They turned right, then right again, and down to Main. On Main they parked at the Burkee Building; the two men went inside, the driver staying in the truck; we parked half a dozen cars behind. In ten minutes the two came out, this time with two canvas sacks; they put them into the truck in the same way as before; then they were off again.

  They stopped at the Savings and Loan Building, Stragle's Restaurant, a jewelry store, the Follett Hotel; and each time we trailed along, keeping several cars between us whenever we could, and parking when they did, half a block or so behind. In a way it was monotonous, and at the same time quietly exciting. I felt we were learning something, slowly assembling facts that, useless at the moment, would gradually shape up into a plan. I felt like the men in Jerry's story, careful, watchful, infinitely patient. And I discovered, slowly trailing that armored truck through the drizzle, that spying on people who don't know you're there has a quiet, tingling excitement of its own; it was fun like nothing I'd ever done before, and I felt tough, hard, and competent.

  We left the Follett Hotel, moved down Main, turned right. We saw the truck turn onto Colonial Street; it parked in front of O. W. Johnson & Son, neon-sign manufacturers. We parked very close to them this time, but just around the corner, the nose of the car edged into the cross-walk so Brick and Jerry could see them. The two men walked inside, as usual, and we waited. We weren't talking; no one had said much ever since we'd first spotted the armored truck.

  Then both doors of our car were yanked open simultaneously, and two black metal rods were shoved into the car. My mind was absolutely confused; I couldn't make myself get hold of what was happening. Stay just like you are. Don't move and you won't get hurt, a slow, tense voice said. The metal rods revealed themselves as shotgun barrels, with two men holding them; and now I saw their bright buttons and blue uniforms: police.

  You at the wheel — a cop's face appeared at Brick's side, red and tough, looking in through the open door over a gun barrel, eyes hard — turn off that motor, and do it slow. Brick's hand reached carefully out to the ignition key, turned it, and the motor died. Now get out, and keep your hands in sight. Very carefully, slowly as an old man, Brick slid out, then stood in the street facing the cop.

  Now you, the cop on the other side said to Jerry, and Jerry got out and stood on the sidewalk.

  Guy and I were next, and we stumbled out, stooping under the canvas roof, our hands up at our shoulders, palms out. Brick's cop brought him around with us; then we all stood huddled together on the corner of Colonial, a cop on each side, their gun barrels now aimed down at the walk. I saw a patrol car parked half a dozen car lengths behind us, a cop at the wheel, his face blurred behind the moving windshield wiper. The armored-truck man, the one who'd carried the sacks, was coming toward us, walking quickly.

  Now what do you think you're doing? Brick's cop spoke to all of us but turned to Brick for an answer.

  Brick's face had gone sullen. Not a thing, he said, looking squarely back at the cop; the cop was just about his size and build, I noticed.

  Don't give me that. The cop sounded dangerous. You've been following that truck around for an hour.

  What truck? Brick said, and I thought the cop might actually hit him, but now the uniformed Brink's man stopped beside us, glancing back at his truck.

  These the guys? the other cop said quietly; he was taller and younger than the other but not as broad.

  Yeah, the Brink's man said, and nodded firmly. Been trailing us for half an hour.

  The young cop's eyes flicked over us; I saw him glance at Guy's cap, and he shook his head in sarcastic admiration. I'll bet he's got a record as long as your arm. He nodded at Guy. He looks plenty tough. Then, quietly contemptuous, he said, You college boys?

  Before Brick could answer, I said, Yes, sir, and I said it meekly.

  All right, the first cop cut in. Now, what do you think you've been doing? If you feel like getting smart about it, it's all right with us. We'll take care of you, college jerks or not — he glanced at Brick.

  Again I answered, fast, It was just a gag. A joke. Something to do. We followed them around just pretending we were going to hold them up. I'd never in my life said anything more ridiculous. A few yards up and down the street three or four people had stopped in store doorways, watching.

  Hold them up, hah? The cop sounded grimly pleased.

  Not really, Jerry said anxiously. We weren't really going to do it or anything like that. We were just fooling around.

  That's right, said plump little Guy in his long yellow slicker, nodding earnestly, that foolish plaid cap bobbing up and down; he was laying it on thick. Honest, mister. He quickly corrected himself. Officer. He did fine.

  The look in their eyes grudgingly relaxed, and I knew they'd had to believe us. College boys, the big one said. You guys had to get out and work for a living, you'd quit acting like a bunch of babies. I could see he was sorry there wasn't going to be trouble, and he glanced at Brick, and as though making a last effor
t to stir something up, sneered, You a college boy too? But then he just turned away and said to the Brink's man, Well, what about it, Phil? You want to do anything?

  I don't know. The man shrugged a shoulder. I guess not. I'll have to make a report, though; I don't know what the company'll want to do.

  You got some identification? the young cop said. The cops were relaxed, bored and contemptuous now.

  We dragged out wallets and showed them enough — Student Athletic Association cards, chemistry-lab-fee receipts, and the like — to prove we were bona fide students at the college.

  All right. The young cop lifted his gun, ready to turn away. I guess we can find you if we need you. Now get out of here.

  Yeah. The other cop lifted his gun too. Go on back to your school and play with the daisy chain. I don't know just what he thought he meant by that, but the sneer in his voice was plain enough.

  We got back into the car. Brick started the motor and pulled away from the curb. I glanced through the back window; the tough cop was shaking his head disgustedly, the Brink's man and the other cop laughing at something the first cop was saying.

  For a block we didn't speak, Brick gunning the car straight ahead, hunched over the wheel. Then Guy said, Well, fellows, I'm going straight. Not because crime doesn't pay, but because I'd have drilled those cops in another second. If I'd only had a rod and knew how to use it. And killing cops is illegal. Jerry smiled sadly; I managed a smile too; and Guy snarled, I'm a cop hater, you hear me? They'll never know what a close shave they had, tangling with Greasy Thumb Cruik—

  Shut up, Brick said viciously.

  For a moment Guy stared at the back of Brick's head; then he slouched down and said quietly, Okay. You're right. I was just talking against the way I feel. Brick turned to him then, and smiled, and winked.

  Brick, let me out, I said. I'll see you guys back at the house. Brick just nodded, slowing the car; then he pulled in to the curb. I got out, muttering, See you later, and turned away.

  The drizzle wasn't much more than a mist now, and I walked off, hands in the pockets of my Navy jacket, hearing the car draw away behind me. I was going nowhere. I just wanted to be alone with the way I felt, letting my disgust with myself wash over me, not resisting, just walking through the semirain and taking it. I hadn't thought it was possible I could act so childish, and I felt inferior and diminished. I was physically a grown man, but I hadn't acted like one, and I deserved the contempt I'd gotten from men who weren't children. I felt humiliated; I felt ashamed.

  At Main I turned right without thinking about it; then I suddenly realized where I'd been going: to The Bowl. The Bowl is a college hangout on East Main, a soda-fountain, hamburger-and-sandwich place with booths along both sides. Every college has a place or two like it, I guess. And I was going to see Tina Greylek. I'm no psychiatrist, and if you told me I wanted to see Tina just then because I was really looking for a mother or something, I wouldn't argue it. All I knew now was that I had to see Tina; I just had to.

  She was there, just coming on duty, standing in the back room, one hip thrust out, both arms raised to her head, her fingers adjusting her starched cap in her hair. Esther, a thin, bitter-faced woman in her fifties who hated all college students, was just going off duty. There was only one customer, a man at the fountain eating a sandwich.

  Tina saw me and smiled, still working on her cap, and I flicked a hand, greeting her casually, and sat down in a booth. Then Tina walked in. The man at the counter looked up, stared, then beckoned, wanting something else, and I sat glaring at the back of his head. He was just a guy, in his thirties at that, but I could have knocked him off that stool because he was sitting there, watching Tina and getting that still, silent look every man who ever saw her gets on his face, and I could feel his thoughts reaching out toward her.

  She had a beautiful figure, but you can walk down any busy street and probably pass a girl with a beautiful figure and forget her in a half-dozen steps. But never Tina. She was not quite slim. At one and the same time she gave an impression of slimness — her waist was tiny — and buxomness too. Maybe her figure wasn't quite perfect; maybe it was even better than that. Maybe the unbroken swell of her hipline was just a breath more pronounced than beauty-contest standards, and the calf of her leg just the hint fuller that could make you think you were losing your mind. All I know is that Tina could, as she did just then, shift her weight to one leg, lean forward to write out a check, straighten, lifting an arm to tuck a pencil back in her hair — and you couldn't think of anything else.

  There's a reason for telling this; I'm not just talking for the pleasure of baring my soul. Tina was standing now, partly hidden by the end of the counter, but I could see one ankle, marvelously fine-boned and slim, flowing up in a gentle curve that suddenly swelled into the magnificent roundness of her calf. She reached for a fork, her weight on one foot, and under the sheer skin of her stocking the calf tensed, hard and firm, the delicate tendons of her foot springing into relief. She stepped back; her calf went smooth again, the tendons fading into unbroken silkiness; and once again, as so often with Tina, there was a blind instant when I wondered if I could stop myself from standing up, walking over, and grabbing her.

  It made things worse that I liked her. I mean, even if Tina had been a homely girl, I'd have liked her personally. She glanced over at me, smiling, telling me she knew I'd been watching, knew what I was thinking, and was laughing, teasing me about it. But she wasn't taunting me; there's a big difference between Tina and many a girl. She was warm and alive, knew she was a woman, and saw nothing wrong with your knowing it too.

  She came over at last, sat down in the booth, across from me, said, Hi, and smiled. I answered, then sat frankly studying her face, realizing as always that it wasn't actually pretty, and that it was the most attractive face I'd ever seen. I think her eyes were the reason; they were big and gray, the whites very clear; they were friendly and knowing. Her hair was soft, gently waved, but an ordinary brown in color. As though by rote, I went through the same thoughts I had each time I saw her: that Tina's face made her real; that if it had been beautiful, she'd have been a movie star or something else as remote and inaccessible to ordinary human beings; but that as it was, Tina Greylek's face, only ordinarily pretty, intelligent, and human, made it possible to think that sometime, somehow—

  When do you get off? I asked.

  She glanced at her watch. At eight.

  I'm broke, I said. I've got a quarter and three pennies. But I've got to see you tonight. I mean, this isn't ordinary. I mean, even if you've got a date, Tina, you have to break it. You don't understand, it's hard to explain, but—

  All right, all right. She touched my arm to shut me off. I haven't any date; I'll be glad to see you. I'll want to eat dinner when I'm through, and not here, but I've got money for that. Enough for you, if—

  I shook my head. I'll have had dinner.

  Well, all right then; relax. She smiled. We'll do something; we'll find some way to spend your twenty-eight cents. What's wrong, Al?

  I shrugged and said, Nothing. A handful of kids from school came in then, and I nodded and spoke to them, and Tina got up. I stood too, then left.

  But on the way home I knew my date tonight was important. Without being able to put my finger on why, I had the feeling that today something had begun that wasn't finished; that several threads of my life were about to meet and join; that I was on the edge of change, big and important. It seems to me now that I already knew what would happen, walking home, but of course I didn't, though maybe l did in my bones.

  The house was full; fellows back from classes, jobs, play tryouts, basketball practice, all sitting around the living room waiting for dinner, reading papers or talking, a couple of them in the phone booth in the hall. I greeted them with a conventional insult, found part of the evening paper on the floor, and sat down to wait for dinner.

  Dinner was the usual pathetic meal, dried-out meat loaf this time. We all griped about it as usual
; two sophomores began throwing bread from one table to the other; and the fraternity president, Dick Pulver, bawled them out in his usual stuffy way. There must have been a look on my face, because then he asked me why I hadn't gone out for spring track, or play tryouts, or something: What good was I doing the fraternity?

  Brick, Jerry, and Guy were there; we'd simply nodded at each other in the living room, and we exchanged no significant glances during dinner. But when I saw that dessert was bread pudding, I walked out of the dining room, upstairs to Brick's room, and waited. A couple of minutes later Brick and Jerry came in; then we all sat waiting for Guy. Then Guy arrived, and Brick closed and locked his door. We'd said nothing about meeting, by word or look, but we were all of us there.

  Brick poked up the fire, got a flame or two, and laid new logs on. Then he took one of the chairs. Jerry had the other; Guy and I stretched out on the floor, backs against the fireplace.

  So far no one had said a word. Now Brick spoke quietly, almost cheerfully. Some night around town I may run into that cop alone. And if there's any trouble, of any kind, for any reason, I'm going to beat the — He told us what he would do to that cop, and I knew he meant it.

  Well — Jerry shrugged, not trying to talk him out of it, or even caring, just taking a different view — he was only doing his duty, as the saying goes.

  I don't give a hoot! Brick exploded. I don't care who's right or wrong. I'll beat that rat half to death if I get the chance! He sat glaring at us.

  I shrugged. It's been a long time, I said, since I've felt so stupid. I feel humiliated. Disgusted. I don't know at who or what, though. Myself, I guess.

  Guy looked at me from the other side of the fireplace, arms folded on his chest, and nodded in agreement.