The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Brick was irritated. Sure, he answered me. That's right. That's what I'm talking about. But what I've been wondering ever since is, Are we really that stupid? Is it true we can't even fool around with something like that without being picked up like a bunch of kids on Halloween?

  Looks like it, Guy said.

  Brick studied him appraisingly. Then he turned sideways in his chair, his back against one arm, legs over the other, and clasped his hands behind his head, gazing at the ceiling. He smiled reminiscently and said, Reno. Good old Reno.

  We nodded then, each of us, smiling a little; we'd all been in Reno the summer before and remembered it with pleasure. Guy and I have to work each summer; and Brick and Jerry decided to work too, so we could all spend that summer together. I think it was Guy who thought of Reno, and it seemed like a wonderful idea. We were all going to get jobs at the gambling casinos: as blackjack dealers, roulette croupiers, stickmen at the crap tables, or whatever. It was a way to make money, a way that would be fun, and a wonderfully romantic thing to come back to school having done. It would put all the boys who'd worked on road crews and the like completely in the shade. The day school closed we had driven off for Reno in Brick's car.

  Of course we didn't get the jobs we wanted, except Brick. All the places had long since hired their summer help, and they'd never have taken us on anyway. But Brick came from Chicago, and had hung around some, we discovered, in Chicago gambling joints. He actually had dealt poker and blackjack, and even worked at a crap table a little. Not as a regular job, but after he'd gotten to know the dealers they'd let him relieve them once in a while, during off hours, just for the fun of it. He hadn't even done much of that, but it was enough to let him talk himself into a morning-hour relief job at Harold's Club. Jerry and I ended up as bus boys in a cafeteria, and Guy pumped gas at a filling station. We'd all had a wonderful time, though. Reno's a gaudy, exciting place, a perpetual carnival during the summer, especially around rodeo time; and we were all going back there to work this coming summer, as soon as school ended.

  Remember Ida? Brick said, and we all grinned, and Guy looked embarrassed and pleased. Ida was in the floor show at the Riverside Hotel, a very nice, almost beautiful girl, who liked Guy. Guy liked her, and they might have had a good summer together, except that she was — actually — about a foot taller than he was. Guy did take her out a couple times, for drinks, getting seated as quickly as possible. But as he said, You can't date a girl sitting down all the time, and he quit seeing her.

  Remember Harold's Club? Brick said. We all nodded, and I could picture it in my mind, the most incredible sight I'd ever seen. It must be the biggest gambling establishment in the world: two immense floors and a smaller third floor, crammed with more gambling equipment than you ever before saw in your life. There's row after row, acres, of slot machines, a lot of them made for silver dollars; and I've actually seen people waiting in line to play them. And there must be scores of roulette, crap, poker, and blackjack tables, and at least three bars.

  Those bars, Jerry said, and shook his head in amazement. Remember the one that had real whisky trickling over a waterfall in a painted scene, and the other one with ten thousand silver dollars sunk into the top of the bar? The whole place just sparkles with color, chrome, and immense paintings of the West, on glass, lighted up from behind, and it's alive with sound — the gaudiest, busiest place you could imagine.

  Craziest place I ever saw, Brick murmured. People pouring in twenty-four hours a day.

  Yeah — Guy nodded — with electric eyes to open the doors for them and escalators to carry them up and down, to save all their strength for gambling.

  And do they gamble! Brick said. Every last one of them with a few dollars, or ten or twenty, a few hundred or a few thousand, to toss away.

  Quite a place, I said. It had fascinated all of us, and we'd spent a lot of time there, just wandering around and watching mostly.

  I say we're not that stupid, Brick burst out, and we stared at him, surprised, but I'll tell you why we went wrong. Not because we're stupid or childish, but because we just didn't have the feel of the thing.

  We waited, and Brick said angrily, What do we know about Brink's? Nothing! We've seen the armored truck around town, and that's all. He shook his head. You want to plan a thing like that; it's got to be something you've lived with. Something you're intimate with, and know, and really have the feel of. Figuring out how to rob Brink's was impossible — for us. Because for us it just wasn't real.

  I understood that, all right — now. But I wondered what Brick's point was.

  He sat there, hands clasped behind his head, waiting till he had our attention completely, the room silent except for the little murmur of chimney draft and crackle of flame. Then he said very softly, But who says it has to be Brink's?

  In chemistry, using a Bunsen burner, you turn the gas on full and instantly a sudden spike of blue-hot flame rises from nothing at all. That's how the emotion shot up in me then, because now I knew what we'd been waiting for, knew that what we'd started today wasn't finished, knew what Brick meant.

  Harold's Club, Jerry breathed in an awed whisper.

  Hot dog, Guy murmured.

  We know it! We've been there! Brick swung his legs to the floor, eyes glittering. We know it in our bones, we've got the feel of it, it's real! And we're going again! Why, we could pull it off!

  I just sat staring at Brick. An instant before, I'd have sworn I only wanted to forget this whole foolish idea, but now I knew better, and I sat looking at Brick a thousand times more excited than I'd been before — and in a new, very different, infinitely more serious way.

  Brick explained it. Leaning intently toward us, forearms on his knees, hands clasped before him, he said quietly, I've been made to look and feel like a fool. I don't like it, and I don't feel like taking it. Not from anybody, including myself. I nodded, staring; he was saying it for me. Because I'm not a fool. Brick's eyes were narrowed; he looked almost sleepy. I'm not a child, and I won't be slapped on the wrist and laughed at. He sat back in his chair. If I say I can do something, I can.

  And now I was no longer a kid who could dash out in the rain and follow an armored truck around without a second thought or knowing why. This was still a game, a project, call it what you like; but now it almost had a feeling of reality. Now it was somehow something to be approached soberly and thoughtfully, just as though we were actually going to do it. What had happened on Colonial Street had been lying on my mind like an indigestible lump; and now I knew, like Brick, what had been eating me ever since. Now I knew I had something to prove.

  So did Jerry and Guy. We didn't even have to discuss or debate this; we were thinking and acting in unison. Jerry said, We'll be there this month, and he said it thoughtfully; an afternoon had been enough for Brink's, but now several weeks weren't too much time.

  I know their routine for handling the money, Brick said slowly. I know where they keep it, and it wouldn't be easy to rob that place — don't ever kid yourself. But I honestly think it could be figured out.

  How? Guy said quietly.

  I don't know. That would depend. On the rest of your plan. How you figured to get away with it, how you planned to get out of Reno, and all that.

  Jerry was nodding in agreement, staring off to one side at the fire. I've read a lot of true crime, he said thoughtfully, and it's a funny thing. Sometimes it's a lot easier than you might think to rob a place and actually get out with the cash in your hands. The tough part is not getting caught afterward. I've read of many a holdup that was beautifully planned, but that's as far as the plans really went. All the guys thought of then was jumping into a car and running. A week, ten days later, they're caught, maybe three thousand miles away. Jerry glanced soberly at us. The way you rob Harold's Club depends on what you plan to do afterward. And on what you did before.

  Then he said something that made me feel, with a cold little thrill, that maybe he actually knew what he was talking about. Commit a crime
and you are chased two ways: the way you went, and the way you came.

  How do you mean? Guy said.

  Jerry looked at him, eyes bleak; he didn't look like a kid now. They don't have to follow you to where you went to if they can follow you back to where you came from. Leave a trail that leads back here, to Brick Vogeler, Al Mercer, Guy Cruikshank, and Jerome Weiner, and what good is a perfect crime and escape? You can't hide forever, and when you come out, if they've found out who you are, they've got you.

  Jerome Weiner, I said, I confer upon you the degree of Doctor of Crime.

  Magna cum laude, Brick said.

  Jerry just nodded. So the first thing to work out is, How to we reach Harold's Club without leaving a trail? How do we get to Reno with absolutely nothing that could lead them back here to us? The rest of our plans don't mean a thing till we figure that out.

  We were quiet for a few moments. Then I said, Plane? Each come on a separate flight, on different days, maybe. Each leave from a different city, even. I was thinking out loud; this was sounding good to me. Board the plane first, and get the last seat, so none of the other passengers sees even the back of your head all through the trip. Sit with your elbow in your lap and your face in your hand, as though you were asleep or airsick. Don't say a word more than necessary to the stewardess, or show your face more than you absolutely have to. Who'd have any reason to ever remember you?

  Brick nodded, and Jerry said, Okay; now follow it through. Harold's Club is robbed, and it's robbed by four men. That much the police will know. He folded one finger down on his palm. There's no practical way to disguise your height or general build. He bent a second finger down. So they'll know that much too. And no matter how we disguised ourselves, the very way we move and sound will give them our approximate ages. A third finger closed; then Jerry opened his hand, and shrugged, saying, So I think we've got to work with the fact that they'd have a pretty fair general description of us.

  He stopped for a minute, thinking. So what about arriving by plane? Assume we escaped, that they couldn't find us and had to start tracing back. I'll admit it would be quite a job questioning every plane and train crew that could have brought us in. Jerry glanced at each of us, impressing this on us. But Harold's Club would spend the money to do it. For them, even worse than the actual loss of the money would be having the place successfully robbed. They'd want us caught at any cost, as a warning that they can't be robbed with impunity. So this wouldn't be a little filling-station robbery; I think plane and train crews would be questioned, wherever they might be, and whatever the cost in man-hours and money.

  All right; suppose passenger lists of every flight into Reno for days back were studied, hundreds of names. Jerry's voice dropped in, warning. Half those passengers would be women. Of the other half, all men found to be older than, say, twenty-five, would be eliminated. Of the rest, they could eliminate all who obviously couldn't possibly fit our general descriptions. They'd get down to a few dozen names.

  Jerry was staring at nothing, thinking aloud, thinking hard. I think everyone on that list would be personally called on, by police or private investigators, all across the country. And when they reached us, we'd be in for some questioning about why we visited Reno, and what we did there. And that would be the beginning of the end; I wouldn't give a dime for our chances from then on.

  What about false names? Guy said.

  Jerry nodded. Follow it through. Practically all the passengers would have real names and could be located afterward. But say Brick flew in on flight seventeen from Saint Louis under the name of Roy W. Thompson. Okay. They couldn't find this Thompson, and that in itself would be a possible clue. Flight seventeen's stewardess would really be questioned now about that particular flight. She'd rack her brains trying to recall it and its passengers. There'd be a very good chance she'd draw a blank; she'd have had dozens of flights since; why should she be able to remember that one?

  But what if she could? Maybe that was the flight the pilot made a pass at her. And she'd remember it, and the big bulky redheaded guy asleep in the last seat, around twenty-two years old. And she could give a pretty accurate description of him. Enough, at least, to be worth printing up and posting in police stations and post offices everywhere in the country; especially since he was the only guy on the plane who couldn't be found for questioning. Jerry shook his head. We'd be in the position of just having to hope that someone wouldn't apply that description to Brick. And it wouldn't only be Brick. There are four of us; three more trails that might, finally, lead back to us. He was silent for a moment or so; then he added, A train trip is different in detail but basically the same. You don't give a name, but you're seen a lot more, by a lot more people, and for a longer time. It could provide the same kind of details that might conceivably lead back to us. It's unlikely, maybe, and the odds are with us. But it's a very real danger, and I wouldn't like it at all.

  Good, Brick said. You're doing fine, Jerr. Now what about driving? We wouldn't take a stewardess with us.

  Jerry shook his head, a little impatiently now. This will be a big case, remember. Harold's Club will see to that, believe me. And we're absolutely lost if we don't take that into account every step of the way.

  I suddenly realized that he had used the present tense, and my chest filled with pressure.

  This will get more work than many a murder. Police or hired investigators will work back over every possible way into Reno, and there aren't many. Every place we bought food, gas, a night's lodging, or anything else will be reached, with the same potential danger. No, sir, he said, I don't want to risk anything that could give them more than the absolute minimum: our heights, our builds, and approximate ages. Not a hint more than that, or of where we could possibly have come from.

  I've just seen the folly of evil ways and companions, Guy said. We can't fly into Reno, come in by train, or drive. I assume walking, going piggyback, or burrowing underground are all equally bad?

  Worse, Jerry said, grinning.

  Look, Jerr, Brick said. You're right, we've got to be careful, darn careful. But there comes a point where we have to take a chance, and that's all there is to it. Any danger that you're getting too theoretical? That you're after impossible perfection?

  Sure. Jerry shrugged, admitting it, then stared at the fire beside him. There's no perfect crime or plan. Luck will come into it, both good and bad. He shrugged again. With enough good luck, you could rob Fort Knox. And simple bad luck will ruin any plan. He looked up at us. But I say careful planning will cut the chances of bad luck to a minimum and give good luck all the chance in the world to happen.

  Jerry frowned and said, Look, fellows, I don't know exactly what we're doing, or think we're doing; offhand, I couldn't say. But if we're just daydreaming, we can dream we held up Harold's Club with cap pistols and then hid under a crap table and they didn't know where to look for us. You can have it any way you want, in a daydream. He moved his head, glancing at each of us, appealing for agreement. But a realistic plan for robbing Harold's Club in Reno, Nevada, means this: We've got to find a way to arrive in Reno right out of thin air. Impossible as that sounds. We've got to materialize in Harold's Club like ghosts, with not a shred of trail they can pick up and follow back to us. And for me, the fun of this, the thing that really gets me, is planning it realistically.

  Guy nodded, his eyes shining. Me too. From here on I'd like to plan this thing, and travel clear across the country right up to the Harold's Club entrance, exactly as though we were going through with it. And have the satisfaction of knowing we could have, if we'd really wanted to. He grinned in delight, looking around at the rest of us.

  Brick nodded, smiling a little, and so did I; we felt the same way. Then, for a few minutes, we all sat thinking, but nobody came up with any suggestions on how to cross the country like invisible men. So Jerry's remarks put a period to things. But I wasn't disappointed. The very fact that we were stumped seemed to make this more solid and real; I felt we'd at least made a star
t on a fascinating project, and the days ahead no longer looked dull and endless. I glanced at my watch, said, I've got a date, and stood up. Jerry and Guy stood too, Guy stretching.

  Brick nodded, and said, We'll get together tomorrow. Then we left, and like a student cramming for an examination every waking moment, I was already busy trying to dope out an answer to the problem Jerry had set for us as I walked to my room to dress.

  I met Tina at eight. It had stopped raining, and when we stepped out of The Bowl the air was cool and wonderfully fresh. As we passed out of the light from the store windows, into the dark, nearly empty stretch of Main Street sidewalk ahead, I glanced at Tina. She was tasting the freshly washed air, her eyes half-closed, chin slightly lifted, her nostrils flaring as she breathed it in; she looked wonderful.

  She was wearing a gray wool dress, a dark cloth coat nipped in at the waist, and a cute little gray felt hat. And she had her arm tucked snugly under mine, gently pressing my arm to her side. I could feel the little shifts and sways and slight changes of balance as she walked, and was absolutely aware of Tina Greylek in every least cell of my mind and body.

  We were just passing Stamm's Shoe Store, dark and silent. The entrance is deep, twenty feet back from the sidewalk between double display windows, and I stopped suddenly on the walk, turning toward it, Come here, I said, and Tina looked up at my face, puzzled and hesitating. But she saw I was serious; and we walked in, onto the white tiles that had “Stamm's Shoes” picked out in blue, then back into the darkness to the door; and I turned to her. Do something for me, Tina, I was frowning and anxious; this was terribly important. I want you to kiss me. Please; I want you to. She studied my face for a moment, then stepped close, lifting her arms, and I drew her tight to me and kissed her. I'd kissed Tina before, but I mean this exactly: This kiss was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened in my life. I didn't know where I was; I didn't know anything; there wasn't room for anything but the sensation of Tina wrapped in my arms, my lips on hers. Nothing like this had ever happened to me; you could have cut me in half and I wouldn't have known it.