by Jack Finney
My bright grin widened a little. Listen to me very, very carefully. As I leaned casually against the wall, my hands at the back of my belt, my lips were only a few inches from his ear, and I spoke softly. That man is my partner. Maybe you noticed that his hand is on his pistol. I was speaking slowly and distinctly. He is an absolutely first-class shot, a pistol expert. He'll shoot you in the back, he'll kill you in the next second, if you make one wrong move. I stopped and just looked at him, still smiling, giving him a moment to take in what I'd said. Then I said, Do you hear? Do you understand what I'm saying?
I hear you. His face was dead-pan.
Then listen. Don't look up at the ceiling, don't even glance at it, or you'll get that bullet; and believe me, I'm not fooling. Don't try to signal in any other way, either, or you'll get that bullet in the spine. And starting now — right now — you better start smiling, mister. Look at me, and smile. This is a friendly conversation, and that's what it better look like to anyone watching us. He just stared at me, and very softly I said, Smile, and was astonished myself at the viciousness in my voice; I was scared sick.
Slightly, feebly, he smiled, and I said, You can do better. I'm telling you, you'll be dead if—
He smiled. His eyes were deadly — watchful, wary, not frightened but very careful. But his smile looked the way it ought to now.
The first thing — still leaning against the wall, I brought one hand out from behind my back palm up and folded the little finger down on my palm — the first thing I've got to tell you is that you better remember this: From now on till I'm finished with you, don't speak to anyone by name. Absolutely no one. If somebody speaks to you, answer; but don't ever call him by name. Endlessly the crowd moved past us, some of them occasionally glancing at us, just out of the traffic stream there by the wall.
Why not?
Because — keep smiling, mister! — because I don't know their names, that's why. You call a guy Jim when his name is George, you call a girl Doris when her name is Mary, that may be all the signal you need to give. You understand me?
Yeah; why not? His tone was deliberately cool and contemptuous now; he was sizing me up.
I grinned at him and put my hand back into my belt, obviously helpless and wide-open to any move he wanted to make. Be a hero, I said. It's up to you. The guy in back of you will shoot. I'm telling you, mister, he won't mind at all; that's just why he's got the job. Myself — I shrugged — I probably wouldn't; I admit it. But that guy scares me, and I'm his partner. He'd like to shoot. I mean it, mister.
Okay, okay; what do I do?
Nothing much. Just push your cart straight ahead through the archway to the blackjack table on the other side of the escalator in the next room— Don't look at it, mister! His eyes turned back to me, and I said, Smile at me real friendly, and say, I'm glad to see you again, Charley.
I'm glad to see you again, Charley.
Wheel your cart around in back of the blackjack table, right next to the girl dealing. We'll be with you. This is what you say to the girl; get this exactly right, word for word. You say, Keep an eye on this; the boss wants me. That's all you say; then you walk away before she can answer.
The man in the white shirt shrugged. She'll think it's funny I'd do that.
She'll think it's funny, but she'll do it because you told her to. Remember, don't call her by name. I smiled, reached up to adjust my hat; and at that signal Guy stepped forward from the wall.
He moved casually, face bored, just one of the many hundreds of Rodeo Week tourists wandering through Harold's Club. He stepped idly into the crowd moving toward the archway ahead. I could see him, but the big man with me, his face turned toward mine, could not.
I waited a moment or so. If anyone was watching us, I wanted it plain, once we started toward the blackjack table in the room ahead, that Guy wasn't following us, that he'd moved first. Now do it, I said. Wheel this thing to the table, and I want you to turn and smile and say something to me on the way over. We'll be right at your back.
We walked ahead, the big man pushing his cart, me at his elbow half a pace behind, hands shoved in my belt behind me, my face friendly and smiling. A step or two and the man in shirt sleeves turned and spoke to me, smiling. What he said was. You're crazy, little boy; we'll shoot you down. I smiled in response. Moving toward the escalator and blackjack table beyond it. never looking at us, Guy was beside me, inches from the white shirt. Watching the big man, I knew he'd seen Guy from the corner of his eye.
He wheeled his cart into the next room, around the escalator, and behind the table, beside the girl dealer in her fringed vest; the escalator hid us from the room we had left. Shuffling the cards with casual expertness, the girl glanced at him, then began dealing, head cocked for whatever he might say. Keep an eye on this for me, he said to the girl. The boss wants me. She glanced at him, brows raised in bored inquiry. But he simply turned away, and the girl glanced at the cart and shrugged slightly, never interrupting her deal.
Moving away, back again toward the big room we'd just left, I said into his ear, Straight ahead to the Douglas Alley entrance. Keep smiling. Keep talking. Don't look at the ceiling. And don't even turn once to look at our friend behind you.
Why don't you walk out of here now while you can, sonny? And I promise you I'll forget the whole thing.
It's sure nice to see you again, I said fairly loudly. I didn't think you'd even remember me. This — right now — was one of the biggest gambles we were taking; we'd argued and debated it more than any other single point of our plan. Guy was no longer following us, no longer in back of us. He'd followed for a pace or two from the blackjack table; then he was to walk casually to a front entrance, step out, and saunter up until he was in sight of the trailer, whereupon he would idly adjust his hat before turning back to the casino. Half a block away, across the tracks, Jerry was to start the motor and pull out into Virginia Street.
So I was alone now. We couldn't hope to move through Harold's Club uninvestigated, we'd finally decided — an important employe with a bearded stranger at his elbow and another at his back. But if the man moved along with only me directly beside him, my hands in plain sight and obviously unarmed, the two of us smiling and talking, there was nothing for anyone to wonder about.
We had to gamble — I was gambling right now — that the man beside me would do as he was told.
We made our way across the room; once more I smiled and said, It's nice to see you again. I wasn't sure you'd remember me. I knew this man could grab me and break me in two before I could move a foot any time he wanted to, any time he turned and saw Guy wasn't there. I was so scared I was sick.
But my fear helped me. I yawn when I'm scared; a lot of people do. It has something to do, I once read, with your body's increasing the intake of oxygen in preparation for struggle. And so I yawned now, and several more times, as we moved across that big front room toward the side-alley entrance. They were big, genuine yawns; the man beside me stared in wonder the first time it happened. To him, and to anyone watching, I must have seemed a picture of unconcern.
No one stopped us. Together we reached the double wood doors at the Douglas Alley side entrance. The big man never turned his head a fraction of an inch; he kept a smile on his face, and I could see that his face was pale. He might or might not have been fully convinced that we'd put a bullet in his back, there in that crowded casino. But he wasn't sure enough we wouldn't to risk his life on the guess.
Now, at the doors, I reached an arm past him to push one door open, held it politely, smiling agreeably, forcing him to walk through first. This entrance, on Douglas Alley, is the least used of the half-dozen entrances to Harold's Club. On a side alley near the middle of the building, it cannot be reached from the outside without passing at least one other entrance; and most people coming into Harold's Club use the very first entrance they come to. Even today, as I'd noticed earlier — and we'd counted on this — it wasn't being used too often.
These too were the only do
ors that did not open directly onto one of the two alleys or Virginia Street. Instead they opened onto a small linoleum-floored vestibule. You crossed the vestibule, past two phone booths in a corner, then stepped through another set of doors before reaching the alley pavement.
Holding the door for the big man to step through, I was sick with fright. If they'd moved on schedule after Guy's signal, Brick and Guy would be waiting in the vestibule. Jerry, at the wheel of the car, would be around the corner in Lincoln Alley. But if Brick and Guy weren't there, if something had gone wrong, I didn't know what I could do — except try to crash past this man, bang through the outer doors into Douglas Alley, and run, I didn't know where; we'd planned for success, not failure.
He stepped through, with me almost treading his heels; the door swung closed behind us, and Brick instantly slammed the heel of his left hand into the white shirt, straight-arming the man back against the wall in front of the phone booths. Neatly taped to the glass of both phone booths I saw the signs we'd prepared: “Phone out of order.” Holding the man to the wall with his left hand, Brick raised the other; there was a small, rounded, leather-covered blackjack in his fist. Behave, he said softly, or I'll crack your skull. He smiled brutally. Speaking very fast, he said, Now, listen; people will be passing through here any moment, going in and coming out. When they do, smile. Smile, talk, look happy. He nodded at Guy. Give him that cigarette, Eddy. Silently Guy handed the lighted cigarette he had ready to the big man. Lean against the wall, Brick said. Get yourself comfortable. Every time anyone goes through here, smile and say, It's nice to run into you again. Then take a drag from that cigarette.
Brick leaned forward, bringing his eyes close to the big man's, boring into them. If you yell for help, he said quietly, we'll run. And you'll have saved your boss some money; he'll be that much richer. But just before we run — he slowly raised his right hand and the blackjack again — you get this. On the head. Just as hard as I can smash it into your skull. Brick smiled and shrugged. It might not kill you; I couldn't say. With his left hand Brick patted the biceps of his right arm. But I can hit hard, mister; you might end up a dead hero, with some bone in your brain. We all set now, Jack? You understand me?
The big man nodded, and I'll say this for him: He kept his eyes on Brick's, hard and tough, dragging on his cigarette, waiting. Then his eyes widened in utter astonishment. For the first time he'd had a chance to notice, over Brick's shoulder, the metal cart parked neatly beside the phone booths, out of the way of the doors. Apparently — and he couldn't believe it — it was the very same cart he'd left back in the casino, with the girl at the blackjack table, behind the escalator. There was no way he knew of that it could have gotten here, but I knew. At Guy's signal Jerry had swung car and trailer onto Virginia Street, driven to Douglas Alley, turned in, and stopped just outside these doors. Guy stood lounging there, waiting; and as the car stopped the trailer door opened, and Brick was pushing the little cart we had made out of the trailer. Guy grabbed the other end, and bumping open the doors they wheeled it into the vestibule to the place it now stood. Jerry, in the car, was already pulling ahead a hundred feet or so, turning the corner into Lincoln Alley, where he was waiting now beside the casino. I didn't know whether anyone had passed by in the alley or come in or out through the little vestibule during the ten or fifteen seconds it took to get the little cart in here; I was slowly crossing the room inside at the time, the big man beside me. If anyone had seen Brick and Guy then, the plan called for simply ignoring him, as though what they were doing were perfectly legitimate.
For perhaps ten seconds the big man studied the cart on the floor. Then his eyes narrowed; he glanced at Brick.
Brick smiled, nodding his head just as though the man had asked a question. That's right, Brick said, it's a duplicate. Not quite, though. Every last detail may not be exactly like your cart, and maybe you've noticed that it's larger, just a few inches longer, wider, and deeper. But it's close. When you push this thing through the crowd inside — and that's just what you're going to do, mister — nobody'll have any special reason to realize it isn't your regular cart. And I don't—
An inside door swung open into our vestibule, and a man and a woman stepped in. We were all standing precisely according to plan, so that no one was in the way of the doors. Brick and the man in the white shirt stood leaning side by side against the wall in front of the phone booths; Guy and I stood directly before them, my hand resting on the handle of the little cart. The couple walked past our little group, glancing at us with absolutely no interest, hardly seeing us, their faces set and angry.
—told you, the woman was saying bitterly, but no, you had to go and— They were out in the alley, the outer doors swinging closed behind them.
Instantly Brick continued. You're going to take this cart, wheel it inside, and on back into the cashroom just like you'd have done with your regular cart. With his thumb Brick indicated a neatly folded canvas sack lying inconspicuously on top of the cart. Inside the cash-room you're going to take all the bills but the ones and fives — everything from tens on up — and stuff them into that sack. You'll take everything, understand, but fives and ones; there's room in that sack; don't come back saying there wasn't. All you say, inside the cashroom, is that the boss wants the money, wants it quick, and sent you to get it. If anyone is curious and wants to know why, you just shrug; you don't know and don't care. Then tie the sack, put it on top of the cart, and wheel it out of the cashroom again. You got that? You understand?
The big man shrugged. Sure, he said calmly, taking a drag on his cigarette.
Brick smiled. Maybe you're wondering, he said softly, why you should do all that, once you're in the cashroom?
Again the big man shrugged. It crossed my mind.
I was still standing, according to plan, beside the little cart, one arm and hand resting casually on the handle bar, the hand hidden by my body from the big man's sight. My thumb rested on a tiny metal stud on the inside surface of the tube-metal handle.
Well, Brick said, enjoying this, meet the other member of our little group. My thumb pressed down, and the little stud moved a fraction of an inch.
Inside the little cart current flowed from the brand-new six-volt automobile storage battery through the converter, and the magnetic tape moved on its reel. Jerry's recorded voice, harsh and grating, said jeeringly, Glad to meet you, mister. I hope I don't have to kill you.
The big man's jaw actually dropped. He simply stood for a moment, staring down at the cart. Then his mouth closed, his jaw tightening, and he deliberately studied the cart, eyes narrowed and moving over it. Then he turned questioningly back to Brick. My thumb had released its pressure; the magnetic tape was motionless again.
Brick nodded slowly. That's right, he said. You'll have company inside the cashroom, friend, and every step of the way there and back—
An outer door opened and two girls in their twenties stepped in, then stopped, looking at us. They seemed, confused; obviously they'd expected to step directly into the casino instead of this vestibule.
Guy smiled at them and touched his hatbrim politely. Straight ahead, girls, and they'll relieve you of your money quickly and painlessly. As he spoke Guy let his eyes rove boldly over the girls from head to foot. One of them actually blushing a little, they thanked Guy quickly and pushed hastily through the door and into the casino.
Our friend will sit inside that cart, Brick said, smiling, and you're going to wheel him into the cashroom with you, and out again. Why will you do that? Brick nodded at me. Tell him, Louis.
Nodding down at the cart beside me I said slowly, The guy in there is five feet three inches tall; no bigger than a lot of jockeys. But we still had to make this thing a little larger than yours to give him room to move. He's a lot older than us; I won't tell you how old. And he's served time in a state penitentiary; I won't say which one. He's been out for a while, because he escaped.
Now listen to me, mister, I went on quietly. We've each got our job
s in this thing, and I'll tell you why he's inside that cart instead of any of the rest of us. First, he's a dead shot, and I'm not fooling about that. Second, he says he'll never serve time again. My thumb, on the tiny stud, moved a fraction of an inch, but I went right on speaking the words I'd rehearsed so many times. And I'll tell you this; I believe him. If there's anything I'm convinc—
The voice from the cart interrupted bitterly. Believe me, I'll never do time again; I'll shove this gun in my throat and pull the trigger — after I kill you, mister. I'll get you first, don't kid yourself.
My thumb relaxed on the stud, and I shook my head, my face worried and tense, staring into the big man's eyes. My voice pleading, I said, Listen, Jack, he means it, believe me. I want to get out of this and away — clean. I don't want anybody hurt. If you ever listened to anything in your life, listen to this. He'll never do time again; he means that; I know. He'll kill you, then kill himself. I know him, and that's the truth. He's a nice guy, I said hastily, and my thumb moved on the little stud, one of the best. From inside the cart came a low, malicious chuckle, and I released the stud. But he scares me, and he's the last guy in the world I'd ever cross. For a moment longer I simply stared into the big man's eyes. Then I sighed, implying that I'd done my best, and if he didn't recognize good advice when he heard it, it was his funeral now.
The big man didn't answer, and I went on. This cart's a little different from yours. All around the sides — I pointed — is an open slit. It isn't wide; you can see that. It's only two inches, but that's enough — plenty — so that he can see you all the time. I pointed to the top of the cart. These open louvers, I said, aren't particularly noticeable to anyone glancing at the cart, but they're there just the same. He'll be watching through them too. He can see you all the time; any false moves — I shrugged — and you've had it. Now, get this. The top isn't fastened down. All he has to do is stand up. The top falls off and he's standing there shooting — at you. He can push any one of the sides and it'll fall right out. You can't trap him in there; you can't keep him in there, from the moment he decides to kill you. You following me, mister? I pressed the stud. You getting this?
