The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  As we rode down out of the hills toward Reno, the town lay spread before us, miles ahead. I nudged Tina and she followed my gaze: A tiny gray-blue dot hung high in the sky over the city, the Harold's Club balloon. There incredibly — in sight of every soul in Reno — a fortune hung in the sky. I smiled, shaking my head at the thought, and Tina smiled too. But I saw the fear back of her eyes again, and as I continued staring at that speck in the sky I felt my smile fading. I hated to be going back toward it and all it meant and threatened. I had all I wanted right here; yet now I knew that maybe I didn't have it at all and was on my way to losing it forever.

  We had lunch at Walgreen's. I bought a razor, shaving soap, and a toothbrush, and walked south toward the Truckee River Bridge beside the Mapes Hotel. I took my time; I was to be there at three and still had eight minutes. Ahead on the bridge I could see the usual handful of people fishing: several old men and three or four boys. The Truckee is a swift, tumbling stream rushing down from the mountains; and in the spring and early summer, the snow still melting, it's several feet deep; people often catch trout from it, right there in the heart of Reno.

  I sauntered slowly along Virginia Street, then onto the bridge, keeping on the west side of the street. Leaning on the wide stone railing, I glanced down at the rushing white water below me, then turned to gaze casually across the street. Brick was there, lounging against the railing, watching the fishers. His eyes passed over me, and I knew he'd seen me. We were neither of us, according to the plan, to cross the street to the other unless one of us had something absolutely necessary to say; if there was nothing vital to communicate, I was to walk on after a minute or so. Each day we were to show up on the bridge at a different time, following a schedule we'd memorized.

  If I had a message for the others, I was to give it to Brick — two strangers in casual conversation. Then he'd make a phone call, or pretend to, from a phone booth, and leave a note stuck with gum to the underside of the little shelf; otherwise he wouldn't go near that booth. Each day, twenty-five minutes after Brick and I were scheduled to meet, Jerry would walk into that phone booth. If there was no note, he'd pretend to look up a phone number, then leave. If he found a note, he'd read it quickly, then dial a number. Guy would be waiting at that number — in another phone booth somewhere in town — the phone already at his ear, the telephone cord wrapped around the pronged phone hook, holding it down. If the phone rang — if Jerry called him — he was ready to let that hook rise the very instant it rang and listen to Jerry's message. If it didn't ring within three minutes by his watch, he'd leave. Neither Brick, Guy, nor Jerry was ever to use the same phone booth twice in a row; again they'd memorized a list, then destroyed it, of a dozen or so phone-booth combinations to be used in the plan.

  Once again, later in the day, we were to follow the same scheme — in reverse. Messages could pass, in the first meeting, from Tina and me to Brick, to Jerry, to Guy. The second time, messages could move in the opposite direction from Guy to Jerry, to Brick, to Tina and me. The beauty of the plan was that we none of us, except Brick and me, talked to each other, or even saw each other, unless we had something essential to say.

  Right now I knew I ought to walk on. Exactly what had happened last night to Brick, Guy, and Jerry didn't matter now, so long as they were safe. And if they weren't safe, Brick would be crossing the street to tell me. Nor did it matter to them now what had happened to me. I obviously hadn't been caught, and if I didn't try to talk to Brick they'd know everything else was okay. But I crossed the street just the same.

  On the other side one of the boys had caught a fish, and using that as an excuse I strolled over, smiling a little, my eyes on the boy trying to take the squirming fish off the hook. Watching him, I leaned on the stone railing next to Brick; after a moment I turned casually and said, Some fish, and smiled.

  Yeah. He nodded.

  Still watching the boy, still smiling, I said, What happened?

  Jerry was parked right where he should have been. Brick spoke very quietly, a polite little smile on his face, apparently discussing the tiny fish. Guy and I got in the trailer okay, changed our clothes according to plan, and were sitting waiting for you. Brick yawned and glanced casually around; no one was paying any attention to us. A patrol car stopped right beside Jerry. He almost died; he thought we'd had it for sure. Brick smiled genuinely. But all that happened is that the cop told him to move on; he couldn't park in the alley. Jerry tried to argue. He told the truth, said there was a friend inside who'd be out in a minute, but it was no dice. We had to move on, that's all that happened.

  I shrugged and said nothing, staring at the fishers again. We'd thought that could happen; we'd talked about it. And we'd decided it was simply a risk, a calculated risk we'd have to take; there was no way to avoid it. There wasn't too much chance, we figured, that anyone would bother us in the twenty minutes or so we'd have the trailer in the alley. It had happened, though; and it could have been worse. It could have happened just as I'd come popping out with that sack in my hand.

  Soon as we got out of the alley, Jerry parked on Second Street, jumped out, tore around to Virginia Street, and walked straight into Harold's Club to warn you, in case you were still standing there waiting. But by that time you were gone, no telling where, and there wasn't a thing he could do for you. He was right there when the uproar broke loose in the casino, and he got out fast; there was no way he could help you, wherever you were. Where were you?

  I didn't answer. I just nodded and smiled, as though he'd said something amusing about the boy's fish; the kid had the fish off the hook now and was arguing with another kid about whether it was big enough to keep. What happened in the casino? I said.

  The guy with the cart did a pretty smart thing, something none of us thought of. Jerry saw him do it, standing back in the crowd where the guy couldn't see him. The guy was standing waiting; you were gone. He had both hands on the handle of the cart, and there was a moment when the floor right in front of him happened to be pretty clear of people. Then he heaved hard on that handle. He gave the cart a yank, full strength, and the thing spun like a top on those swivel wheels. Jerry says the guy spun it so hard it was just a blur, skidding across the floor, with people skipping out of the way like crazy. If there'd really been a guy inside that cart, his brains would have come out of his ears, and he couldn't possibly have shot a pistol or anything. The cart smacked the corner of a crap table so hard the cart almost went over, and the guy in the white shirt dived behind a table and started yelling about a man inside the cart; people just stood there staring at him for a few moments like he was crazy; they didn't know what was happening. Brick smiled. Jerry did, though, and didn't wait for any more. He walked out fast, came back to the trailer, and drove on. If you'd still been in Harold's Club he'd have brought you along with him. As it was, all we could do was hope you'd make out all right, and we went on according to plan. We dropped the disguises and pistol into a gutter, and when the night train from Chicago came in I walked into the depot with the passengers, met the ranch owner, and he drove me out to it. We'd dropped Guy off near the ‘Y’ — he has your suitcase, by the way. No way to get it to you, though.

  I know. I bought new things.

  Jerry was to ditch the trailer and car, then go to his boardinghouse. Now, what happened to you?

  We'd been talking long enough, and I said so, adding, I got away okay, and that's all that counts.

  You sure you weren't spotted?

  I'm sure.

  Where's the money?

  It's safe; don't worry, I said shortly. His eyes narrowing at my answer, Brick looked at me hard, but I just smiled and nodded at the kids sitting on the railing with their fishlines. Well, I said brightly and fairly loudly, they do a lot better than I would at that. I smiled politely at Brick — two strangers concluding a casual conversation; but I stared him in the eye, letting him know I had no intention of telling him where the money was. Then I walked away.

  In the room with Tina th
at afternoon, I felt safe. Our landlady believed we'd arrived that morning, if anyone asked her. And Tina had told Mrs. Kressman, when she left, that she just couldn't go through with her divorce and was going back home to try again. That had happened before among Mrs. Kressman's guests, and she just wished Tina luck and didn't question it. But more than those facts, it was so wonderful and beyond belief there with Tina, we were so marvelously alone and shut off from the world, that I couldn't help feeling nothing could get in and touch us. I knew the police had had time now, a lot of time, to do whatever they were going to, to find us; and that if we were going to be caught, it had to come soon. I hated to leave that room.

  We had to, though; it was natural for honeymooners to spend a fair amount of time in it but not all the time. After dark Tina left, to buy sandwiches and milk shakes; and twenty-five minutes later I met her at the corner of Fourth and Evans, well outside the bright-lights district. Then we walked on under the trees along the quiet street to the north end of town and the University of Nevada campus. I didn't know whether this really mattered, but it seemed wiser for us to keep out of the gambling center of town.

  The campus was dark and deserted, full of the summer smell of fresh-cut grass. There's a little stream winding through it, and we sat beside it under a tree, well back from the walks, had our supper, and talked; and an odd thing happened.

  We both wanted children, and we talked about that; then we talked about the kind of house we wanted, what it should be like for the children's sake, and so on. And after a while I realized we were both referring to when we can afford it, talking as though we didn't have a dime, as though the Harold's Club money didn't exist. But it did. We had robbed Harold's Club, and the fortune we'd stolen was there in the darkness over Reno this moment, and now I knew what Tina and I had been doing. Unconsciously we'd been pretending a false normality, a future like anyone else's. And then it hit me that for us a future didn't yet exist, that even the present was only an illusion.

  For Tina's benefit I tried to laugh that feeling away, and pretty soon we were chattering once more; but we never again referred to the future.

  We drove to Mount Rose and to Lake Tahoe next day; I rented a car. We had just over a hundred dollars left — Tina's savings — and we were going to have a honeymoon as long as seventy-five of those dollars lasted; then we'd find jobs there in Reno and wait out the time.

  You can't describe a honeymoon, of course. In Reno the temperature was 93°, but in less than thirty minutes we were standing on a six-foot snowbank on the crest of Mount Rose, ten thousand feet above sea level. We had lunch at Cal-Neva Lodge, sitting at a window overlooking Lake Tahoe; and that lake, ringed with pine trees, is so blue and beautiful it looks almost artificial; anyone would have enjoyed it, and we were on a honeymoon. I couldn't get over the wonder of being married to the girl beside me, and I thought that for this a man ought to be willing to pay any price. But he isn't; he's greedy and wants more and more of the same, forever. Underneath everything I thought and felt lay a dark, ignored little pocket of dread, together with a feeling that nothing could happen. We were too happy; nothing could break through that and touch us, nothing can happen to a man and woman on their honeymoon.

  At two-fifteen, annoyed at the need for interruption, I walked onto the Truckee River Bridge again, the east side this time, near the Mapes Hotel. A man in overalls stood fishing near the north end of the bridge, and I stopped near him, watching idly. Brick was across the street, and since I had no news to pass on I turned and stood looking down at the water, ignoring him. If he didn't come over in the next minute, I'd leave, and glad of it.

  Brick appeared; a half-dozen steps from my side, he stood leaning against the rail, facing the street, staring absently at the passing traffic. I didn't believe he had any real message; he was itching to know where the money was, I felt certain, and I smiled. He wasn't going to find out.

  Cars passed; more of them with California licenses, I noticed, than Nevada. Pedestrians crossed the bridge. From the Mapes two young men walked toward us and passed, talking. They both wore identical black pants, white shirts, bow ties, and gray coats with long unnotched lapels: members of the hotel band, I imagined. Three thin-legged grade-school girls went by, actually skipping every few steps, hot as it was. In a gray suit and felt hat a short, stout, placid-looking man of early middle age, looking like a youngish grandfather, strolled toward us, an eight- or nine-year-old boy holding his hand. The kid gazed around him eagerly; the man looked bored.

  Brick hadn't made a move, and I wasn't going to wait forever. Absently watching the fisherman, I decided I'd leave in a few seconds. The kid with the grandfatherly-looking man raised his arm and pointed, not quite at but just past me, and said something to the man. The man stooped and replied, and the boy nodded eagerly and pointed again. That's him! he said excitedly, I know it is! and the man took a pistol from his shoulder holster and aimed it at Brick from waist level, walking toward him all the time.

  Don't move, mister, the stout little man said quietly, his eyes steadily on Brick. Take it easy, if you know what's good for you. With his free hand, he pushed the boy in back of him, sheltering him with his body.

  My mouth gaping, I could only turn and stare. Brick stood just as he had, facing the street, his back at the bridge rail. But his hands at his sides were flat on the rail, his body tense, as though he might shove himself forward, hard, at any instant. Then he relaxed, his shoulders dropping, and raised his hands, palms outward; they were trembling. Easy with the gun, he said, and he was scared. I'm not moving.

  The man with the gun spoke to the boy behind him, his eyes never leaving Brick; he'd stopped a good six feet away, where Brick couldn't reach him without stepping toward him. You sure now, Bobby? Take a good look; don't be wrong about this.

  I'm sure! The kid was peeking out at Brick. That's him; I remember, all right; that's him!

  A black patrol car pulled smoothly to the curb, and two cops in the front seat slid out, one on each side of the car, moving casually but swiftly. They walked up to Brick, and then, one on each side, they held him, each with an arm linked through Brick's, the other hand holding his wrist. The man in gray put away his gun, and the boy stepped out from behind him, staring at Brick, fascinated, nodding his head all the time.

  Okay. One of the cops started to move forward. Let's go.

  Wait! Eyes desperate, Brick stared at the little man in plain clothes; and the cops waited, watching Brick's face. On both sides of the bridge pedestrians had stopped dead and were staring; in the street the cars barely moved, everyone in them staring out too, mouths open. I had sense enough to realize that leaving would be the most unnatural thing I could do, and I couldn't have moved anyway. Listen, Brick said to the little man, his voice low but frantic, would it help any if I got you the money back? If you recovered it all? I stared, wondering what sort of desperate bluff this was.

  The plain-clothes man shrugged noncommittally. It usually does.

  Okay — Brick was talking very fast — and remember I told you this. He gestured with his chin — at me. Get him! He's got the money! Get him! Quick!

  The three cops moved fast, but — for a second or two — they had been startled, taking in what Brick said before their muscles could respond. But I'd understood instantly. I was still leaning, my side to the bridge rail; turning to face it, my hands grasped its outer edge and pulled hard as my legs sprang. The cops and Brick moving for me, I shot over the rail, falling, and landed with a hard splash, flat on my stomach, hands and arms outstretched and slapping down on the water, breaking the fall in a racing-dive start. It hurt, but nothing broke; and already I was moving downstream with the tumbling current, gagging and choking, the water bitter-cold. It's incredible how much thinking and seeing you can do in seconds in a terrible emergency. I saw the two uniformed cops running, nearly abreast of me, in the paved alley alongside the Mapes paralleling the river. They'd both had to run to the same side, I realized; we'd been too near one end of t
he long bridge for one of them to run to the opposite side. And I saw that although they were shooting, their gun barrels were pointed upward, whether to avoid hitting me or bystanders I didn't know. I knew they could easily run well ahead of me and that at the next bridge one of them would cross and then they'd have me, one on each side of the stream. Already, though I was only midway between the two bridges, they were eight or ten paces ahead of me, running hard for the Center Street Bridge.

  I dug into the water hard with my right arm, got a foot down on the bottom, and shoved. Then I staggered to my feet, stumbling out of the water, and began clawing my way up the short bank on the other side, glancing over one shoulder. For two more steps the police ran hard ahead; then one looked back, shouted, and they stopped and began shooting, and this time I saw they were aiming and heard the bullets thwacking into the dirt embankment. Hitting the top of the bank, I hurled myself over it, rolling hard, away from the river, then rolled onto my knees, got up and ran — terribly fast — over the lawn toward the big gray-white bulk of the post-office building fifty yards straight ahead. Dripping wet, my feet pumping water from my sodden shoes every time they smashed onto the grass, I ran over the lawn, crossed the sidewalk, fell up the post-office steps, and pushed the door open and stepped into the post office. Then I walked.