by Jim Thompson
He smoked a cigarette and scanned the morning newspaper which Charlie had brought with his breakfast, pausing now and then to pick idly at an incipient hangnail. He reweighed his decision to dispose of Rudy, and could see no reason to change it. No reason, at least, of sufficient importance.
When they reached the West Coast, they would need to hole up temporarily; to reconnoiter, switch cars and break trail generally, before jumping into Mexico. It was wise to do that at any rate, even though it might not be absolutely necessary. And Rudy had lined up a place where they could take temporary sanctuary. It was a small tourist court, owned by some distant relatives of his. They were naturalized citizens, an almost painfully honest, elderly couple. But they had an unreasoning fear of the police, brought with them from the old country, and they were even more terrified of Rudy. So, reluctantly, they had submitted to his demands, on this occasion and several others.
Doc was confident that he could handle them quite well without Rudy. He was confident that they would be even more rather than less cooperative if they knew that he had disposed of their fearsome kinsman.
Glancing at his watch, Doc lighted another cigarette and picked up the rifle. Standing back in the concealing shadows of the room, he took aim through the window, one eye squinted against the smoke from the dangling cigarette. The bank guard was due any minute now. He…
There was a knock on the door. Doc hesitated for a split second, then crossed the room in two long strides and opened the door a few inches. The maid thrust a handful of towels at him.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Kramer. Thought you might be needin’ these.”
“Why, that’s very thoughtful of you,” Doc said. “Just a moment and I’ll…”
“Now, that’s all right, Mr. Kramer. You given me too much already.”
“But I insist,” Doc said pleasantly. “You wait right here, Rosie.”
Leaving the door ajar, he wheeled back across the room and raised the rifle, sighting it as he moved. Mack Wingate was just stepping across the bank’s threshold, had almost disappeared into its dark interior. Doc triggered the gun and there was a sharp, sighing sound, like the sudden emission of breath.
He didn’t wait to see the guard fall; when Doc shot at something he hit it. With a more powerful rifle his aim would have been just as accurate at five hundred yards as it had been at fifty.
He gave the maid a dollar bill, again thanking her for her courtesy. Closing and relocking the door, he got the clerk on the phone.
“Charlie, does that train into the city leave at nine-twenty or nine-thirty? Fine, that’s what I thought. No, no cab, thanks. I can use a little walk.”
He hung up the phone, reloaded the rifle, and again pumped up the pressure. He unfastened the stock, locked it up in his briefcase, and put the rest back in the loops of the topcoat.
He lifted the coat out, draped it loosely over one arm. He walked back and forth with it for a moment, then nodded with satisfaction and hung it back in the closet. Rudy wouldn’t expect him to have the rifle. It would come as a complete surprise to him. But just in case it didn’t…
I’ll think of something, Doc assured himself. And went to work on a more immediate problem.
His luggage contained an unusual number of toiletries: bath salts, hair tonics and the like. More accurately, it contained the containers of these items, which were filled not with what their labels indicated but such oddly assorted things as naphtha, crude oil, a gauze-wrapped quarter-stick of dynamite, and the movements from two watches.
They formed the ingredients of two incendiary smoke bombs. Doc began to assemble them, first spreading the newspaper out on the bed to protect its coverings. A few fine beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The movements of his fingers were sure, but extremely delicate.
The dynamite itself—which he sliced into two pieces—he regarded as safe, and a mere quarter-stick of it as virtually harmless (to one familiar with its action) even if exploded. No, dynamite was all right. Dinah was easygoing, tolerating almost anything short of outrage. The danger lay in that cute little black cap she wore when being readied for action. They—the percussion caps—were about the size of an after-dinner mint, and their behavior was anything but good. And tiny as they were, one of them was more than enough to remove a man’s hand.
Doc was glad when his job was finished, glad that he would never again have to take on a similar job. The bombs could have been purchased ready-made, of course, but Doc distrusted the purveyors of such items. They might talk; besides, they lacked the incentive to turn out top-grade merchandise, anything less than which was apt to prove fatal to the purchaser.
Doc put the bombs in his wastebasket and crumpled the soiled newspaper over them. He scrubbed his hands in the bathroom and turned down the turned-up cuffs of his shirt. For no conscious reason, he sighed.
He’d been on tougher jobs than this one, but never one where so much depended on its success. Everything he had was on the line here; everything that he and Carol had. He was pushing forty-one. She was almost fourteen years younger. So, one more fall, one more prison stretch and—and that would be that.
The thoughts stirred muddily in the bottom of his mind. Unrecognized and unadmitted; manifested only in an unconscious sigh.
He had not taken another look at the bank, since seeing that Rudy and the kid had gotten in all right. He’d had work to do, and there’d been no point in looking. If there was trouble, he’d be able to hear it.
Now, however, he looked again, and was just in time to see the bank president enter its door. The door closed abruptly, almost catching the heel of his shoe. Doc winced and shook his head, unconsciously as he had sighed.
It was ten minutes of nine. Doc adjusted his tie and put on his suit jacket. Now it was five minutes of. He picked up the wastebasket and stepped out into the hall.
He went down the faded red carpet to the end of the hall, then turned right into a short side corridor. A metal trash can stood between the back stairs and the side-street window. Doc poked the papers into the can, idly glancing up and down the street.
His luck was far better than he could have hoped for.
A flatbed farm truck was parked rear end first at the curb. Next to it was a sedan, its windows rolled up tightly. But next to them, parked to windward of them, was another truck—loaded almost to the level of the hotel’s second-floor windows.
And what it was loaded with was baled hay!
Doc gave the street another quick up and down glance. Then he tossed the bombs, lofting one between the truck’s cab and bed, the other onto the load of hay.
He picked up the wastebasket and returned to his room. It was two minutes of nine now—two minutes before the bombs were set to explode—and three or four people were gathered in front of the bank, waiting for it to open.
Doc completed his arrangements for leaving, slowly counting off the seconds.
4
The time lock on the bank’s vault was set for eight-fifty. Slightly more than ten minutes later, Rudy and Jackson had cleared it of cash—dollar bills and coins excepted—and several thick packages of negotiable securities.
The banker lay sprawled on the floor, half-dead from Rudy’s pistol-whipping. Stumbling over his unconscious body, Rudy gave him a savage kick in the face, turned half-crazed eyes upon the kid. The fear had filled him now, the furious outraged fear of a cornered rat. It would simmer down in time, solidify into the murderous trigger-quick wiliness which had guided him in and out of so many tight places. Which forced him to survive long after the withered inner man had cried out for the peace of death. Now, however, there was nothing but the raging fear, and he had to strike out at something. At anything.
“You hear anything out there?” He jerked his head toward the street. “Well, did you?”
“Hear anything? W-what…”
“The bombs, you long-eared jerk! Any commotion.”
“Huh-uh. But I don’t guess we could, could we, Rudy? I mean, there in the vau
lt we—N-no! D-don’t!”
The kid strangled on a scream. He tried to claw the gun from his belt. Then he toppled forward, clutching at his half-disemboweled abdomen; at the guts which Torrento had mockingly credited him with having.
Rudy giggled. He made a sound that was strangely akin to a sob. Then he wiped his knife on a blotter, returned it to his pocket and picked up the two briefcases.
He carried them to the bank door, set them down again. He turned and looked meditatively at the bank’s three employees. They were scattered about the lobby floor, their mouths sealed with tape, their wrists and ankles bound with more tape. They looked at him, their eyes rolling to show the whites, and Rudy hesitantly fingered his knife.
They’d have him tabbed for the robbery, for killing the kid. And if things broke wrong, Doc would doubtless manage to tag him with the guard’s death. Trust Doc to keep himself in the clear, him and his smart little sneak of a wife! But anyway, these yokels could finger him—pick his wedge-shaped map out of a million mug shots. So as long as he couldn’t be fried or have his neck popped but once anyhow, why not…
He took the knife out again. He went from employee to employee, slashing the bonds of their ankles, kicking and cursing and yanking them to their feet.
Shoving them ahead of him, he herded them back inside the vault. He swung the door shut on them, gave the knob a few spins.
There’d been no point in killing them. He’d been seen coming into the joint, and he was a cinch to be seen leaving. There was a hell of a racket outside and it was growing by the second, and even in here you could get a whiff of smoke. But still, someone, a lot of someones, would see him leave. The best he could hope for was that none of ’em would try to do anything about it.
None of ’em did. Doc had figured right. They had too much else to be interested in to pay any attention to him. And after all, what was so funny about a guy coming out of a bank during banking hours?
The side street was jammed with people, surging back toward the walks occasionally when the wind-driven smoke threatened to envelop them. Sparks showered upward from the burning hay. A gas tank exploded, sending a speckled fountain of fire into the air. The crowd roared, jamming back into the intersection, and the people in the intersection tried to push forward. Several men in red helmets were scurrying about, shouting and gesturing futilely. Other red-helmeted men were lunging up the street, dragging a two-wheel hose cart behind them. The bell in the courthouse cupola tolled steadily.
Rudy loaded the briefcases into the car. He made a U-turn, honking for a couple of yokels to get out of the way, and headed out of town.
A block away, Doc stepped down from the walk to the street and climbed in with him. They rode on, Rudy grinning meanly to himself as he noted the careless caution with which Doc handled his coat. McCoy asked him how they had made out.
“Two hundred in bonds. Maybe a hundred and forty in cash.”
“A hundred and forty?” Doc’s eyes flicked at him. “I see. Must’ve been a lot of ones and silver.”
“So maybe there’s more, dammit! You think I figured it up on an addin’ machine?”
“Now, Rudy,” Doc said soothingly, “no offense. How did it go with the youngster?”
“What d’you mean, how’d it go? How’d you plan it to go?”
“Of course. Too bad,” Doc said vaguely. “I always feel bad when something like that is necessary.”
Rudy snorted. He jammed a cigarette into his mouth, put his left hand in his jacket pocket, ostensibly seeking a match. It came out with a heavy automatic which he leveled across his lap.
“Get rid of the rifle, Doc. Toss it out in the ditch.”
“Might as well.” Doc didn’t appear to notice the automatic. “Doesn’t look like we’re going to need it.”
He lifted the rifle, muzzle first, and dropped it out the window. Rudy let out another snort.
“Doesn’t look like we’re gonna need it!” he mocked. “Well, you ain’t going to need that rod in your jacket either, Doc, so—don’t move for it! Just take the jacket off and toss it in the back seat.”
“Listen, Rudy…”
“Do it!”
Doc did it. Rudy made him lean forward, then backward, swiftly scanning his trousers. He nodded, gave Doc permission to light a cigarette. Doc turned a little in the seat, eyes sorrowful beneath the brim of his hat.
“This doesn’t make sense, Rudy. Not if it’s what I think it is.”
“That’s what it is. Exactly what you’d figured for me.”
“You’re wrong, Rudy. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. How would I get by at Golie’s without you? They’re your relatives, and if Carol and I pulled in there by ourselves…”
“They’d probably give you a gold watch,” Rudy said sourly. “Don’t kid me, Doc. You think I’m stupid or something?”
“In this case, yes. Perhaps we might get along as well without you, but…”
“As well? You’d be a hell of a lot better off, and you know it!”
“I don’t agree with you, but let it go. You’ll need us, Rudy. Carol and me.”
“Huh-uh. Just a different car, and some other duds. Yeah, and your share of the take. That’s all.”
Doc hesitated, looked through the windshield. He glanced at the speedometer. “Too fast, Rudy. We’re liable to pick up a cop.”
“You mean we’re ahead of schedule,” Rudy grinned. “That’s what you mean, ain’t it?”
“Give Carol the signal, at least. She’ll think there’s trouble if you don’t. Might even lam out on us.”
“Not on you.” Rudy’s laugh was enviously angry. “She’ll know you was going to bump me, and…”
“No, Rudy. How…”
“…and she’ll figure you got caught in a snarl, so she’ll move right on in and try to get you out of it.”
Doc didn’t argue the point. In fact, he ceased to argue at all. He simply shrugged, turned around in the seat and was silent.
Coming so quickly, his apparent resignation bothered Rudy. Not because he was afraid Doc had a fast one up his sleeve. Obviously he couldn’t have. The feeling came from something else—the irksome, deeply rooted need to justify himself.
“Look, Doc,” he blurted irritably. “I wasn’t burned over what you was going to do to me. You’d’ve been a sap to do anything else, and I’d be a sap to do anything else. So what’s there to cry about?”
“I didn’t realize I was crying.”
“And you got no right to,” Rudy said doggedly. “Look. A hundred and forty in cash. Maybe a hundred and twenty-five out of the bonds. Call it a quarter of a million all together. That ain’t no dough in a three-way split—not when it’s the last you’re going to get and you got to hole up with The King all your life. He doesn’t put out anything without cash on the line, and plenty of it.”
“Exactly.” Doc smiled witheringly. “So it would be an excellent idea not to simply live up your cash, wouldn’t it? To use it in such a way that you’d be sure of a generous income as long as you lived.”
“How you mean?” Rudy waited. “Like startin’ a tamale parlor, huh?” he jeered. “Or maybe a gambling casino?” He waited again. “You’re goin’ to run competition with The King?”
Doc laughed softly. The laugh of an adult at a small child’s antics. “Really, Rudy. In your case, I’d suggest a circus. You could be your own clown.”
Rudy scowled and licked his lips uncertainly. He started to speak, stopped himself. He cleared his throat and made another attempt.
“Uh, what’d you have in mind, Doc? Dope, maybe? Smuggling? I figured them things was sewed up, but—ah, to hell with you, Doc! I’m holding aces and you’re trying to buy out with hot air.”
“Fine. So why don’t we let it go at that?” Doc said easily.
Rudy’s foot eased up on the gas. Two emotions warred within him: ingrained suspicion and inherent terror of being in want. Doc was conning him—or was he? Would a smoothie like Doc go out on a limb unless he s
aw a better one to grab? And—and what did a guy do when he ran out of dough, and he couldn’t take it away from someone else?
“You ain’t got a thing, Doc,” he mumbled. “You got something, what you got to lose by telling me about it?”
“Very little—but what would you have to gain? Take such a simple matter as Mexico’s foreign policy, its relations, I should say, on a global basis, as compared to those of its Latin-American neighbors. The situation isn’t going to change any. Or if it does, it will be to a still more favorable position. It’s tied directly to the monetary market—the foreign exchange rate, to use the more popular term—and with inflationary tendencies being what they are, and with gold staked at thirty-five dollars an ounce, the potential for the right kind of operator is…”
Doc let his voice trail away. “Never mind, Rudy,” he said pleasantly. “It seems simple enough to me, but I didn’t really expect you to understand. It’s something that’s confused a great many highly intelligent people, men who were very successful in their own particular professions.”
“Like double-talk maybe?” Rudy scoffed. But he said it rather feebly. There were certain words, phrases, that rang a bell in his mind. Foreign exchange—inflationary tendencies—monetary market. The terms were identified with news stories which he invariably skipped over, but he guessed they probably meant heavy sugar to a lot of people.
“Like double-talk,” Doc was saying. “Yes, that’s exactly the way it would sound to you. And I can’t say that I blame you a bit. It would probably sound the same way to me if I hadn’t spent most of my last four-year stretch reading up on it.”
“Well…”
“No, it’s no use, Rudy,” Doc said firmly. “I wish I could. It’s a good deal—and a perfectly legitimate one—and you’d have been just the right man to hold down one end of it. But I can’t make it any clearer than I have, so there’s nothing more to be said.”
Rudy was not a fast thinker—if the weird processes of his mind could be called thinking. But when he made a decision, he made it fast. Abruptly he dropped the gun into his pocket and said, “All right, Doc. I’m not buying just yet, but I’ll take an option.”
