The Score (Parker Novels)

by Richard Stark

  He knelt and opened the suitcase, got the drill, selected a bit, changed his mind and selected another. He looked around and said, “Find me an outlet.”

  “Over here.”

  “Am I going to need the extension?”

  “No,” Wycza laughed. “Handy, huh? The architect had you in mind.”

  “Good of him.” Paulus carried the drill over to the vault, went down on one knee. “Hold the light steady, now.”

  The drill began to whine.

  6

  He'd missed the curfew.

  His name was Eddie Wheeler, he was nineteen years old, he worked at Brooks' Pharmacy, and he was now in the Campbell house, having been engaged in premarital intercourse with Betty Campbell, whose parents were visiting relatives all this week in Bismarck.

  He'd fallen asleep, entwined in Betty's arms.

  “It's one o'clock,” he whispered. There wasn't any need to whisper—he and Betty were the only ones in the house—but he whispered anyway. For the same lack of reason, they hadn't turned on any lights, but depended on the illumination coming faintly through the window from a streetlight outside.

  “What are you going to do?” Betty was half sitting, half lying on the bed, holding a sheet up to her throat.

  Eddie felt around on the floor for his other shoe. “What can I do? I've got to get home.”

  “Stay here tonight.”

  “And what do I tell my folks? Where do I say I spent all night?”

  “But what if the police catch you?”

  “What can they do to me?” He found the other shoe, put it on, tied the laces. “They'll just give me a warning, that's all.”

  “It's my fault, Eddie, I shouldn't have gone to sleep.”

  “We both went to sleep.” He got to his feet. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

  “Wait, I'll walk you downstairs.”

  “No, stay there, go back to sleep.”

  “I've got to lock the door anyway.”

  He was concentrating so hard on getting away, slipping across town to his own house without being caught by the police, that he barely paid attention to her when she got out of bed, slim and pale and naked as a nymph, and quickly shrugged into a bathrobe. Almost six months they'd been sleeping together now, and she still got into a robe anytime she got out of bed, still covered herself with a sheet before and after, still made him turn his back while she undressed and got into bed. It was silly, but there it was. And it was a small price to pay.

  Six months, and this was the first time anything had distracted him from staring at any rare glimpse of her she offered. The goddam curfew.

  They went down the carpeted stairs together, she barefoot, and over to the front door. His heart was pounding, he felt like a desperado. He opened the door a little and peeked out, and saw no cars moving, no people at all. ‘Til call you tomorrow,’ he whispered.

  “Kiss me good night, Eddie.”

  “Oh. I forgot.”

  She was soft and warm from bed, and he forgot his nervousness for a few seconds, caught up in the sense of her. But the breeze from the slightly open door was cool on the back of his neck, reminding him, and he was the first to break the kiss. He told her again he'd call her tomorrow. Her robe had parted, and her breasts were pale and full and soft, but he turned away and sidled out onto the porch. They whispered good night to each other, and she closed the door. He heard the snick of the lock.

  Nothing moving. Orange Street was dark and silent. A block and a half away, Raymond Avenue was a bit brighter, but just as silent. It was after one o'clock in the morning.

  Which would they patrol most, Raymond Avenue or the side streets? Raymond Avenue was so brightly lit, a curfew-breaker might tend to keep away from it; wouldn't the police think of that? They'd patrol the side streets most, wouldn't they? And just cross Raymond Avenue from time to time, going from one side of town to the other?

  All right. So he'd go straight to Raymond Avenue, and down Raymond to Blake Street, and then over Blake Street the two blocks to his house. On Orange and Blake, he could duck into a driveway if he saw headlights. On Raymond, he could hide in a store doorway.

  Reluctantly, he left the protection of the porch, went down to the sidewalk, and turned right. He walked along quickly, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pants pockets. He kept looking back over his shoulder, but he didn't see any headlights.

  Raymond Avenue. He turned left. He went half a block, and out of the corner of his eye he saw something wrong.

  Broken glass.

  The bank door was broken.

  He stopped in his tracks, forgetting everything else, and stared at the broken glass of the bank door. Parked here was a big brown tractor trailer, but nobody in or near it. But in the bank …

  He went over to the glass front and peered in. There was a light back there, he could just barely make it out. And a man standing there.

  Bank robbers!

  He took three quick steps, beyond the bank's glass front. Had they seen him? He didn't think so. No, they would have come after him. Bank robbers, and that must be their truck.

  What in hell was he going to do? He stared around wildly, and two blocks farther down, at the corner of Whittier Street, he could see the telephone booth. There was a phone booth right on the corner there, he'd used it himself a few times. He could go there and phone police headquarters.

  Where was the police car? A minute ago he'd been grateful for its absence, but now he felt indignant that it wasn't here. That was the police for you, never around when you wanted them. If there weren't any bank robbers, the police car would be right here this second, the cops giving him a bad time for being out after curfew.

  Did he dare phone in? He was still breaking the law himself.

  Don't be silly. Giving the warning about a bank robbery would make up for being out late. They wouldn't even mention it.

  He started off again, this time going at a trot, hurrying down the two blocks to Whittier Street, looking down the cross streets in hopes of seeing the headlights of the police car, but seeing nothing. At the phone booth, he paused to catch his breath and to find a dime, and then he stepped into the booth and closed the door. It was a glass-and-metal booth, mostly windows, and when he closed the door the light came on. Startled, he snapped the door open again, and the light went off. That was all he needed, the light on, so the robbers could see him making the call.

  He did it the simplest way. Dropped the dime in, dialed Operator, and when the girl came on said, “Police headquarters, please. This is an emergency.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It seemed like a pretty long pause, but finally he heard a ringing sound, and then a male voice said, “Police headquarters, Officer Nieman.”

  “I …” He didn't know how to phrase it. He cleared his throat, and blurted it out: “There's a bank robbery going on! The Merchants' Bank.”

  “What? Who are you?”

  “Eddie Wheeler. They broke the door, and they're back by the vault.”

  “What are you doing out at this time of night?”

  “For Pete's sake, will you listen to me? There's a—”

  It was like a crack of thunder, the sudden sound, not too far away. Eddie looked up, startled, knowing they'd blown open the vault door. “They just blew up the vault!”

  A different voice answered him. “Where are you?”

  “I'm in the phone booth at Raymond and Whittier.”

  “Stay there, the prowl car will be right there.”

  “All right.”

  The connection was broken.

  Even with the light off, Eddie felt exposed, in the glass phone booth. He stepped out, and went over to lean against the side of the nearest building, Komray's Department Store. He stared down toward the bank, waiting and watching, wondering what was keeping the police.

  The prowl car, when it arrived, came without siren or flashing red light. It seemed to roll along leisurely, and then it stopped at the curb by the phone booth. Eddie stepped towa
rd it, away from the wall, and saw the driver getting out. “They're down at the Merch—”

  The driver was wearing a hood.

  Eddie just stared at him. The driver came around the front of the car, and he was holding a pistol aimed right at Eddie's stomach. He said, “You ought to know better than to be out after curfew, Eddie.”

  “You're one of them!”

  “Walk down Whittier, Eddie. Ahead of me. Do like you're told and you won't get hurt.”

  Eddie turned, and started walking. He didn't believe it, didn't believe that he wouldn't get hurt. He was going to be murdered, he knew it.

  He thought of Betty's breasts, gleaming behind the robe. He thought of her asking him to stay the night. He thought of sex with her, thought of the glimpses of her body.

  Why didn't I stay?

  “Turn right, Eddie.”

  It was the loading dock behind the department store. God, it was dark back there! Eddie hesitated, and the hooded man said, “I don't want to kill you, Eddie. I got nothing against you. I'm going to tie you and gag you, and early in the morning somebody'll find you here, safe and sound. But if you try anything cute, I'll have to cut you down.”

  Eddie swallowed, painfully.

  “Why you out after curfew anyway, Eddie?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  He walked into the darkness.

  7

  One A.M.

  Most of Copper Canyon was asleep. Three policemen, six firemen, three telephone company employees, three plant employees, and a boy named Eddie Wheeler were all awake. Most of these were tied and gagged; none of them was sure he'd live till morning. Aside from these sixteen, there were about twenty other citizens awake in Copper Canyon; insomniacs reading, couples making love, two young mothers warming baby bottles.

  The Merchants' Bank and City Trust had both been blown open. Wycza was carrying trays of money from Merchants' to the truck, Elkins was carrying trays of money from City to the truck. Paulus was working on the Nationwide Finance & Loan Corporation safe, and Wiss was working on the Raymond Jewelers safe. At the plant, Kerwin hadn't yet opened the safe containing the payroll; he worked slowly, because he enjoyed his work.

  Parker was in the prowl car, driving aimlessly this way and that, the walkie-talkie on the seat beside him. At the fire-house, Chambers had commandeered the playing cards and was dealing out hand after hand of solitaire, waiting for George to make a run for the door. At the telephone company, Grofield was playing charades with George's niece Mary; she was laughing. At police headquarters, in the Command Room, Edgars sat inside his hood and brooded on his own plans.

  Pop Phillips was half asleep, sitting on a tilted-back chair in the guard shack by the east gate. In the main plant building, Littlefield sat in a coil of tension, waiting for the phone to ring and wondering what he would do if it did. At the other end of town, Salsa sat with stolid patience in a brand-new Oldsmobile, watching the empty street. There was a car a little ways ahead, parked at the curb, and a streetlight shone on its license plate, a dull tan with the number in dark brown. Below the number was the legend PEACE GARDEN STATE; Salsa wondered idly what that meant.

  Two A.M.

  Eddie Wheeler was asleep, his face against cold asphalt. In the morning he would have the beginnings of a bad head cold, but he'd be alive. Officer Mason, three firemen, and Mrs. Sawyer at the phone company were all also asleep, leaving ten of the prisoners still awake.

  Kerwin had finished the plant safe, finally, and loaded the payroll into the station wagon. He had driven down Raymond Avenue to the truck, transferred the payroll—in white canvas bank bags—to the truck, and carried his bag of tools to Credit Jewelers, where he was now once again opening a safe. Paulus was walking through Komray's Department Store with a flashlight, looking for the office. Wiss had just left the five-and-dime and was entering the shoe store next door. Wycza and Elkins were loading the truck.

  Pop Phillips was asleep. Littlefield was chain-smoking. Salsa was standing beside the Oldsmobile, stretching his legs. Chambers was cheating at solitaire. Parker was driving around in the patrol car. Edgars was moodily studying the submachine gun, waiting for the time to be right. Grofield knew Mary Deegan wanted him to kiss her, but he couldn't figure out how to do it without removing the hood.

  Three A.M.

  Five prisoners remained awake: Officer Nieman, George Deegan and his niece, one other fireman, and the guard from the west gate. All other citizens were asleep, except one insomniac who had chapters to go in the mystery he was reading.

  Wiss and Paulus and Kerwin were opening safes; Wycza and Elkins were emptying them. Salsa was back in the Oldsmobile, thinking of women. Edgars was growing impatient. Grofield's hood was off; so were Mary Deegan's panties.

  Three forty-five A.M.

  Wycza opened a cab door of the truck, stepped up, sat down to rest a minute, and switched on his walkie-talkie. “This is W,” he said. “You there, P?” He felt stupid, using initials; you might know Paulus would dream up something like that.

  Parker answered: “What's up?”

  “Everything's open. We'll be done quicker than we thought. All five of us are loading now.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Half an hour, maybe less.”

  “S, you hear that?”

  Salsa picked up the walkie-talkie. “I hear it. That's very good.” He put the walkie-talkie down on the seat again and lit a new cigarette.

  Parker said, “G, you there?”

  Grofield had been trying to explain to Mary Deegan why he couldn't take her along, and she'd begun to get mad, had just pointed out that she could identify him now. He was grateful for the interruption. He went over and picked up the walkie-talkie and said, “Right here.”

  “Spread the word. We'll be ready to clear out in half an hour.”

  “Right.”

  Grofield went over to the desk and picked up the phone. Mary followed him, saying, “I don't see why you can't take me.”

  “In a minute, all right? Just one minute.” He dialed police headquarters, went through Officer Nieman, got Edgars, told him, “Well be moving out in half an hour.”

  “So soon? Thanks.” Edgars hung up, picked up the machine gun, and sprayed bullets into Officers Nieman and Mason and Felder. He went down the well-remembered hall to the armory, shot the lock off, went in and opened the metal box in the corner. World War II souvenirs, impounded by the police, including three live hand grenades. He took them, left the building, and went across the street to the firehouse.

  Grofield's second call was to Littlefield, who jumped when the phone rang as though he'd been hit by a live wire. He fumbled the receiver, dropped it, picked it up again, and tried to clear his throat while he was saying hello. Grofield told him about the speed-up, and Littlefield nearly fainted from relief. But after that, he wasn't tense anymore; if the phone rang again, no matter who it was calling, he wouldn't be nervous or frightened at all.

  Grofield called the firehouse, got Chambers, and said, “It's running faster that we thought. We'll be going in about half an hour.”

  “Boy, you'll never know how—Hey!”

  “What?”

  It sounded like a machine gun, roaring away there at the other end. Then the line went dead.

  Forgetting himself, Grofield shouted, “Chambers! Chambers!” But the line was dead.

  Mary was staring at him wide-eyed. “What is it? What's the matter?” The other two women were stirring, disturbed out of sleep.

  Grofield had the walkie-talkie now, was saying, “P. Listen, something's gone wrong.”

  “What?”

  “The firehouse. I don't know what it is. Sounded like machine gun fire, and then we were cut off.”

  Parker cursed, and said, “W, you hear that?”

  “I hear it.”

  “Take the wagon. I'll meet you at the firehouse.”

  The first explosion woke Pop Phillips. He jumped up, startled, looking around, not knowing what had knocked him ou
t of sleep.

  Parker heard the explosion, cursed again, and gunned the prowl car forward.

  Citizens heard the explosion, and some of them started phoning police headquarters to find out what it was, but nobody answered at police headquarters. Some of them dialed Operator, but no operator answered either; Mary Deegan was trying to get Grofield's attention, and failing.

  The firehouse was on fire, half the front wall had been blown away, and, inside, flames leaped around the fire engines as the gasoline in their tanks burned. Parker got out of the prowl car, looking around, and didn't see Chambers or anyone else. The station wagon raced up, squealed to a stop, and Wycza jumped out, saying, “What the hell happened?”