The Procane Chronicle

by Ross Thomas

  “And you’re still going through with it?”

  Procane’s tone stiffened. “I really don’t have much choice, Mr. St. Ives.”

  “No, you don’t, do you.”

  There was a small pause and then he said, “I trust that you haven’t had second thoughts about joining us.”

  “Not second thoughts. Mine are up in the hundreds.”

  “I really must know your decision now. The timing and logistics aren’t such that they can accommodate last-minute regrets.”

  “When are we supposed to meet at your place?”

  “At noon today.”

  It took a long time for me to reply because I had to run through each of the three dozen reasons why I should say no so I could decide on which one to use. But the next voice I heard seemed to belong to somebody else because I heard it saying, “I’ll be there at noon.”

  17

  I WAS THINKING ABOUT getting a cat and calling it Osbert when the first gray light edged its way into the room. A cat would have been someone to talk to at ten past three in the morning when you know the night will never end. My watch said that it was a little after seven and the last of the longest night the world has ever seen. I knew it was the longest because I had measured every second of it. Twice.

  It had been a while since I had seen a dawn so I got up and went over to a window and looked out. It was cloudy and it looked like rain and I decided that I hadn’t been missing much.

  On my way to the bathroom I turned on the burner under the kettle. I was going to need a lot of coffee that day to keep awake and I tried to remember if there were anything in the medicine cabinet that could help. A quick inventory produced a bottle of aspirin, a package of Stimu-dents (unused), a razor, a tube of Lip-Ice, a box of Band-aids, a bottle of Mercurochrome, a gift bottle of shaving lotion that I’d never used, and some foamy pain-killer that could be sprayed on minor burns. There was also a pill bottle with a label that read, “Take one every four hours if pain persists,” but it was empty so the pain must have been persistent although I couldn’t remember it.

  After I found that there was nothing to put me to sleep, or to wake me up, or to make me feel any better, I said to hell with it and went back to the Pullman kitchen and fixed a cup of instant coffee and poured a shot of brandy into it. Drinking that early in the morning always made me feel wicked and that’s exactly how I wanted to feel.

  After the coffee I stood under the shower for a long time, shaved, and then cooked myself a large breakfast of three eggs, Canadian bacon, buttered toast with strawberry jam, a chunk of Liederkranz, and more coffee. Much more. By the time I was dressed in the dark-blue suit, blue oxford shirt, black knit tie, and black loafers—the outfit that I always wore to funerals and million-dollar heists—I was ready for a nap. I had some more coffee instead.

  By eight-thirty I was not only breakfasted, dressed, and jittery, but also ready to go someplace. Even an office would have looked good. Instead, I turned on the television, which I considered to be almost as wicked as drinking in the morning.

  I half-watched the news for thirty minutes or so and then some cartoons came on and I got really interested in one that was all about two bears and a tiger who spoke with a ripe Brooklyn accent. The bears seemed to be from the South.

  The morning passed somehow, not quite as slowly as the night, but nearly so. At eleven I was jabbing the elevator button. When I came out of the elevator and into the lobby Eddie, the bell captain, shot his eyebrows up in surprise or maybe shock and said, “Christ, you’re up early.”

  “It’s not all that early.”

  “It is for you. You gotta lead on a steady job?”

  “Not today.”

  “Well, one of these days something’s gonna turn up.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “You wanta get a little something down on the fight?”

  “What’re they giving?”

  “Eight to five on the champ.”

  “I’ll take him for eighty.”

  “I got some tickets I can letcha have for a hundred.”

  “Ringside?”

  “They’re a little further back than that.”

  “Ten rows?”

  “More like maybe fifteen.”

  “Or twenty?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “I’m going to be busy tonight.”

  “You got a date? That was a swell-looking piece you came out of there with last night. Maybe a little young though. For you, I mean.”

  “I’ll see you, Eddie.”

  “Eighty on the champ, right?”

  “Right.”

  I walked or rather strolled, I suppose, the twenty-eight blocks or so to Procane’s house. It was windy and chilly and threatening to either rain or snow, but I decided that the walk would do me good. How, I wasn’t quite sure, but that’s what a walk was supposed to do. Everybody said so.

  I celebrated the halfway mark by turning into a familiar bar and joining the morning drinkers in a Scotch and water. It was a good way to kill twenty minutes or so and for some reason I didn’t want to arrive at Procane’s early. On time or a little late, yes. Early, no.

  I got there at five minutes past twelve. It had been a long morning. Procane met me at the door and once again ushered me into the office-study. He had a fire going; applewood from the smell.

  “You’re the first to arrive,” he said after I took one of the chairs by the fire. He stood in front of it, his hands behind his back, rocking a little on his heels. He wore a dark-gray suit, a white shirt, and a tie with black and white stripes. He looked as if he were headed for a meeting of the board and had some good news for its members. His eyes were bright and twinkling and a jolly smile kept peeping out from underneath his ginger moustache.

  “I was about to have a drink, Mr. St. Ives,” he said. “Would you care to join me? I don’t think one will do us any harm while we wait.”

  I started to show off and say no, thanks, but common sense prevailed and I said, “Yes, I think I will.”

  After we had our drinks he sat in the chair opposite me and twinkled some more. “It must be a big day for you,” I said.

  “Yes, I believe it is. I’ve been up since six. You look as though you had a good night’s rest.”

  “It was fine.”

  “Well,” he said, raising his glass, “to luck.”

  We drank to that and then he said, “Of course, luck won’t have very much to do with it.”

  “Planning,” I said.

  “Careful, exact planning with virtually every minute precisely scheduled.”

  “What if your—uh—victims, I suppose—what if they lag a little or move ahead of schedule?”

  “Both contingencies are provided for.”

  Procane looked happy. There was no other way to describe it. He kept smiling and beaming even when there was nothing to beam about. He also seemed a little nervous. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, but it was the nervousness of anticipation, not apprehension.

  I was curious so I asked him, “What do you like better, the planning or the execution?”

  He seemed to think about it for a moment. “The execution really, although I’m rather hard pressed to make a choice between them. I hate to keep comparing it with painting but that’s the only other thing that I do at all well. There’s a great amount of pleasure in the selection of a subject, in studying shape and form and color, and in planning my approach, but it never equals the feeling I get when I make that first brush stroke on canvas. After that it goes all too quickly. I paint very fast, Mr. St. Ives.” He paused and twinkled some more. “I steal fast, too.”

  “What about afterward?”

  “Afterward,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s a quiet time touched in both instances with a kind of melancholy, I think. The aftermath.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Regret. Never guilt.”

  “When?”

  “Only after a painting; never after a theft.”

 
“Why after a painting?”

  “I always have the feeling that somehow I should have done it better. I’m never quite sure how I could have done better, but there’s always the nagging feeling that I should have. I never feel that way after a job.”

  “No remorse either? After a theft, I mean.”

  “I’ve never felt remorse about anything,” Procane said and I found myself believing him. He paused a moment and looked thoughtfully at the fire. “As I’ve said, I’ve felt regret often enough, but never remorse because remorse implies guilt and I’ve never felt that.”

  “Did you ever wonder why? Nearly everyone feels guilty about something or other.”

  “I’ve thought about it and decided that it’s probably because I’m content to be what I am—a master thief and a tolerable Sunday painter. I don’t aspire to be anything—or anyone—else. I think a lot of guilt comes from people wanting to be what they assuredly aren’t and can’t possibly be. They feel guilty because they can’t, but think that they should.”

  “How do you feel when you’re stealing something?” I said. “I mean what are your emotions or do you have any?”

  “Is this for the report, Mr. St. Ives?” he said and smiled as if he liked any conversation that was chiefly about him.

  “Maybe.”

  “When I’m actually engaged in the theft—in the operation—I feel a kind of detached excitement I know that I’m totally involved in what I’m doing and my powers of concentration seem enormously expanded. I’m conscious of almost every detail. And my recall after it’s over is nearly total. I’ve sometimes toyed with the idea of painting a theft from memory. It might be interesting, especially one which involved a confrontation.”

  “Like the senator in Washington?”

  Procane looked surprised. “Oh, do they know about that?”

  “They had some strong suspicions.”

  “He was a totally corrupt man. Dead now. But he did look rather pathetic handcuffed to the radiator.”

  “I only read a couple of entries,” I said, “but those journals of yours should be fascinating reading.”

  “To specialists in criminology or to the general public?”

  “Both, I’d think.”

  Procane looked interested. “It would have to be done posthumously, of course.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Do you really think there’s a chance?”

  “Myron Greene knows some publishers. He could handle it for you.”

  Procane’s expression turned shy, almost embarrassed. “If it were published, do you think there’s a chance of it being turned into a film?”

  I managed to keep a straight face. “I should think so.”

  He was silent for a moment. “What do you think of Steve McQueen for the lead?”

  “He’d be fine.”

  “Of course, Brando has a little more depth, I think.”

  “He’d be good, too.”

  The door opened before Procane could do any more mental casting. It was the only time I had seen him slip out of his role as the gentleman thief—poised, urbane, and almost witty. It was something of a shock to discover that he desperately wanted not only to see his journals published, but perhaps even more desperately he also wanted himself portrayed up there on the silver screen by Brando or McQueen or maybe, in a pinch, Lee Marvin.

  It was comforting to learn that he had some failings and that they were distinctly human and not the weird kind that might go with the mad master criminal who liked to bake kittens in the oven.

  Through the open door came Janet Whistler followed by Miles Wiedstein. I was interested in learning how one dressed for a million-dollar theft and so I was a little disappointed by Wiedstein’s tweed sport coat, gray flannels, and dark-blue shirt open at the throat. At least his desert boots had gummed soles. He carried a thin black attaché case that he placed on the floor after he said hello to Procane and me.

  Janet Whistler wore a dark-gray pantsuit and unremarkable black shoes. They both looked as if they had dressed up just enough to cash a small check at the corner liquor store.

  They found chairs and Janet Whistler refused a drink from Procane. He didn’t bother to offer Wiedstein one. Procane cleared his throat and said, “I called both of you last night about my visit from the police. I’ve concluded that their interest in me should not prevent us from going ahead with our plans, so we shall continue as scheduled.”

  “There’re getting to be a lot of dead bodies lying around,” Wiedstein said.

  “We discussed that last night,” Procane said.

  “I just thought I’d bring it up again to see if St. Ives has any ideas.”

  “None except the obvious one,” I said. “Whoever killed Boykins and Peskoe could also have killed the kid cop, Frann.”

  “Yes,” Procane said, “that seems logical on the surface. And it could also mean that they’re the ones who’re going to try to steal the million dollars and then tell the drug merchants to blame us.”

  “I don’t see how you’re going to stop them from doing that,” I said, “even if you beat them to the million.”

  The three of them exchanged a few remarks with their eyes and Procane said, “I have decided, Mr. St. Ives, that I can only let you in on our plans one step at a time. I’m sure you understand why. But let me also assure you that every precaution has been taken.” He stopped and then added, “Or will be within the next few hours.”

  He wasn’t going to tell me anything until he thought that I needed to know it so I decided to stop asking. I was going along as the paid trained observer, the chronicler with an eye for the relevant detail, the biographer of a thief and his apprentices. I promised myself to remain cool, detached, and disinterested. A little Olympian even. I patted my pockets and debated about asking Procane whether I could borrow a pencil and something to write on.

  He had turned to Janet Whistler. “You checked the shuttle flights?”

  She nodded. “No delays to amount to anything.”

  Procane looked at his watch. “The limousine is outside?”

  “He picked Janet and me up,” Wiedstein said.

  “Well,” Procane said, “I think we should be going. Will you do the honors, Miles?”

  Wiedstein picked up the thin black attaché case and opened it. It was a fitted case lined with what looked like black velvet. Nestled each into its own nook were four automatic pistols not more than six inches long with beautifully engraved slides.

  The case was first offered to Janet Whistler who took one, checked the magazine to make sure that it was loaded, and dropped it into her black envelope purse.

  “A matched set, Mr. St. Ives,” Procane said, selecting one. “They’re seven-shot Walthers. The 1931 PPK model, although these are of quite recent manufacture and really most excellent.” He tucked his away in an inside jacket pocket that may have been specially tailored because I detected no bulge.

  Wiedstein turned toward me. There was a smile on his face, another sardonic one, I decided. “St. Ives?” he said, making a gesture of offer with the open case.

  “No thanks,” I said, “I’m trying to give them up.”

  18

  THE RENTAL LIMOUSINE THAT met us at National Airport in Washington was the twin of the black seven-passenger Cadillac that had taken us to LaGuardia. But there was no similarity in the drivers. The one in New York had been a bitter, snarling Irishman who lectured us on how the niggers were getting all the good jobs until Procane pushed the button that raised the glass divider.

  Our Washington driver was a slight, swarthy Cuban with a crisp smile and a high-pitched giggle that he let out each time the traffic went wrong, which it did every thirty seconds or so.

  The weather was cold, around thirty degrees, with fat, low clouds that looked as though they wanted to spit wet snow at the Potomac. I had never had any luck with Washington weather. I either froze or fried.

  Procane kept looking up at the clouds. He turned to Janet Whistler and said, “W
ell?”

  “It’s supposed to clear around five,” she said.

  I asked Procane why he was so interested.

  “If it snows, it’s off.”

  “No snow,” the driver said, cheerfully joining the conversation. His name was Manuel Carasa and he had the total unself-consciousness of those who like to strike up conversations at bus stops. “My nose say no snow,” he said, pointing to it so that we could be sure where it was. “From the first time I see snow six, seven years ago I can smell it. Always. No snow today.”

  “What a relief,” Janet Whistler said.

  “How did you get out of Cuba?” Wiedstein asked the driver.

  “Castro, he let me go. First to Miami. Very nice there. Very warm. No snow. I learn English there. Then I come to Washington where it is very beautiful but not so warm except in the summer when it is very warm like Havana. Washington is more beautiful than Havana, no?”

  “It’s pretty in the spring,” Wiedstein said. “I was here in April once with my high school senior class.”

  “One could paint here,” Procane said. “I think it’s because of the trees. That should be a beautiful spot in the spring and fall.”

  We were just past Seventeenth Street going west on Independence Avenue and Procane was looking out at a wooded area just south of the reflecting pool. In the middle of the woods was a small, fake Greek temple. For some reason it didn’t seem out of place.

  “What’s that, driver?” Procane said.

  “Memorial to dead in World War Number One,” he said. “All dead man’s names are written in stone. Just dead from Washington though, not dead from all over.”

  “It’s rather pleasant,” Procane said.

  “Over there at right is Lincoln Memorial,” the driver said. “Very famous.”

  “Thank you,” Wiedstein said.

  We went past the Lincoln Memorial and then along a four-lane highway that separated the Potomac from the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. The Kennedy Center jutted out over the highway as if it wanted to edge as close to the river as it could. It had a series of round gold pipes running up its marble sides, but they looked to me as though they’d been added as an afterthought and a none too inspired one at that.