Hernandez was impressed, but he wouldn't open up.
His own talk referred to the past, never to the present. I decided I was paying the penalty for Hernandez's insecurity in regard to Manny Sebastian's status.
Once I began to think in terms of Robert "The Schemer" Frenz, though, the prospect opened up. I had been using the name Carl Kessler when I used him before. My changed face would be no problem, because the Schemer had a peculiarity. He met no one face to face. He did all his business by telephone and mail.
I eased a hundred-dollar bill out of my wallet and laid it on the bar top. When Hernandez returned to where I was sitting alone, I pushed the bill toward him. "I've been out of touch with the Schemer lately," I said. "What's his business phone now?"
Hernandez supplied it promptly. That's how the nightclub made its real money, acting as a message drop. Rudy was guaranteeing nothing by giving me the number. It would be up to me to satisfy Frenz that I was legitimate.
It was a Washington, D.C., number as it had always been before. It changed about once a month, though. I sat at the bar for another hour, said goodnight, and left. On the way to my motel I stopped off at a lighted highway phone booth and called the number. I had forgotten how late it was. "Schemer, this is Carl Kessler," I said when his familiar high-pitched voice came on the line. "I got your number in Mobile at the Golden Peacock."
"Kessler," the voice said tentatively, then continued more alertly. "Oh, yes, you came to me through-"
"Ed Morris," I supplied when Frenz waited for me to supply the key information. "What have you got on the shelf ready to go?"
I could all but hear the wheels clicking in the Schemer's computer-like brain. "You've been keeping a low silhouette recently," he countered.
"It happens," I said. "Sometimes a man's talking when he should have been listening." Let him think I'd taken a fall and been on ice for a while. "Listen, when you call Mobile to verify where I got your number, you might find that Rudy Hernandez doesn't know my name. He stayed so buttoned up with me that I returned the compliment."
Frenz chuckled. "I'm not unhappy to learn that you both stayed buttoned up. There's too much loose talk in this business." He cleared his throat. "I do have a package I've been saving for a first-class man."
"The usual ten percent afterward?"
"You have been out of circulation., It's twelve and a half percent these days. Inflation, you know."
"It had better be worth it, Schemer."
"It will be." He sounded confident. "Where shall I mail the kit?"
"To Earl Drake. General Delivery at-" I stopped to think.
"Washington, D.C.?" Frenz asked.
I knew the General Delivery window in the mail post office in Washington, D.C. It certainly wasn't my first choice. It could be staked out for a look at a man picking up an envelope. I didn't know that the Schemer was that curious, but I didn't know that he wasn't, either.
"Make it Richmond, Virginia," I decided. The General Delivery office there was a cubbyhole no one could hang around without making himself conspicuous. "And this is only for a look, Schemer. If I decide to take on the job, I'll call you again."
"Right," Frenz said briskly. "The plans will be in Richmond tomorrow afternoon."
And I won't be far behind, dear boy, I thought, but I didn't say it. "I'll be in touch," I said before hanging up.
It had worked out well.
If anyone should become curious about Carl Kessler, former partner of Ed Morris, any backtracking would lead only to Morris's grave in potter's field in Santa Fe.
I drove on to the motel and went to bed.
* * *
I started early in the morning.
I slept well, something I had been doing infrequently recently. I used to think I didn't have a nerve in my body, but recent events made me aware that even at a subconscious level, I knew I was in a tighter financial box than I had been in years.
My money was running out. I still had the jar buried in the Colorado mountains, but if I retrieved that and got into a jam afterward, I had absolutely nothing else to fall back on. Without a reserve such as the Colorado jar represented, a situation like the one I'd found myself in at the prison hospital in Florida could well have been the end of the line.
It was a relief to be in action again, however tenuously. I wouldn't really know if it was action or not until I saw the contents of the Schemer's kit, of course. The week of making no progress with Rudy Hernandez hadn't been wasted, though. I had time to practice with the contents of the makeup kit the blonde in Pensacola had sold me, and I was satisfied that now only a professional eye would be able to discern the plastic-surgery scars beneath the makeup. It was a bonus that with further practice I could become adept at making subtle changes in my appearance. I could sufficiently alter skin tone and shadows before going on a job so that descriptions would be confusing. All I really needed was to knock over a quick one and remove the hot breath of financial insecurity from the back of my neck.
I reached Richmond at noon the second day. I used the driver's license supplied by Blind Tom Walker when I asked for mail at the General Delivery window. The clerk handed me a large manila envelope that had seventy-two cents worth of stamps on it to cover the indicated first-class postage.
The bulk of the envelope disturbed me. It suggested an extremely detailed plan, which in turn pointed to a complicated job. I hadn't time for such a caper. I went back to the VW and drove to the Holiday Inn on Route 301. After checking in, I stopped off in the coffee shop for a chicken sandwich and a glass of iced tea, then went to my room. I locked and chain-latched the door, sat down in an armchair, and opened the envelope.
The bulkiness of its contents was explained immediately. It was made up of sheet after sheet of stiff-paper line drawings, which in effect were blueprints of the floor plan of a bank. In addition, there were page after page of biography on the habits of the bank employees, both at work and at home.
There were an additional two pages in single-spaced elite type describing the police routines for the area. The bank was in a suburb where official jurisdiction overlapped, and the typewritten sheets gave chapter and verse on the schedules of both the city police force and the sheriff's department of the county. On a separate sheet was plotted possible escape routes, with traffic lights indicated in red and one-way streets in blue. Robert "The Schemer" Frenz was nothing if not thorough.
Clipped to the top sheet, which was labeled "Summary," was a typewritten note. Its message was brief. "Three-man job," it said. "Known available workmen: Sandy Bascombe, Dick Dahl, Thirsty Huddleston, Preacher Harris, Bob Wolfe, Jess Burkett. Call me."
I pushed everything else aside while I scanned the summary sheet. The bank was in Thornton, a suburb of Philadelphia. I knew the area, which helped. It was apparent at once that the pivotal point of the proposed job was that the suburban bank received cash by armored car after closing each Wednesday afternoon. On Thursday mornings the cash was separated among the tellers for making up factory payrolls and cashing checks. If the bank were entered before business hours on a Thursday morning, it should be possible to pick up the armored car delivery still in bulk before the usual distribution.
A complication was that the vault combination was shared by the bank manager and his assistant. Each had only half the combination. This meant that both had to be separated from their families early in the morning on the day the job was to be pulled. They would have to be herded to the bank together. The other employees would have to be immobilized as they entered the bank until the time lock on the vault went off and permitted it to be opened by the manager and assistant. Otherwise it appeared that the job called for standard operating procedure.
I set the summary aside and stared at the blank gray face of the room's television set. I didn't like the plan. There were so many variables in the Schemer's proposal that I hesitated on the brink of instant rejection. The plan called for too many people to be managed, in too many different places, by the unknown qua
ntities in the way of partners I'd be forced to employ.
But what choice did I have? I could ask Frenz for a one-man package, but if he didn't have one on the shelf, what then? Walk in off the street cold with a brown paper bag and show a teller a gun? I'd seen too many men panicked by circumstances who'd gone that route when squeezed. It kept the jails full.
I picked up the summary sheet again with its attached note and reread the names. Sandy Bascombe, Dick Dahl, Thirsty Huddleston, Preacher Harris, Bob Wolfe, Jess Burkett. Huddleston I knew. He had nerve, but he wasn't called Thirsty for nothing. I drew a line through his name.
Dahl rang a bell. I sat there thinking about it. Finally it came to me. Hernandez had mentioned Dahl's name at the Golden Peacock. Rudy's remarks had coupled Dahl with the memory of Clem Powers, a fantastic cocksman. "La-dykiller," Hernandez had called Dahl. It was hardly a recommendation. I drew a line through Dahl's name.
Wolfe I didn't know. Burkett I didn't know. Two more drawn lines. Harris I knew. Preacher Harris, although I'd never worked with him, had the reputation of being a cool and steady operator everywhere except at the card and dice tables. Harris was a compulsive gambler, but when he was broke enough he was all business. I put a circle around his name. Bascombe I didn't know. Another line drawn.
So I had one possible from the list. Could two men do the job? I spread the floor plan of the bank in front of me and went over it carefully, then referred to the summary again. Fifteen minutes later I reached a conclusion. Two men couldn't swing it. Too much maneuvering would be needed to get the right people to the right place at the right time.
I put everything back into the envelope again, put the envelope under my arm, and left the room. I called Frenz from the pay phone in the lobby, a few feet away from the registration desk. When he came on the line, I gave him the number of the pay phone. "I'll call you back in ten minutes," he promised.
I sat in the phone booth waiting for his call. When it came, I heard the ding-ding-ding of coins, indicating that Frenz had moved to a pay phone, too. I went right to the point. "You've handed me a three-man package, Schemer, and I'm alone. What do you have in the way of a solo shot?"
"Nothing that isn't too risky," he replied. "I'd really like to see you take this job on. I've been saving it for someone who's an organizer. You saw the list of names?"
"I saw them. Harris is the only one I know favorably. What the hell are you doing recommending a drunk like Thirsty Huddleston?"
"I'm not recommending anyone." A touch of acid crept into the Schemer's smooth delivery. "I gave you a list of the men available. If you don't want to work with them, that's your business."
"Why didn't you give one of them the package?"
"Because they're followers, not leaders. I have to hitch them onto the tail of someone else's kite." There was exasperation in Frenz's tone. "Listen, I haven't all day. If you don't like the look of the job, I'll give you a post office box number to return the envelope."
The trouble was I had to like the look of it. "Don't jump the rails, man. Where's Harris now?"
"Vegas."
That figured, all right. "Can you reach him?"
"Sure."
I crossed the Rubicon with a rush. "Have him meet Earl Drake at the Marriott Motel across Key Bridge from Washington, D.C., day after tomorrow."
"Fine. Who else do you want?"
I ran through the list of names again in my mind. Eenie, meenie, minie, moe. "What about Dahl? Is it true he's a womanizer?"
"Professionally, perhaps."
"Professionally?"
"He makes nudie movies, which he distributes through a chain of art theaters. It takes him a long time to get his money back from his releases, if he ever does. He finances his films by jobs like this."
A gambler and a maker of nude movies. It hardly sounded like a winning team. The Schemer sensed my hesitation. "Dahl has nerve and can pass anywhere," he said.
In the end it always comes back to nerve, I thought. There were a lot of good workmen on the street who had lost theirs and were out of the business. If a man had nerve, he had a chance in the racket. Without it, nothing else could do him much good.
I made up my mind. "Send him to the Marriott, too."
"Will do." Frenz said it in the manner of a businessman who has just seen the prospect sign the contract. "And good luck."
Once I'd thought I didn't need luck. I was younger then. I'd take all I could get now. "Where do you want your end sent, Schemer?"
He gave me a post office box number, said good-bye, and hung up.
I had a day and a half to study thoroughly the Schemer's plan before I met Harris and Dahl.
I went back to my room.
8
People tend to think that a bank robber does nothing else for three hundred and sixty-five days a year.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I've known professionals who ran legitimate businesses in their hometowns and left them only for the quick trips necessary to bring off a job. One of the best I ever had contact with was a middle-aged funeral director in a small town.
I probably came closer than most to being full-time, but even I always took a legitimate job a couple of months each year, usually as a tree surgeon. The one infallible way to be sure of taking a bumpy ride was to be picked up on suspicion and have no visible means of support.
Except at the highest level, bank robbery is far more of an avocation than it is a vocation. As is the case with most hobbies, not enough time is given to it. I'd always avoided that pitfall. I made it my business never to make a move until I was sure I had eliminated as much of the risk in a job as possible.
By the time I left the Holiday Inn in Richmond, I knew more about the operation of the Manufacturers Trust branch bank in Thornton, Pa., than the majority of its employees did.
* * *
Dahl reached the Marriott first on Monday afternoon. My first ten minutes with him nearly put me off the whole deal.
He was good-looking, with a big, toothy smile. He was also brash, extroverted, and noisy. I didn't appreciate any of it. He walked into the motel room wearing a sixteen-millimeter movie camera of the hand-held type slung by a cord about his neck. I was to find out he never went anywhere without the thing, unless it was into the shower. Later I was able to convince myself that it wasn't wholly a bad idea. A camera-carrying bankrobber? Hardly. But at first sight it set my teeth on edge.
"What's the deal, cousin?" he demanded breezily after we'd shaken hands. "I'm a busy man. I'm shooting a movie in New York City right now. If anyone except the Schemer had called me, I wouldn't have dropped everything to come down here."
"Let's wait until Harris gets here and I won't have to go through it twice," I said to put him off.
He shrugged and sat down on the bed. His glance as he examined me was speculative. "Why the makeup, cousin?"
"I'm actually a lesbian in drag." I tried to say it lightly, but it nettled me that he had spotted the makeup so easily.
"It's not that obvious, but makeup's my business," he said. He studied me intently. "Do I know you, cousin?" he continued. "What's your passport?"
"Schemer's my passport," I retorted. "And you know me right now as well as you ever will."
His eyes narrowed. "The bossy type, huh? How'd I get on your list?"
"It was the Schemer's list. He said you had nerve."
"That's me." He said it complacently. The compliment appeared to mollify him. "Okay. Just don't try putting a ring in my nose, see?"
I didn't answer him. I picked up the telephone and ordered sandwiches and beer from room service. When the knock came at the door and I opened it to admit the boy with the tray, Dahl disappeared into the bathroom without my having to say anything. He had passed a test, and I began to feel a little better about him.
In the next two minutes he lost the ground he had gained. He paced the floor while gulping down a sandwich. Then he flicked aside the draperies pulled across the window. He seemed cha
rged with nervous energy. "Good-lookin' head in a bikini by the pool," he announced. "Be right back."
He was out the door by the time I reached the window. He strode across the intervening courtyard, unlimbering his camera as he went. He took a slow, sweeping panoramic shot of the pool area, then the camera lingered lovingly on the mini-bikinied girl, who eventually reached self-consciously for a towel. Dahl gave her a white-toothed grin and a wave of his hand as he started back toward my room. En route he paused to take a shot of two school-teacherish-looking women who were unlocking the door to their room.
"Suppose the girl's boyfriend or husband had arrived and objected to your making free that way?" I said to Dahl when he was inside again.
"The chick would slow him down," he asserted cheerfully. "They love bein' on film, with or without clothes. Ninety-eight percent of 'em, anyway."
"What about the two older women?"
"Never know when you can blend alfresco shots like that. Cut to a pair of lesbians frolickin' on a bed an' you've saved some footage."
"You mean you'd show innocent people in the kind of stuff you film?"
"Don't get shook, cousin. There's two hundred million people in this country, an' a lot of them look like other people. I never been sued yet." He sank down into a chair. "What time's Harris gonna get here? I got to get back to New York."
"If that's the case, what are you doing here at all with a job in prospect?":
"I'm here to do a quick job, cousin, an' then cut out."
"It's not that kind of a job," I began, and stopped at the sound of a knock at the motel door. Dahl did his disappearing act again while I opened it. None of us wanted to be seen together by anyone who could identify us as a pair or a group afterward.
One Endless Hour d-2 Page 9
