Caper

by Lawrence Sanders

  I looked at him.

  “I know what you’re thinking right now,” he said. “Looking for a way out. A kid like you, with the imagination you got, it figures. So you see right away where your best chance is. After that Bonomo truck is hijacked in front of the antique store. From then until the finish of the heist, you’re alone in the Chevy with Angela. Just the two of you. That’s when you figure you’ll make your move. Right? Scream or try to jump Angela. Jannie, don’t try it. I beg you, don’t try it. She’ll cut you to ribbons. Angela?”

  He looked at the small, dark, tight woman, swathed in yards and yards of knitted wool. She looked at me, eyes black and tiny as raisins.

  “I keel you,” she said. Her voice was a whisper.

  “Listen to her, Jannie,” Donohue urged. “She ain’t kidding. It wouldn’t be the first time, believe me. Besides, what if you did bust this caper wide open—what good would it do? I’m taking all your writing along with me. You scream down the cops and there’s the evidence you planned the whole thing. You and Fleming. Think you can talk your way out of that?”

  “Snookered,” Dick said softly, closing his eyes.

  I may have dozed off myself. Shock, booze, fear. I know I went over Donohue’s scenario again and again, looking for a way out, a weakness Dick and I could exploit, something to throw the bad guys off guard long enough to escape. I couldn’t see anything in our favor but chance and accident. I fell asleep hoping they wouldn’t hurt Noel Jarvis, and wondering if I should ask Donohue about that passport, and whether he thought the real name of the manager, Antonio Rossi, had any particular significance. Black Jack would know all about fake names and assumed identities. He was a professional thief. I knew what I was: a professional klutz.

  My eyes opened, I glanced at my watch. About 7:00 A.M., the morning light beginning to creep through my east windows. There was a dull weight on my left shoulder: Dick’s head; he was sound asleep. So were Angela, the Holy Ghost, Smiley. But Hymie Gore was awake, cleaning his fingernails slowly and meticulously with a pocket nail-file. Clement was awake, holding my Beretta in his lap, looking at me gravely. Donohue was awake—or was he? His eyes were hooded, half-closed. But I had the feeling that if I made a sudden movement, his eyelids would fly up like roller shutters and he’d be at my throat before I took a step.

  So I looked at Clement, returned his stare boldly, wondered if there were some way I could grab that pistol. He was a dapper black man in his establishment clothes. Still unwrinkled, calm. He seemed carved, a basalt statue.

  I jerked my chin toward him.

  “What’s with the IBM suit?” I asked in a low voice.

  He looked down at his wingtip shoes, black hose, precisely pressed dark flannel suit. Button-down collar and regimental striped tie.

  “Cool chic,” he said. “You go into the lion’s den and want to come out alive, you dress like a lion. You dig?”

  “You’re full of shit,” I said flatly. “It’s envy. Jealousy. Imitation. Your lousy try at upward mobility. Forget it. It won’t work. You look like a clown.”

  “You think?” he said, looking down at his clothes.

  “I know,” I said. “I tried a disguise. It didn’t work for me.”

  “You weren’t so hot at it. Me, I got it down right. The threads, the walk, the talk; I can pass. I could stroll into the Pru-dential and be greeted like a brother.”

  “If you chalked your face maybe,” I said cruelly.

  His eyes lifted slowly. As slowly as the muzzle of the gun lifted.

  “Easy, Clement,” Jack Donohue murmured, his eyes still half-closed. “She’s just trying to rile you into making a stupid move. Can’t you see that?”

  “Yeah,” Clement said, relaxing, the gun drooping again. “Yeah, that’s what it was. The little lady was getting to me.”

  Donohue opened his eyes wide, yawned, stretched.

  “Let’s you and me go into the kitchen, little lady,” he said to me. “Put some coffee on.”

  I was tempted to refuse. Why the hell should I wait on those bastards? But if I didn’t make the coffee, Angela or someone else would. And I might not get any. So I slid carefully from under Dick Fleming’s head, propped him against a sofa pillow, and preceded Black Jack into the kitchen.

  He leaned against the counter, watching me put water on to boil, set out cups and saucers.

  “Nice place you got here,” he offered.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Still trying to figure out how to beat me?” he said. “Like maybe throwing boiling water in my face? Forget it. When I have to, I can move so fast you wouldn’t believe it. That was a nice try with Clement, but I was awake, I was listening.”

  “I’ll find something else,” I said, not looking at him.

  “Maybe,” he said. “You or Fleming. I still don’t know what’s between you two, but if one of you sees an opening, maybe you can queer this whole deal and take your chances with the cops. But if you do, just remember we still got the other one. That’s why I’m keeping you in separate cars. One of you fucks up, the other one gets it. Remember that.”

  Lovely phrase: “gets it.” I didn’t want it. But I realized what a smart apple this Black Jack Donohue was. He didn’t know what the relationship was between Dick and me. And if he had known, he wouldn’t have understood. But he was shrewd enough to know that I wouldn’t endanger Dick, or Dick me. Donohue’s entire plan was based on that perception.

  Checkmate.

  The coffee was ready; Jack called into the other room. They came straggling in, two at a time, to get their cups. I brought Dick’s to him. We sat side by side on the sofa, sipping the hot brew, listening to the Donohue Gang.

  Donohue let them go on until the coffee was finished. Then he glanced at his watch.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s put this show on the road. Sorry we can’t help you wash up, Jannie, but first things first! Now you all know how we’re going to move out. Not fast, not running, but brisk. Like we’ve all got jobs to get to. We meet anyone in the hall or on the elevator, and it’s smiles all around, and ‘Good morning’ and ‘How are you?’ Everyone pleasant, everyone easy. No strain, no pain. We get any questions, let me handle it. Down to the garage where we split up. We meet again in the 47th Street garage. All set? Everyone ready? Let’s go!”

  I had hoped that Donohue might forget my manuscript. But no, he went into my office for a big manila envelope, tucked Project X inside, and put it under his arm. He saw me watching him, and winked at me. That son of a bitch!

  Then, hatted and coated, we all filed out. My legs were trembling, heart pumping, and I felt as though I might throw up any minute.

  If that was realism, I wanted no part of it.

  THE BIG CAPER

  I WAS PARTICIPANT. I was observer.

  I went stumbling along, conscious of Angela close behind me, snickersnee at ready. Felt watery knees, faintness, a looseness of the bowels. I did what I was told, allowed myself to be herded, pulled, pushed into the car.

  I wasn’t thinking straight; I admit it. I couldn’t concentrate on my plight or how to escape it. Images and notions appeared, flashed by, disappeared: a speeded-up film. It all went so fast. I saw the familiar scenes of midtown Manhattan: streets, traffic, storefronts, pedestrians. But I was not part of it; it was all strange to me. I was a traveler in a foreign land. As participant, I played my role like a zombie. I could have been drugged. I remember making weird, squealing sounds until, in the car, Jack Donohue gripped my arm fiercely. Then I was still.

  And all the time, acting, I’m sure, like a goddamned somnambulist, I was observing Donohue and the others. I was watching their reactions, making mental notes, telling myself to remember. Everything. Every detail. The writer at work. So, at the moment of my own death, I might note: “Now I am weakening. Everything growing dim. Darkness closing in. There. That’s it.”

  Now the thieves were all business, sober and intent. In the rented Ford with me were Donohue, Angela, Hymie Gore, an
d the Holy Ghost. Angela watched only me, but the heads of the others swiveled constantly, a slow wagging back and forth. They were only watching the traffic about us, but those oscillations had a sinister, mesmeric effect, the deliberate movements of snakes about to strike.

  I saw that, noted it, and marveled at their nerve and resolve. All the crimes I had plotted in those sad, fictional novels of mine were as nothing compared to this. I could imagine criminal projects, but this was the real thing. I began to grasp the purpose it required, the resolution to take step A, which led to step B, which led to step C, and so on.

  I had another vagrant thought on that trip to the West 47th Street garage. It will probably make me sound like a snob, a prig, an elitist, whatever, but if this is to be a true and honest account, I must record it.

  I thought that Dick Fleming and I were superior to these creatures. We were better informed, better educated, more intelligent, more sensitive. It was a matter of breeding, of class; yes, it was. We would never have chosen to associate with any one of them if it hadn’t been for our harebrained scheme. Quite simply, they were beneath us.

  Yet there we were, in the power of those inferior beings. Because they had shrewdness, strength, vigor, and determination that could not be denied. Most important, they were not daunted by action. I tried to recall an instance in my life in which I had planned and carried out a project of moment. I could not think of a single one. A fitting irony that the superior, well-bred, upper-class Jannie Shean should find the first significant act of her life to be a criminal enterprise controlled by denizens of the deep with few brains, fewer social graces, but with the desperate courage to challenge fate and defy society. It was a depressing, humbling thought.

  The other car arrived at the garage before we did. The doors were opened for us by Clement, and quickly closed. Inside were now Dick Fleming’s VW, my XKE, the rented Ford, and the stolen Chevy.

  Everyone went about the assigned tasks with a minimum of talk and confusion. The men donned the Bonomo coveralls, including poor Dick, who was urged on by either Clement or Smiley, their guns prominently displayed. I admired Black Jack’s attention to detail, for each man had been issued a pair of coveralls that fitted reasonably well, from the skinny Holy Ghost to the squat Smiley and mountainous Hymie Gore.

  Grease was smeared on the license plates of the VW and the rented Ford, the final getaway cars.

  “Not too thick,” Donohue cautioned. “We don’t want to get stopped by some hot-rock cop. Just cover one or two of the numbers, enough to confuse witnesses.”

  Then he ran through a checklist, making certain each man carried stocking mask, tape, a few lengths of rope. Gore, the Ghost, Smiley, and Clement carried short crowbars or pieces of pipe. Donohue also had two doorstoppers. And everyone carried at least three folded pillowcases. All were armed, of course.

  Donohue inspected each member of his gang, looking for all the world like a sergeant preparing his squad for parade. Then he took a black mustache from a small paper sack, licked the pad on the back, and stuck it on his upper lip, pressing it firmly in place. He unwrapped a Band-Aid, placed it across his forehead. He inspected his reflection in a car window, not smiling. He should have looked ridiculous but he didn’t. I remember thinking that black mustache did something for him, gave him dash, and he should grow one.

  He looked at his watch, then took a final glance around. The VW and my rented Ford had been backed into the garage, ready for a quick exit. The keys were left under the floor mats.

  “All right,” Black Jack said. “Put on your gloves. Wipe down the Chevy and the XKE, and I mean really scrub them.”

  They worked swiftly, rubbing door handles, steering wheels, door frames, interior armrests.

  “That’s enough,” Donohue said. “Time to get going. Me, Jannie, Angela, Hymie, and the Ghost in the Chevy. Jannie, here’s a pair of gloves for you; you’ll be driving. You other guys travel in style in the Jag. Let’s go.”

  His commands were terse, hard, toneless. No joking. No banter. It was all business, strictly business.

  We rolled out. I drove the Chevy, Angela sitting beside me, her knife a few inches from my ribs. Donohue sat next to her on the outside. Hymie Gore and the Holy Ghost were in the back seat. I glanced in the rearview mirror long enough to see my bottle-green Jaguar follow us out, Dick Fleming driving. The XKE paused just long enough for Clement to hop out and close the garage doors.

  Then we were on our way. My Big Caper was going down.

  On the drive over to Madison Avenue, I wondered if Jack Donohue hadn’t been right. He had told me he felt his luck had finally changed, that this robbery would go off exactly as planned, an enormous success. So far it had certainly gone smoothly. No hitches, no accidents. There hadn’t even been any witnesses in the elevators or garage of my apartment house to note our departure. Perhaps, I thought, gamblers and thieves had an instinct for these things, the way hunters sense game in the vicinity or experienced soldiers sense an opportunity for a kill.

  The trip to the antique shop was uneventful. That knife point held unwaveringly near my ribs was a constant reminder not to try anything foolish, like a contrived stall or a deliberate crash.

  “Slow down a bit,” Donohue commanded. “Let the Jag catch up.”

  I obeyed. I slowed until the XKE was directly behind us. Then, in tandem, we went crosstown to Madison, made a left, and headed uptown. I drove carefully, heeding every stoplight.

  “Smart girl,” Black Jack said tensely. “Keep it up; you’re doing fine.”

  We came to 53rd Street and glanced ahead. No Bonomo truck parked in front of the antique shop.

  “No sweat,” Donohue said. “A slow turn around the block.”

  I went over to Park Avenue on 54th Street, drove south, came back to Madison on 53rd, then turned north again. The Jaguar was right behind us.

  Still no truck.

  Donohue glanced at his watch. “They’re a few minutes late,” he said lightly, and I admired his nerve. I was ready to pee, aching to pee. “Another turn around the block, Jannie.”

  We made the circuit once more. The streets were heavy with early-morning traffic. The sidewalks were clogged with workers hurrying to offices and stores. It took us almost five minutes to work our way around the block onto Madison Avenue again.

  And there was the Bonomo van, double-parked near the antique shop.

  “Bingo,” Jack Donohue said with great satisfaction. “And look—how’s that for luck? They’re parked a door down so they won’t be able to look out the windows and see what we’re doing.”

  He was right: The Bonomo truck wasn’t double-parked directly in front of the antique shop. I began to wonder if the gods of crooks, if there are such, hadn’t decided to throw in with Black Jack Donohue.

  “Pull up in front of him,” he directed me. “Back up until you’re about five feet away. Keep the motor running.”

  I did as I was told. I watched in the mirror as Dick Fleming pulled up behind the van. The three vehicles were in a tight group.

  “Good, good,” Donohue murmured. “Doing fine, doing fine. Now we wait …”

  We waited, silent and motionless, for almost ten minutes. A squad car rolled by on the other side of the avenue, but the two cops didn’t even give us a glance. I didn’t see any foot patrolmen.

  Donohue turned to the men in the back seat.

  “It’s time,” he said.

  They nodded, got out of the car slowly. Went to the back of the van, walking in the street, not on the sidewalk, keeping parked cars between them and the Bonomo cleaning crew inside the antique shop.

  I watched in my rearview mirror as Dick Fleming, Smiley, and Clement got out of the XKE, moving leisurely. As far as I could observe, none of the hurrying pedestrians noticed a thing. The five coveralled men disappeared inside the van and closed the rear doors.

  “Beautiful,” Donohue breathed. “Isn’t that beautiful, Jannie?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Just
like you planned it,” he said. “You should be proud.”

  I wasn’t proud; I was numb. I knew what was going on inside the van: The five men were pulling on their stocking masks, and Dick Fleming was being urged on by the prodding of Clement’s gun. My gun.

  “Here they come,” Donohue said suddenly.

  I looked up. The Bonomo cleaning crew was coming out of the antique shop.

  “My turn,” Black Jack said. He opened the door on his side. “If she gives you any trouble,” he said, “kill her.”

  He was speaking to Angela, but he was looking at me when he said it.

  I hope I never see eyes like that again. Holes. Empty. Deep, deep pits.

  I watched him go. He timed it just right, hesitating on the traffic side of the double-parked cars until the Bonomo cleaning crew had gone to the rear of their van and opened the doors.

  They stood frozen. Then Donohue was behind them, hands at their backs, shoving them forward. Other hands from inside the van reached out, yanked them in. No shouts. No screams. No shots. It had been done.

  I let out a long, quavering sigh. Angela hadn’t been watching the action. She had been watching me. And that knife blade never wavered, never drooped.

  “Angela,” I said desperately, “why don’t we—”

  “Shut up your mout’,” she said tonelessly. “You jus’ do like you was tole. You jus’ drive, that’s all you do. You say nuttin. You unnerstan’? Nuttin. Ever’ word you say, I cut you a leetle.”

  So I said nuttin. I want this clearly understood: At that moment, and during what followed, I was absolutely certain that she meant what she said, that she was capable of cutting me and killing me. That’s why I did what I did. I was in fear of my life. I want everyone to know that. I acted under duress. I am not legally responsible for what happened.

  I watched again in the rearview mirror. I saw the Bonomo driver climb out of the rear of the van. Jack Donohue was close behind him, a hand in his coverall pocket. The two men, walking almost in lockstep, moved to the passenger side of the van’s cab. The Bonomo driver got in first and slid across the seat. Donohue followed him inside and slammed the door.