“But we’re not criminals,” Dick protested. “We have no records. We both earn a good living. We’re solid citizens. What possible motive would we have for pulling an actual robbery?”
“Greed,” I said. “Sick excitement. A clever DA could suggest a dozen motives. Maybe we did it just to prove how smart we are, to outwit the cops, to defy society and the law. Whatever. But the motive really isn’t important if the cops get their hands on Project X. They’ve got a conviction on that alone.”
“Then you figure we don’t have a chance if we give ourselves up?”
“I didn’t say that. Maybe if we surrender and prove we didn’t profit from the crimes, a smart, expensive lawyer could get us off with a fine, suspended sentence, probation. It’s possible. You want to take the chance?”
He was silent again, rubbing his blond eyebrows furiously from side to side.
“Jannie,” he said finally, “you do what you want to do, and I’ll do what I want to do. I mean, we don’t necessarily have to do the same thing, do we? If we disagree, we can go our separate ways, can’t we?”
I looked at him curiously.
“Sure, Dick,” I said. “I’m not going to try to talk you into anything. It’s your neck. It’s your decision how to save it.”
He sighed. “Got a cigarette?” he said.
I went back to the cobbler’s-bench cocktail table, picked up a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches, brought them back to Dick at the window. Jack Donohue opened his eyes to watch what I was doing, but he didn’t say one word.
“Let me tell you something,” Dick said, lighting our cigarettes. “When the bullets started banging through that truck, I flopped down on my face, as flat as I could get. My head was close to the Bonomo helper. He was a young, husky, good-looking guy. I was staring right at him when he was hit. He shuddered and then he was dead. I knew it. And then, later, Clement died while I was holding him. In my arms. And then we opened the pillowcases and saw all that gorgeous jewelry we had stolen. And then Smiley was killed.”
“So?” I said, perplexed. “What’s the point?”
“The point is,” he said, turning away from me to stare out the window, “the point is that there’s never been any drama in my life. Never. I’m thirty-one years old and the most exciting thing that’s happened to me up to now was a week’s vacation in Acapulco, where I got diarrhea. I do all the smart, senseless things a single man in Manhattan is supposed to do. But I never kidded myself that I was living. I mean, nothing was happening. I looked forward to a long, safe, uneventful life. Jannie, it wasn’t enough.”
I stared at the back of his head, wondering why he wouldn’t look at me. What he was saying had meaning. I could understand how a guy like him could be shocked, excited, almost exhilarated by the events of the past twelve hours. It was a new world for him. A mild, gentle editor of children’s books finds himself in a hypercharged scene of armed robbery, violence and sudden death.
I had been wrong about him; he wasn’t about to crack up. But an earthquake had shaken him, changed his perceptions. There was a life he hadn’t even envisioned—except once removed in books, movies, television. But this was the real thing. And now he was in the middle of it, part of it. It was raw, sweaty, dangerous. Hadn’t he opted for risk and adventure, sensing the lack in his own life?
The thrilling robbery, the careening escape, the deaths of men close to him—all had given life a savor it never had before. He was feeling now, feeling deeply. Fear, courage, love, hate. Things he had never really felt before. They had been words with dictionary definitions. But now, only now, he knew what they meant.
And there was something else. I wasn’t sure about it, but I had to find out.
I put up a hand, stroked his fine hair fondly.
“Dick,” I said in a low voice, “do you want to make love with Jack Donohue?”
He didn’t answer for a long time, and I thought perhaps he hadn’t heard me. But finally he turned. He looked into my eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said, puzzled, troubled. “Maybe.”
“Then you’re going with him?”
He nodded.
“Then I’m going, too,” I said.
“Jannie,” he groaned, “please. Not for my sake.”
“Of course not,” I said. “I have my own motives.”
“Like what?”
“First of all, I want to stay close to my manuscript. I spent a lot of time and work on that thing and I’m not going to give it up without a struggle. Second, I want to see how it comes out.”
“What? You’re crazy!”
“No, no—Sol Faber claims readers want neat, tidy endings. I can’t see how this caper can possibly end tidily, but God knows I’ve been wrong up to now. So I’m coming along. In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, there’s the matter of ego. I don’t like being manipulated, and that’s what Black Jack has been doing: manipulating us. I want to see if I have the wit and energy to beat him at his own game.”
“You voluntarily go now,” he reminded me, “and your duress defense goes out the window. You become a full-fledged accomplice.”
“I can always plead insanity.”
“You should have done that three months ago,” he said. But he was smiling, and leaned forward to kiss the tip of my nose. Then we marched back to stand side by side in front of Donohue.
“We’re going with you,” I announced.
Jack let his breath out in a long sigh.
“Biggest long-shot gamble I’ve ever made,” he said, grinning. “It’s nice to have a winner.”
“Would you really have turned us loose to go to the cops?” I asked him.
“Sure,” he said cheerfully.
I didn’t believe him for a minute. I hadn’t told Dick Fleming one of the reasons I had decided we should go with Donohue: I was afraid that if we didn’t he’d kill us both. He was capable of it.
“I’ve been figuring our best bet,” Donohue said, standing and pacing around the room. “We’ve got a day or two before that thing in the closet begins to stink up the joint. But I think we better get out of here tonight, after dark. They won’t have very good descriptions of us. Me, Hyme, and Fleming were in coveralls. They had masks, and I had the fake cookie-duster and the Band-Aid. You’re the problem, Jannie.”
“Me?” I protested. “Why me?”
“Get with it,” he said disgustedly. “They find the Jag, trace your apartment, get an accurate description and a photograph from your sister or friends. You’ll be all over the front pages of the tabloids and on the TV news shows by tomorrow. So you’ve got to become Bea Flanders again.”
“Not again!” I wailed. “I thought I was finished with those goddamned falsies. Besides, all Bea’s stuff is at my apartment.”
“Not to worry,” Donohue said. “I’ll go out, pick up enough junk for you to change your looks. A red wig, a—”
“Not red,” I said. “I hate red hair.”
“Will you use your fucking brain?” he snarled at me. “The cops get to your apartment, they’ll know what Jannie Shean looks like. The Corporation traces me to the Hotel Harding, they’ll make the connection with the blonde who lived next door to me. So now you’ve got to be a redhead. So I’ll pick up a red wig, tight skirt and sweater, a trenchcoat—whatever. Make me out a list. While I’m out, I’ll buy some food and booze, enough to keep us going until we get out of town.”
“How are you going to pay for all this?” I asked suspiciously.
He flashed one of his 100-watt grins and jerked a thumb toward the pile of stolen jewelry.
“Hock a couple of things,” he said. “Rings, watches, earrings—like that. There’s no way, no way, the cops can have a description of the stuff out to pawn shops already. By the time they do, we’ll be long gone.”
“Listen,” I said, “what about the insurance—” I stopped suddenly. “Forget it. It was a dumb idea. It’s not likely Brandenberg and Sons would have taken out insurance on hot jewelry.”
Dick looked at him gratefully.
“Another thing,” Jack said. “You got any suitcases?”
“A couple,” Dick said. “Two leather, and some canvas carryalls.”
“Good,” Donohue said, smiling at him. “Pack up all the ice. Put some shirts and towels around it so it doesn’t rattle. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours, maybe more. I’ll take your phone number, and if there’s any problem, I’ll try to call. I’ll let the phone ring twice, then hang up. Then I’ll call again. That one you answer. But don’t answer any other calls. Got it? And don’t open the door for anyone. Don’t play the radio or TV. And try to move around quiet. And don’t worry about me: I’ll be back.”
Strangely enough, I was sure he would.
“I’ll take the Ford,” he said. “I’ll gas up. We’ll leave about midnight. Get some sleep—if you can.”
“Where we going, Jack?” Hymie Gore asked him.
“South,” Donohue said. “Miami.”
“We’ll never make it,” I said.
“Sure we will,” he said. “Dead or alive.”
ON THE RUN
WE CAME THROUGH THE Lincoln Tunnel, worked our way in and out of horrendous holiday traffic, got onto the New Jersey Turnpike and headed south. Dick Fleming and Hymie Gore were snoozing in the back seat. I was driving. Jack Donohue sat beside me, bending over a Gulf Oil map, trying to read it in the light of the dash.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked him.
“When it’s time,” he said absently. “I love this traffic. Safety in crowds, babe.”
I was wearing my new wig—a cross between fire-engine red and life-preserver orange. It was a mass of tight curls. I looked like Little Orphan Annie after she had been picked up by the heels and dipped in a bucket of tangerine Jell-O. Jack had done well with the trenchcoat, though. It had a zip-in fleece lining, which was welcome considering that the outside temperature was a few degrees below zero. He had also bought me a tweed skirt and pink angora sweater. The pink went with my orange wig like milk goes with pickles.
“We’ll pick up some better stuff along the way,” he had assured me. “Also, I’ll need clothes, and Hyme and Dick, too. Some more suitcases. Maybe a thermos for coffee, and one of those plastic picnic chests so we can carry food on the road.”
“You think we’ll make it, Jack?” Hymie Gore asked.
“Can’t miss,” Donohue had said as he crossed middle and index fingers of both hands and spun around three times.
So there we were, rolling south through New Jersey at about 2:00 A.M. Dick’s suitcases and carryalls, stuffed with the Brandenberg loot, were in the trunk. Jack estimated the total take at close to three million, and I didn’t doubt it. It gave me a wry satisfaction.
In the passenger compartment, stuffed under the seats, was the arsenal we had accumulated: my gun, Jack’s gun, Hymie Gore’s gun, Smiley’s gun, Clement’s gun, and the three guns taken from the Brandenberg clerks.
“We could invade Bulgaria,” Jack Donohue said.
The armament was stowed away, hidden, because Black Jack didn’t want any of us personally armed during our flight.
“Suppose we get pulled over by some hotshot trooper,” he explained. “Chances are he’s not going to pat us down. But he might spot a bulge. He might just feel something is wrong and give us a quick frisk. But he’s not going to climb into the car for a search by himself. So he writes us a ticket and takes off. You’ve got to figure the percentages. When we hole up in a motel to sleep, we’ll go in heeled. But on the road, we’re solid citizens.”
Following his instructions, I kept to the speed limit and had the frustration of watching cars and trucks go whizzing by. But it didn’t seem to bother Donohue. He just bent over his map, tracing routes with his forefinger.
“Here’s the problem,” he said musingly, almost to himself. “By tomorrow or the next day the cops and the Corporation will have a handle on me, through Clement. They’ll ask around and discover I work out of Miami. The New York cops will drop out and the Feds will take over. They’ll cover all the turnpikes, national highways, and so forth, figuring I’ll be trying to make time.”
“How about airlines?” I asked. “Railroads? Bus lines?”
“Forget it,” he said. “They were covered an hour after we hit. No, they’ll figure we’re heading south by car. So our best bet is to get off the turnpikes whenever we can and use secondary roads. Also, we’ve got to do that. We can’t go around Philadelphia and Baltimore, for example. We’ve got to go into town.”
“Money,” I said.
He reached out to pat my knee.
“Brainy lady,” he said. “Unless you want us to use those credit cards of yours—which would be like leaving arrows pointing ‘They went thataway.’ So we’ll have to go into the cities along the route. Hock or sell enough of the ice to keep us green. Take what we can get. Not carry so much on us that if we’re stopped and turned out, the cops are going to get suspicious. But just enough in our pockets so we can pass as vacationing New Yorkers heading south for the season. We can stash extra cash under the seats.”
“What if they search the car?” I said.
“Oh shit,” he said. “If they turn out the car, they’ll find all those irons and the rocks, so what’s the diff? I’m just saying what we should carry on us. Let’s stick to the Turnpike for another hour or so. Then we’ll cut over to Camden and Philadelphia. Hole up and get some sleep. Unload some of the stones and buy the stuff we’ll need. We’ll travel again tomorrow night.”
“Drive only at night?” I asked him.
“Morning, day, night,” he said, shrugging. “We’ll take it as it comes. The important thing is to avoid a pattern so they can’t get ahead of us. One day we’ll pour on the miles during daylight, the next day a short trip at night. We don’t want to give them any tips.”
“You’re sure they’ll be coming after us?” I asked.
“Oh, they’re coming,” he said grimly. “The Feds and the Corporation. They’re coming after us. You can take that to the bank.”
We drove awhile in silence, and then I asked a question that was bothering me:
“Jack, if they get onto you, and learn your home base is Miami, then why are we heading there?”
“Where should we go?”
“The Midwest,” I suggested. “Chicago. Or LA. Anyplace they won’t suspect.”
“No good,” he said, shaking his head. “Jannie, the Feds are an army. They’ll alert all their field offices. And the Corporation is even worse. They’ll put out the word, with maybe a nice prize offered for tips, and they’re everywhere. I mean, I won’t even be able to get a shoeshine without wondering if the kid’s made me. So if every direction is equally dangerous, it makes sense to head for a place I know. Where I can find people I trust. Besides, did you ever wonder just what the hell we’re going to do with all those big hunks in the trunk? The Brandenberg stuff, and the Devolte loot, and all that?”
“I wondered,” I admitted. “The insurance company is out, and from what you said, no fence will touch us.”
“Not in this country they won’t,” he agreed. “That’s the other reason we’re heading for Miami. With enough of the long, we can charter a plane to get us out of the U.S. and A. To one of the islands or someplace in Central America. Or South America. Like that. We’ll probably have to take ten percent, but down there we can live high off the hog on that ten. And no questions asked if you grease the right palms.”
“Why not New England?” I persisted. “Boston? Your home? Surely there are people up there you can trust?”
“Boston?” he said. “My home?” He snorted with laughter. “Holy Jesus, you didn’t fall for that fine old family in Boston bullshit, did you, babe? It was all smoke. I’m a cracker. I was born on a farm outside of Albany, Georgia.”
I sighed. �
�Now I don’t know what to believe,” I told him.
“Not what anyone tells you,” he said. “Never believe that. Just believe in what they do. Actions speak louder than words.”
“Oh God,” I said. “The platitudes! You’d make a lousy writer.”
“Sure I would,” he said equably. “But I’m a great crook. I’m going to catch a few winks. Wake me up when we get to the Philly turnoff.”
In a few minutes I was the only one awake in the car. I had my hands in the 10-2 position on the wheel. I was leaning forward slightly, peering out the windshield. Not the most comfortable driving position in the world (it gets you in the small of the back), but we were running into patchy fog. It was almost an icy mist, enough to make outside lights glimmer but not heavy enough to switch on the wipers.
Like most New Yorkers I can handle midtown Manhattan traffic without a shiver. But get me out on a clear raceway like a turnpike, and I get the fantods. I mean, who drives to Miami? I even plane to the Cape and Montauk.
But there I was, Bea Flanders, gunmoll, at the wheel of a getaway car carrying three villains, eight assorted cannons, and about three mil in stolen gems. I’d love to use it in a book, but who’d believe it?
And guess what I was brooding about. My nefarious career? The trail of corpses we had left behind us? The dangers ahead? Nope. I was wondering about what would happen when we did find a motel that raw night. Specifically, what would the sleeping arrangements be? We obviously couldn’t ask casually for a room for four adults.
That meant two doubles—and who would bunk in with whom? Did Jack Donohue trust us enough to allow Dick and me to share sleeping quarters? Or would he claim droit du seigneur? An interesting problem. It occupied me until I saw the warning signs for the Camden-Philadelphia turnoff and nudged Jack awake with my elbow.
Caper Page 19
