'E-E-Everglades two,' said the excited K-K-K-Katy in a call box three miles away on the highway.
'We're just leaving. Okay?'
'Okay. We're ready. G-G-Good luck, M-Molly.'
Molly left the wigwam. The rest of the party was already aboard the bus. The stripe-shirted guide, sweat running down. his chin, was stretched on his toes counting his charges.
'Wait for me!' shouted Molly running towards them holding her pretty flowered hat in place.
'Ah!' exclaimed the guide, 'I thought maybe the Seminoles had got you.'
'Wish they would,' said Molly brightly as she boarded the bus. 'We women don't have fun like that these days.'
Some of the passengers laughed but she got a few frowns and turned-away faces as she went down the aisle. She reached her place next to a stiff-looking woman who had said she was from Boston. Molly settled herself. 'You know what the Indians do to white women,' she mentioned mischievously. The Boston lady shuddered.
It had been very hot and the majority of the tourists were from Canada and the Northern United States. The doors closed and the bus started along the track towards the main highway. The people sat gratefully in the air conditioning and discussed the afternoon's diversions.
'I got to tell you, Marge, to me that alligator looked just like it was made of rubber.'
'Doped,' said Marge decisively. 'Doped snout to tail. That
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Indian didn't have a scratch or a mark on him. Doped.'
The driver sighed idly into the mirror. Every day he heard the same comments, the same complaints. They did not believe those parrots at the Parrot Jungle really rode bicycles and roller skates. It was all a trick, rubber parrots worked by electricity, wasn't this sun hot, and the whole of Florida was below water level and one good tidal wave would drown the whole state, and the hotel charged too much for drinks, and, gee, wasn't it hot, those guys had to be cruel to make those dolphins do those tricks, anyway they were rubber dolphins, worked by electricity, same as the alligators and the parrots. Never mind, they just had two feet of snow in New York State. God, this dirt road is sure bumpy. The Mafia ran everything in Miami, even a dum-dum knew that. The horse racing and the Jai-alai games and the dog tracks. You couldn't win anywhere. Florida was out to rob you. Gee this road. And what's that, Al, some guy off his motor cycle? Lying in the dirt road ...
Katy felt very hot and uncomfortable in the motor cycle gear, and the crash helmet hung like a ton on her head. She lay face down in the red dust, a centipede walking determinedly towards her left eye. She watched it nervously. To her relief it did a smart left turn when it realized that her eyelash was not another centipede. If marched past her view like a platoon of soldiers.
The motor cycle was spreadeagled in the dirt a dozen yards away, a long convincing scar cut into the track by its handlebars. She had offered to attempt to ride the machine, but Ossie had said it would be just as realistic if it were a set-up. He rode the bike along the track to make the tyre impressions and skidded it at the decided point.
She heard the bus come around the bend and hoped that the driver wasn't too tired or preoccupied to see her. It would be a shame to miss the very first operation. She smiled at the dust under her nose as she heard the engine check and then come to a halt.
In the saw-grass a few yards from the bus Ari and Lou crouched, the useless Russian pistols in their hands. On the other side of the track Sidewalk Joe waited, similarly mis-armed. Bruce and Ossie watched through binoculars two hun-
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dred yards up the track. All wore hoods which reached to their waists.
'Right,' whispered Bruce. 'It's stopped. Any second now.'
The door of the bus slid open and the guide and the driver appeared on the step. At the windows the faces of the tourists pressed to get a better view. From the undergrowth on either side the three masked figures stepped out simultaneously. Everybody in the bus screamed.
'Okay,' said Sidewalk Joe, moving in first, according to plan. 'This is what they used to call a stick-up.' He pushed the large Russian gun into the tourist guide's projecting middle. 'What's your name, son?'
The young man, his face crimson with alarm, swallowed. It seemed like he would never make it. 'Larry,' he said painfully. 'Larry K. Burlestone.'
'Right,' said Sidewalk Joe beneath his mask. 'Larry K. Burlestone. You're going to be the late Larry K. Burlestone if these good people don't contribute to my benevolent fund.' He shouted the words up the bus. The passengers were sitting stiff with apprehension. 'Okay, my buddies will be coming along the bus for contributions. We'll accept anything and everything. Any trouble and lovely Larry here will be ready for the mortician. And the same goes for anybody else who tries to pull anything.'
Lou and Ari moved into the bus. Each had a canvas bag for the loot. Molly watched them as they advanced. She clutched her purse realistically.
'Rape! Rape!' cried a plump woman, halfway along the centre aisle.
'We don't do requests, lady,' muttered Ari standing along the centre aisle. He leaned forward and took off her necklace, opened her pocketbook and helped himself to a billfold. All around the other passengers were surrendering their valuables, some fearfully, some sullenly, some with brave curses. Lou took Molly's handbag.
'I've counted it,' warned Molly from the edge of her mouth. 'Every last cent.'
Lou was quietly collecting the belongings of three New England gentlemen. They handed them over haughtily. Lou smiled
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below his hood. 'This is where you say "you'll never get away with this",' he reminded them. None of them spoke.
Ari opened the wallet of a large scornful-looking man and was confronted by the man's photograph and an FBI identification card. Ari's breath stopped for a moment. He handed the wallet back. 'Nice to have you aboard, sir,' he said from beneath the hood.
Lou was patiently making his way along his section of the bus. 'Contributions please,' he recited. 'All gratefully received.'
A quarrelsome woman refused to be parted from a diamond and emerald ring. 'Never,' she said bluntly to Ari. 'Just for a start, mister, it won't come off that finger. It never has come off.'
'Gee, I'm sorry,' said Ari. He called towards the front of the bus. 'Charley, get a hacksaw.'
'It came off!' exclaimed the woman at once. "That's the first time it's come off in twenty years!'
Ari examined it. 'Nice stuff, lady,' he said. 'You should look after rocks like this. Hope it's insured.' He dropped it into his bag. He looked around. The others were finished and making their way towards the door at the front.
'Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of the poor of South Florida, we would like to thank you for your response to our appeal,' said Sidewalk Joe. 'You been real generous. We've got to be on our way, but we will always remember you and hope you will remember us. We are going to take your guide Larry K. along with us for a while. That's just to make sure you stay good and quiet. If you all stay in your seats and button up for ten minutes you'll find that Larry will come back to you - all his pieces joined on to his other pieces. If you don't, then we may have to separate him.' A shudder, beginning with Larry himself, echoed down the bus.
'I'd like to say something,' said Larry bravely. 'Is that possible, sir?'
'Just don't shout "Help",' replied Sidewalk. 'Okay, go ahead.'
'Ladies and gentlemen,' said Larry turning his sweat-soaked face to his customers. 'Smileytime Tours apologize for this interruption. We hope that you will still remember us next time you are planning a tour in Florida.' His smile was yellow. 'Smileytime, anytime - that's our slogan.'
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There was a predictably mixed chorus of cheers and groans and outright boos from the robbed passengers. Lawsuits were already being planned. Larry was taken from the bus by the gang. The driver was warned once again not to move a yard. The gang and their hostage stepped out into the heavy sun. Katy had gone off on a prearranged route, leaving the motor cycle, which they had stolen, lying in t
he dust in the path of the bus.
From their concealment two hundred yards away Bruce and Ossie watched. 'They're on their way,' said Bruce. 'All to plan. Let's blow.'
They climbed through the undergrowth and pushed their way to a clearing in the swamp. A Volkswagen mini-bus was parked there. Ossie climbed into the driving seat and started the engine. Bruce opened the rear doors. A moment later the three hooded members of the gang and the prisoner came through the saw-grass. Larry K. was hoisted into the back of the Volkswagen and the others sat around him, still in their hoods.
'This will ruin Smileytime Tours,' said Larry loyally.
'Shit,' said Sidewalk Joe. 'Great publicity, all the newspapers, TV, radio. Everybody will want to tour with Smileytime.'
Larry brightened. 'You sure?' he asked. 'You really think that could happen?'
'Sure,' put in Ari. 'You'll get more loot from this than we did. Just wait and see.'
After five minutes they dropped Larry K. by the side of the dirt road at a place where he had a long walk to a phone and a longer walk to the Everglades Parkway. He sat down resignedly at the side of the swamp waiting for his bus to pick him up.
The gang were joined by Katy, who appeared from the vegetation, and they set off for the main highway in soaring spirits.
They took their hoods away, each one revealing a sweating face smirking with triumph. 'Great! It was great!' hooted Ari. 'It worked! We did it!'
Lou embraced him so heavily he winced and Sidewalk grinned his New York grin. Katy giggled and Bruce and Ossie shouted their relief.
'We got some nice trinkets,' said Ari looking down into his canvas bag. 'Some real pretty things.'
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'Put it away,' said Sidewalk sharply. 'Jeez! Never look at the takings until the door is locked.'
Ari looked up shamefacedly but the warning was timely because now they had reached the Everglades Parkway and Ossie had turned the vehicle east towards Andytown. Occasional cars passed in either direction and a worried silence fell on them. Then at the traffic lights at the termination of the parkway a highway patrol car drew easily alongside.
'Sing,' hissed Bruce. 'Everybody sing.'
It was Katy who began. In her old piping voice she opened up. She sang 'That old gang who sang heart-of-my-heart,' and the others joined in robustly.
The highway patrol men grinned and one leaned from the car and called to Ossie: 'All had a good day?'
'Oh a great day, thank you officer,' he grinned back. 'Everybody.'
The policeman waved cheerfully as the lights changed. 'One thing I like to see,' he said to his driver, 'is old folks having a good time.'
The headquarters of Dade County Police is on Biscayne Boulevard, Miami. It was here that the victims of the Everglades bus hold-up were taken. Three hours had elapsed since the robbery, the Florida sun had sunk without a trace, and the tourists were becoming irritated and hungry. They sat on benches around the large, untidy but boring room, waiting their turn to step to one of the tables where policemen sat and wrote laborious lists of valuables stolen by the gang.
Molly Mandy was conscious of a small blush of apprehension as she was beckoned forward to one of the tables. But the officer who was listing took it as natural nervousness of the police - a sound deduction - and he smiled professionally at her as he nodded towards the seat on the other side of the table.
'Now, ma'am, this won't take too long. First your name and address.'
'Molly Belle Mandifield,' she lied primly, touching her gentle finger tops together. 'I'm not going to tell you my age, I'll tell you where I live. I live at 1017, Pine Street, Longville, South
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Carolina.' That was a he also, but she had wisely decided to keep the law away from South Miami Beach.
'And you're on vacation in Florida?'
'Yes. And I've had a real good time, till now.'
'Local address?'
She decided to bluff it out. 'Sunshine Apartments, Pompano Beach,' she said, naming a hotel where she had once spent three days on her first arrival in South Florida. She had doubts about the untruth. 'But I'm leaving tomorrow,' she added firmly. 'Going home. And I'm glad, just take it from me, I'm glad.'
'Okay, I see. Well, we'll get in touch if we find out who did this to you.'
'What do you mean "if"?' she inquired, leaning forward as though she were the interrogator. 'Is there any doubt that you're going to catch them? I hope not.'
The policeman looked pained as if he were personally disappointed in her. 'We hope not too, lady, but we got a few million people in this corner of the US and maybe they could hide. We've not heard of this gang before. This is the first time they've tried anything.'
'I hope you're watching the ports and airports and the state boundaries,' sniffed Molly. 'I hope you remember that.'
'Night and day,' sighed the policeman. 'We've got them trapped in sixty thousand square miles. Now can we get down the list of your missing property?'
'Okay,' she replied sweetly. 'Eight dollars, thirty-five cents, my ruby ring and good luck travel charm.'
'Like a medallion on a chain?'
'Right,' affirmed Molly. 'It's supposed to take care of me when I travel.'
'It quit on the job. Anything else?'
'No.' Molly dabbed at her eyes. 'I'm just a poor robbed woman.'
The policeman looked up with a suspicion of sympathy. 'Sure, sure,' he muttered. 'I'm sorry lady. We'll get them, don't worry.'
'I'll pray for you,' said Molly turning away. As she did so she raised her eyes towards the ceiling.
Captain Salvatore sat disconsolately on the edge of his desk in the police station office. He was thinking, his sparsely covered head bent, his eyes dull, his top lip hanging over the bottom.
He spread a sheaf of statements in his hairy hand like an ape playing cards. 'Hooded hoods!' he snorted. 'Guns, scared old ladies. For Chrissake, what is this, I ask you?'
Detective Stewart, a blinking young man, shrugged: 'It's armed robbery, chief.'
Salvatore regarded him painfully and then revolved thoughtfully to the other policeman in the room, Detective Cook.
'I'll tell you something, Cookie,' he said, nodding towards Stewart. 'Our boy here has sure improved since he went on his refresher course at police school. It's armed robbery, he says. Jesus Harold Christ I I know it's armed robbery. I already made that deduction, Stewart. What I meant was, for Godsake, this is Florida! Sunshine, citrus, palm trees, safe swimming in the ocean. Nice people getting a suntan. It ain't Harlem.' Salvatore sighed, the effort shaking his frame. 'Tourists, the state's most valuable commodity. Robbed, in broad daylight. In Florida sunshine!' He seemed to take it as a personal hurt. His unkempt face sagged.
'We don't know any gang in this state who operates like that,' ventured Cook. 'Hooded, guns ...'
Stewart tried. 'Maybe it's the Purvisco Mob,' he said. 'Down for a vacation.'
Salvatore stared at him desperately. 'The Purvisco Mob? You get more beautiful by the hour, Stewart. The last operation the Purvisco gang pushed got them a million bucks from the State Deposit Bank in Chicago.' Dull-eyed he looked down at the list in his hand. 'Two pearl earrings, imitation,' he read. 'A pair of sunglasses, eight dollars, a diamond ring, a ruby ring, imitation. Three candy bars, genuine.' He paused and looked up sourly at Stewart. 'Does that sound like the Purvisco Mob?'
Stewart looked aggrieved. 'It was only an idea,' he said.
'And a lousy one,' said Salvatore. 'I can't see me telling it to the chief. Who was the FBI man on the bus?'
'Guy called Brown, I expect that's an alias,' shrugged Stewart. 'Nobody in the FBI is called Brown.'
His captain's odd eyebrows went up in the direction of Cook.
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'What was he doing?' repeated Salvatore. 'Have we checked( him?'
'He was on vacation,' said Cook. 'He likes seeing Indians fight alligators. He's okay. I've checked him. And his name's Brown.'
The Ocean Drive Delinquent Society returned q
uickly to South Miami Beach, scattered with hardly a flutter and merged with the hundreds of inhabitants of God's Waiting Room. In turn they deposited the bags of loot taken from the bus in the bathroom of Molly's narrow apartment, among the armoury of Russian weapons.
At nine that evening they rendezvoused in the apartment, K-K-K-Katy bringing with her a bottle of genuine New York French Champagne. 'I was saving it for something to celebrate,' she said before looking in Lou the Barbender's direction and pouring a measure in each glass held by the gang. 'But maybe we've got something.'
'Beautiful,' murmured Loose Bruce, sipping at his glass. 'Just beautiful.'
'It sure seemed like it,' said Ossie cautiously. 'But ladies and gentlemen, we're waiting for Molly to get back. She's been held up with the police for quite a time.'
'I-I-I-I-liked it,' said Katy decisively. 'Gee, it was so exciting! And that gun felt so comforting.'
'Like old times,' nodded Sidewalk Joe contentedly. 'Took me right back to the thirties. Maybe it wanted a little more drama, like there was no shooting, no ketchup, and nobody turned stool pigeon or double crossed, but it was close enough.'
Ari said: 'Jeez, did you see those folks' faces? People sure don't like being robbed.'
'How much did we get? That's what I want to know,' said Sidewalk quietly. 'I just know it ain't much.'
'Right,' said Ossie. 'You're right. But it was the first pitch. That's what matters. We did it.'
'Maybe we should have waited until some millionaires went to see the Indian wrestle the alligator,' suggested Lou solidly. 'Maybe it would have been big time then.'
'And maybe not,' put in Katy. 'All the m-m-millionaires I've
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ever known never had a cent on them. It's all in banks and safe deposits and stock. They don't go around loaded.'
There came three soft knocks on the door, followed by two others. 'Molly,' said Bruce. He rose from the table and opened it. Molly slid in like a spy.
'Was it okay?' said Bruce right away.
'Oh, just wonderful,' she smiled. 'There's a poor cop called Captain Salvatore going bananas at police headquarters. They just got no idea. No idea. Gee, is that champagne? Oh, you kept some. That's real sweet. I like the bubbles in my eyes.'
That Old Gang Of Mine Page 7
