McNally's Caper

by Lawrence Sanders

  I thought about that a moment. Then I said:

  ‘You mean about getting to Miami? Getting out of the country with the ice and living happily ever after?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, sighing, ‘that’s what I mean. What do you think?’

  I didn’t answer. He kept stirring restlessly. I stared out of the window, and in the light from the motel sign I saw that it had started to snow. Big fat flakes were coming down slowly, like petals.

  ‘Jack,’ I said finally.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Want me to come into your bed?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That might help.’

  The Donohue Gang didn’t do much on Sunday, just mooched around, went out for breakfast and lunch. Armed. Then we repacked the suitcases and carryalls, dividing up the Brandenberg loot so if one or two cases were lost or stolen, we’d still have plenty. Hymie Gore cleaned the guns that had been fired during the wild getaway. He used handkerchiefs and a package of pipe cleaners he had bought.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘we’re going to need more pills.’

  ‘I know it, Hyme,’ Donohue said. ‘I figured we’d wait till we get a little farther south. Easier to buy ammo down there, and no questions asked. We got enough to see us through, don’t we, Hyme?’

  ‘Oh sure, Jack. But, you know …’

  Late in the afternoon we were all sitting around in the room occupied by Fleming and Gore, watching a football game on television and drinking vodka. The snow had stopped - only an inch or so had fallen - but it was cold enough so that it wasn’t melting. We knew we’d have to hit the road again soon, but it was warm and cozy in there: no one wanted to make the first move.

  A short news broadcast came on: the usual about the Mideast situation, a famine in Pakistan, a plane crash in Poland, a fire in Bombay that killed 196. All swell stuff. Then the expressionless announcer said:

  ‘New York police admit they have no leads in a particularly gruesome double homicide discovered this morning in an abandoned butcher shop in the South Bronx. The bodies of a man and a woman were found hanging from meat hooks. Both victims, said the police, had obviously been tortured before they died. Identification has not yet been definitely established, but it is believed the woman was of Hispanic extraction. And now, back to today’s football scores …’

  ‘ Black Jack Donohue got up slowly. He switched off the TV. We watched him walk to the window. He stood staring out at the snow-covered scene.

  ‘Jack,’ Hymie Gore said falteringly. ‘You hear that?’

  ‘I heard it, Hyme.’

  ‘Youthink …?’

  ‘Yeah, Hyme, that’s what I think. Angela and the Ghost. They didn’t make it.’

  ‘Uh …’ Dick Fleming tried. ‘Uh …’

  Donohue whirled on him.

  ‘You mean did they talk?’ he demanded. ‘Is that what you’re wondering? Did they talk?’

  Fleming hung his head.

  ‘Goddamned right they talked! So would you, so would I, so would anyone. Now they got our names, descriptions, everything. Jesus Christ, we got to dump that car!’

  ‘How did they get to the Holy Ghost?’ I asked, hoping to calm him down. ‘You said he’d play it smart.’

  ‘Who the hell knows?’ he said, shrugging. ‘Maybe Angela gave a ring to a relative, a Christmas present, and they flashed it around. It could happen a dozen ways. Oh, those bastards! They didn’t have to cut them up. The Ghost would have sung right away. He’d know I’d understand. But no, they had to hurt them. You know why? A warning to us. Oh, yes. An example. You rip off the Corporation, that’s what you get. They knew we’d hear about it or read about it. They want us to know what’s in store for us.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I said faintly, remembering the finger-tapping, foot-tapping Holy Ghost, the skinny little Angela wrapped around with yards and yards of knitted wool.

  ‘Want to take off now?’ Donohue said harshly. ‘You and Fleming? Turn yourselves in? Go ahead. I wouldn’t blame you. Hyme and I will keep the car, the rocks, and split. You call the cops and take your chances.’

  Dick and I stared at each other.

  ‘No, Jack,’ he said, looking at Donohue. ‘We’re in this as deep as you are. We’ll stick.’

  ‘It’s your ass,’ Black Jack said with a mirthless grin. ‘Let’s pack up and get moving. This place gives me the creeps.’

  Dick drove down to Baltimore, staying on Route 95. Hymie Gore sat beside him, Jack and I in the back.

  ‘These short trips are no good,’ Donohue grumbled. ‘But we’ve got to pick up another car and maybe some more cash in Baltimore. Once we’re south of Washington, we’ll make time. Hell, we could even drive straight through if we want to, taking turns at the wheel. No more motels until we hit Miami.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I said. ‘I can do without any more motels.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Donohue said, in a low voice for my ears only. ‘Last night I thought you were having the time of your life.’

  But as he spoke, he was watching the cars that whizzed by, turning to look through the back window, leaning forward to keep an eye on cars we overtook and passed.

  I started talking to him about Project X, the manuscript he had been lugging along since we left my apartment in Manhattan. I told him I knew why he wanted it, and that was all right with me. What wanted was to keep it up to date, record what was going on.font>

  ‘Look, Jack,’ I said, ‘it can’t do you any harm. At least if I write what really happened, they can’t get you on a kidnapping charge. You can carry the manuscript under your arm, for all I care. All I want to do is add to it as we go along. I’ll need a portable typewriter and some paper. Give me something to do in the motels. Or, if we decide to drive straight through, I can even use the typewriter on my lap in the car, while we’re on the road.’

  ‘The typewriter is definitely out,’ he said. ‘Just more junk to lug along. Also, that’s all we’d need: someone next door hearing you typing and remembering, or complaining to the desk.’

  So I settled for a bunch of ballpoint pens and a stack of long yellow legal pads. I’d bring Project X up to date in longhand. I could always rent a typewriter in Miami, or buy one, and transcribe the written record into an acceptable manuscript. Jack promised to pick up pens and paper on our next shopping trip.

  I won’t describe the motel we stayed in just east of Baltimore. What I can tell you - it was a motel. Drinking glasses in little paper bags, a strip of paper across the toilet seat, an oil painting of geraniums bolted to the wall, a plastic bucket for ice cubes, the smell of pine-scented disinfectant, and mattresses that had been pounded by a thousand strangers.

  This time, in our little game of ring-around-the-rosy, I shared a room with Dick Fleming, while Donohue and Gore bunked together. I figured Jack wanted to get some sleep. He sure as hell didn’t get much the night before. He had been a wild man.

  ‘You think he’s doing it deliberately?’ I asked Dick as we undressed.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Schlepping me around. One night with Hymie, one with him, one with you. What am I - the Sweetheart of the Regiment?’

  Dick laughed. ‘I don’t think he’s doing it deliberately. What would be the point?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, perplexed. ‘But that lad never does anything carelessly. He’s thought these sleeping arrangements through, and it’s all part of some deep, dark, devious plot.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Dick said, sighing. ‘Can’t you ever forget you’re a novelist?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I can’t. You like him, don’t you, Dick?’

  ‘Yes, I like him. I admire him. He’s very strong. A man of action. Takes what he wants. Does what he wants.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’Isaid. ‘Your bed or mine?’

  ‘It makes no difference.’

  But he wasn’t ready for the traditional scrabble in the hay. I tried, but he backed off. He wanted to talk. All my men wanted to talk. Except Hymie Gore, and he wanted to snore.

  ‘
I don’t know what’s happening to me,’ Fleming said. ‘I didn’t know I could do these things. Taking part in a robbery, running from the cops, learning to use a gun. It’s like it’s all happening to someone else. Someone I don’t know. I can’t believe it’s me. Jannie, how can you live with yourself all your life and not know yourself?’

  ‘We all do it, kiddo,’ I said. ‘Enjoying it?’

  ‘Am I ever! It’s like being born again. A second chance. I’m scared witless most of the time, but that can be exciting too. Like, I’m on the edge, the very edge. Jack and Hyme talk so casually about killing and death. “Should I step on him?” “We should have killed the cocksucker.” Like that. But they’re used to it. To me it’s new and scary. But it’s a high, a real high.’

  I asked the question I had wanted to ask and thought I

  never would. But lying naked in bed with him, with the intimacy that darkness lends, I asked it:

  ‘Dick, did you have, uh, sex with him?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, almost casually. ‘And that’s another thing: Where the hell did that come from? I mean, I’ve never swung that way before. Never had any desire to. Consciously or unconsciously, I swear it. But with Jack, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. How do you feel about my making it with him, Jannie?’

  ‘Jealous.’

  He laughed again. ‘No reason to. It doesn’t affect at all the way I feel about you. But it’s part of my whole life turning inside out, of becoming a new person. We could get killed, couldn’t we?’

  ‘Easily,’ I said. ‘Any day. And hung up on meathooks to dry.’

  He shivered and moved closer to me.

  ‘I know it,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s why I did it. The plague moves closer and everyone copulates like mad. You think that’s it?’

  I thought a moment.

  ‘Part of it,’ I said, stroking his soft, velvety skin. ‘And maybe you j ust love him.’

  ‘Admire him.’

  ‘Love him,’ I insisted.

  if you say so,’ he said, sighing.

  We moved closer, held each other tighter.

  ‘Doyou love him?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I really don’t. I’m as mixed up as you are. Why am I doing all this? The book is just an excuse now; I know that. But here I am wearing a crazy wig and running for my life. Why? Maybe, like you, I was just bored and wanted theater.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And maybe, like you, I wanted to discover just what I’m capable of. I suppose those nutty novels I wrote were a kind of sublimation. But this is the real thing. I wanted to see if I can handle it.’

  ‘You’re doing great so far.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Can I kiss you here?’

  ‘Yes. That’s nice. I like that. My turn now …’

  . And in a few minutes we were at it again: our ritual of lickings, nippings, strokings, pinchings. Ended before it went too far. He snuggled down in my arms, huddled in my arms. He smelled so sweet, so sweet.

  ‘You know,’ he said drowsily, ‘I would like it to go on forever.’

  I knew what he meant. I had the same irrational hope. I thought of what a strange person I was to myself. I searched for clues to my character and couldn’t find them. I seemed to be acting from hidden motives, buried passions, I couldn’t glimpse an outline of me.

  Is everyone in the world like that? I mean, do we plan careers, make out budgets, plot craftily how we will live our lives, and all the time we are being turned and twisted by forces we don’t recognize? I don’t mean outside forces: chance and accident. There’s always that, of course. But I mean powers, surges, whims deep within ourselves, drives we aren’t conscious of until we find ourselves wearing a fright wig and running from retribution?

  The next day, a Monday, we had a council of war over a late lunch. The main project was obtaining new wheels. Donohue said that he and Hymie Gore would take care of that.

  ‘How are you going to do it?’ I asked, interested. ‘Steal a car? Jump the wires?’

  ‘Nah,’ Black Jack said, offended. ‘We can pay cash on the line. We find a used car lot owned by Honest John, Honest Sam, Honest Abe. Now you’ve got to know that the biggest crooks in the world are the guys who start a conversation, “To be perfectly honest—” or “To be perfectly frank—” Count your rings after you shake hands with those guys. So a used car dealer who calls himself “Honest Whatever” has to be a gonif. He’ll go for a quick cash deal, no questions asked, and if we plan to use the car to crash the White House, he couldn’t care less. Hyme and me, we’ll take the Ford until we get the new wheels. Jannie, you and Dick go shopping.’

  We borrowed a pencil from the waitress and wrote out our list on a paper napkin. My ballpoint pens and yellow legal pads came first. Then the men wanted shorts, underwear, socks. I marked down the sizes carefully. I wanted a new bra, at least one, and some pantyhose. We all needed cigarettes and more whiskey.

  ‘And a plastic picnic chest,’ Donohue reminded me. ‘Big enough for a couple of six-packs. Also some nibbles for the road: crackers, pretzels, potato chips, candy bars, gum - like that.’

  ‘A bottle of white wine would be nice,’ I said.

  ‘Why not?’ Jack said. ‘And some plastic tumblers. Don’t forget a bottle of gin and a small dry vermouth. Buy the best. I like a martini now and then.’

  ‘Olive or lemon?’ I asked.

  ‘Lemon,’ he replied, absolutely serious. ‘And a small paring knife to take off the peel.’

  We returned to the motel, packed up, checked out. Donohue drove Dick and me to a shopping center on Moravia Road. As I got out of the car, he leaned close and whispered, ‘Have a good time last night?’

  ‘Betterthan I had the night before.’

  ‘You bitch!’ he said, laughing.

  Then they drove away in the Ford, and Dick and I started our shopping spree. It took us almost three hours, and when we had finished, we could have used a strong packhorse. We lugged all our purchases out to the parking lot and settled down to wait.

  After about fifteen minutes I said, ‘You and I decided not to take off. But maybe they have.’

  ‘No way,’ Fleming said definitely. ‘Jack said he’ll be back, he’ll be back.’

  ‘You’re a trusting soul.’

  ‘He needs to be trusted.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said, looking at him. ‘You found that out, too, did you?’

  ‘Sure,’ Dick said, nodding. ‘And if you need proof, here they are now.’

  They pulled up in a three-year-old black Buick Riviera, Hymie Gore sitting proudly behind the wheel. There were a few nicks and scratches on the side panels, and the right fender looked like it had been crumpled, straightened, and repainted. But generally the car appeared to be in good condition.

  ‘The hell with the appearance,’ Donohue said, helping load up. ‘We don’t want a brand-new car that might attract attention. No one will look at this heap twice, but it’s got it where it counts: under the hood. I mean, it’s a big, big engine, with all the power we’ll need. We took it for a test drive and it takes off like a goosed jackrabbit.’

  ‘Any trouble buying it?’I asked.

  ‘Nah,’ Hymie Gore said, laughing, it was like Jack said. The guy’s name was “Honest Percy.” Jack offered him five hundred less than the marked price, in cash. He couldn’t make out the papers fast enough.’

  ‘Use your real name?’ Fleming asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Donohue said sourly. He wasn’t happy about it. ‘I had to show my license. But I asked Percy a lot of questions about the best route to Pittsburgh. If anyone tails us this far, maybe that’ll send them on a phony chase. For a while anyway.’

  We pulled away from the shopping center, headed back to Interstate Highway 95, and turned south. Hymie Gore was driving, Fleming beside him.

  ‘Where did you dump the Ford?’ I asked Donohue.

  ‘You’re the expert in crime,’ he said. ‘Wrote all those great novels. If you had to get r
id of a car and didn’t want it found and identified, how would you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly, thinking about it. ‘Drive it out to some deserted place in the country, I guess. Heavy woods would be best. Drive it off the road into the underbrush. Try to cover it over with branches. Take the license plates and throw them in the river. Either that or push the whole damned car in the river if you could do that without being seen.’

  ‘Too fancy,’ Black Jack said. ‘Too chancy, and too much work. What we did was this: I drove the Ford, and Hyme followed me in the Buick. I found the worst neighborhood 1 could. A real tenement slum down near the river. Talk about Bed-Sty; that place was just as bad, or worse. So I parked the Ford and got out. Left the doors unlocked and just walked away. I got in with Hyme and we took off. I guarantee you that by tomorrow morning that Ford’ll be stripped down to the bare bones. They’ll take the wheels first, then the battery, carburettor, distributor, fuel pump - anything that can be unscrewed, unbolted, or whacked off. The gang kids will take the seats for their clubhouse and the parts pirates will take everything that’s left. In twenty-four hours nothing will be left but a burned-out frame. And that’s how to get rid of a car, Jannie. The modern way.’

  We stayed on 95, and went around Washington, D.C., without stopping. All I saw of the nation’s capital was a rosy glow in the sky. We had dinner at Fredericksburg, at a restaurant designed to look like the white, pillared mansion of a southern plantation. They even had plastic Spanish moss hanging from the trees outside. They featured ‘Southern Fried Chicken,’ which also might have been plastic.

  Back in the car, we switched places. I drove, with Dick beside me, and Donohue and Gore in the back seat. At our last gas stop we had bought a bag of ice cubes and loaded our picnic chest. Now, as we headed south for Richmond, the weather definitely improving, Jack broke out the booze and the tumblers and served as bartender. I had white wine as 1 drove, Fleming and Gore had scotch on the rocks, and Donohue built himself a martini, complete with a paring of lemon peel.