Plunder Squad p-15

by Richard Stark

  Devers was bringing the first trooper around to join them, and Noelle was tossing the blanket in the car. Then she shut the passenger door, and hurried around to the driver’s side to get behind the wheel and take the Chevrolet away from there. Her part of the job was finished; after unloading the Chevy, she’d wait up in Springfield with the Volkswagen Microbus for Tommy to rejoin her when everything was over with.

  ”Done,” Tommy said, and stepped away from the second trooper. He moved over to take care of the first trooper the same way.

  Parker walked over to the second trooper, who looked at him and said, “You’d be smart to give this up right now.” Parker ignored that. He said, “What’s your name?”

  “Trooper Jarvis.”

  “First name.”

  “Robert.”

  “They call you Bob?”

  Trooper Jarvis’ eyes narrowed. “Some people do,” he said, being reluctant about it.

  “All right, Bob. Take it easy.” Parker walked over to the first trooper, as Tommy finished handcuffing him. “What’s your name?”

  This one was younger, and was still feeling more insulted than angry. And also more insulted than scared, which might be trouble. It was better to deal with a man who understood the situation. Instead of which, this one was getting on his high horse. After a quick glance over at Trooper Jarvis, he said angrily, “You don’t need my name.”

  Time was getting tight. This one would follow Trooper Jarvis’ lead, so the hell with him. Keep Jarvis reined in and you’d have them both. “That’s all right,” Parker said. He motioned with his revolver. “Start walking that way.”

  “Maybe I’d rather not.”

  A mule, and stupid. Parker was deciding whether to use words or the gun butt when Tommy Carpenter kicked the trooper in the rump hard enough to make him hop, and said, “Move your ass, or I’ll whip it into the next county.”

  Country boys understood one another. Glaring around in all directions, the anonymous trooper started to move.

  Now Tommy led the way, with Jarvis and the other trooper behind him, and Parker bringing up the rear. Back at the U-turn, Noelle was driving off, accelerating the Chevrolet like a stock-car racer, while Mackey and Devers were getting into the Highway Patrol car. Mackey would drive, and Devers would operate the radio.

  Ahead of Parker was their other car, a two-year-old Dodge sedan, also equipped with a police radio, on which they’d heard these troopers arranging when and where to meet the art convoy. Griffith’s first ten-thousand-dollar payment had bought this car and its radio, and the old Chevrolet, and the State Police uniforms, and the Reo cab waiting up ahead, and everything else—with a few dollars left over.

  The Dodge was a four-door, so there was no trouble getting the troopers into the back seat. They sat awkwardly, because of their hands behind their backs, but there was room for them to make themselves fairly comfortable.

  Tommy drove, and Parker sat beside him, half turned and watching the two troopers, his revolver showing atop the seat-back. He didn’t expect to have to shoot anybody, and didn’t want to shoot anybody, but it was a good idea to remind them both—particularly the one without a name—that the possibility was still there.

  The Dodge had been left on the center grass strip of the highway, just beyond the U-turn, out of sight of the troopers when they arrived. It was facing toward the U-turn, the same direction that the paintings would be coming. Once everybody was in place in the car, Tommy took right off, driving in the same style as Noelle. When they passed the U-turn, all Parker could see was a State Police car with two troopers inside it.

  They’d traveled another mile or two down the road when the police radio began to talk. A somewhat hoarse voice said, “Five-six-two?”

  “We’re here.” That was Stan Devers’ voice. “Is that you I see coming?”

  Tommy, hunched over the wheel of the Dodge, grinned and said, “Right on time.”

  Parker nodded, but kept his eye on the back seat, where both troopers were tensing up a little, particularly the one without a name. They would finally be understanding what was happening now, and one or the other of them just might decide to be moronic. While the radio kept talking in two voices, saying idle things while the switch of responsibility was being made, Parker said over it, “Bob, why don’t you talk to your partner? Explain to him how it would be better to stay alive and hope to be a witness at my trial.”

  “Neither one of us is stupid,” Trooper Jarvis said coldly. “We know when to bide our time.” And beside him, the anonymous trooper could be seen to relax and give up his dreams of kicking Tommy in the head, opening the door with his teeth, and dashing to the nearest headquarters for help.

  “That’s good,” Parker said, being careful to talk exclusively to Jarvis. There was no point tensing the other one up again.

  “The only question is,” Jarvis said, “how stupid you people are.”

  “We won’t kill you unless you push it,” Parker said. “That answer the question?”

  “Partly.”

  The radio had stopped talking; the switch had been made, and Mackey and Devers were now out front of the convoy, leading it down the road.

  Grinning, Tommy said, “I like things neat. Neat and sweet and organized.”

  “Then you won’t mind jail,” the anonymous trooper said.

  Nobody reacted. His remark just sat there, being ignored by everybody, even Trooper Jarvis. Slowly, the anonymous trooper blushed. He blinked, he stared defiantly out the window, he pretended he wasn’t blushing, he even bit the insides of his cheeks to make it stop, but he was blushing.

  It was another several miles to the exit for U.S. 51. Vandalia was to the south, but they turned north, following in the wake of Noelle, who would be taking 51 and 29 up to Springfield. But the people in the Dodge weren’t going that far. They weren’t going even as far as Ramsey; a few miles short of that town they turned off on a small road to the right, toward the Kaskaskia River.

  Just about now, Mackey and Devers would be stopping the convoy and explaining to everybody that they’d just received word on their radio about a bad accident up ahead, short of the Hamburg exit, blocking the entire road. They would have to make a detour, around through Ramsey and Hillsboro, rejoining the Interstate again at Greenville. If anybody in the convoy had a road map to follow, it would all look sensible, and not too much of a delay.

  If there was trouble, Devers would get on the radio and say, “Is this Tobin?” Then Parker and Tommy and Lou Sternberg would get out of this part of the country as quickly as they could, leaving Devers and Mackey to work things out as best they could for themselves.

  About half a mile in the side road, a small dirt track led off to the right. Tommy nosed the car in there, and stopped, leaving the engine and lights on.

  “We get out here,” Parker said. “But we’re very slow and careful about it.”

  Jarvis would be getting out on Tommy’s side, leaving Parker to take care of the excitable one. But there wasn’t any trouble, and when both troopers were out they were marched into the woods to the right of the car, put in seated position with their backs against trees, and then tied there with their belts through both elbows and around behind the tree.

  “I’ll see you two again,” the anonymous trooper said. He sounded grim and dangerous, but it was just to soothe his ego.

  Tommy laughed at him. “You wouldn’t know me if you fell over me. How can you tell one hippie from another?”

  “That hair’s all a disguise,” the trooper said, loud and angry. “Don’t you think I figured that out? I know what you really look like, I’ve been studying your face.”

  Tommy roared with laughter, clutching a tree to hold himself up. Parker looked at the other trooper, Jarvis, and saw him being expressionless and aloof. He would know, as Parker did, that his partner had just said something incredibly stupid, whether he was right or wrong. If he was wrong, he’d made a fool of himself, and if he was right, he’d just asked to be killed
.

  Still laughing, Tommy said to the trooper, “Man, you are something else. You’re a trip and a half. I’d like to keep you around in a cage, poke you with a stick every once in a while, and just listen to you talk.”

  Quietly, Jarvis said, “But that’s what we’re going to do to you.” Said without his partner’s bluster, it was an effective remark.

  Tommy lost all his humor. He stood glaring at Jarvis, and even in the dim shine from the car headlights Parker could see him thinking about doing some kicking. There was no point in that, and no need for it; Parker said, “Come on, it’s time.”

  Tommy looked over at him, his eyes glinting slightly. “Right,” he said, his voice flat, and followed Parker through the trees back to the car.

  They switched roles now, Parker getting behind the wheel to do the driving, and Tommy sliding in on the passenger side. They’d left the motor running, and Parker shifted into reverse, made a tight U-turn, and drove back out to the two-lane main road. Instead of turning either left or right when he got there, he angled almost directly across the blacktop, moving slowly, and steering to the left for the last few feet so as to put the right front wheel in the ditch. Now the rear of the car jutted out diagonally into the road, its headlights visible in the direction the convoy would be coming from.

  Tommy said, “Can we get it back out of the ditch later?”

  “Yes,” Parker said. He switched off the motor but left the lights on, and got out of the car. Tommy also got out, and they walked back across the road and then down along the shoulder southbound, their way illuminated by the Dodge’s headlights. They walked about two hundred feet, and then Parker stopped and looked back, judging the distance. “This should do it,” he said, and led the way off the road and in among the trees.

  The two of them went ten or twelve feet in from the road, and then stopped and waited, leaning against tree trunks and looking out toward the road. Tommy said, “Just so no Good Samaritan shows up before they get here.”

  “We checked it out well enough,” Parker said. “There’s no traffic on this road before seven, seven-thirty.”

  ”You never know,” Tommy said. “You never know who’s gonna get drunk and go visit Aunt Tillie.”

  Parker said nothing to that. It was true, and it was the variable in any situation, the unexpected civilian walking into the middle of somebody else’s plan. But there was never any way to prepare for it, so all you could do was hope it wouldn’t happen. Or, if it did happen, hope you could absorb it without lousing things up.

  They waited about five minutes, neither saying anything more, and the first they knew of the convoy’s arrival was when a dim red light began to flicker on the branches over their heads. Mackey and Devers, having seen the apparent accident ahead of them, had switched on their overhead flasher, would now accelerate away from the rest of the convoy, and come to a stop next to the Dodge, finishing at a slight angle so that the two vehicles, the patrol car and the Dodge, would completely block the road.

  Headlights, out through the trees. Parker felt Tommy tense up beside him; the boy was surprisingly good and cool for his age, but everybody tenses.

  The police car went by, red light turning. Tommy whispered, “Come on, come on.”

  And here came the rest. The first Plymouth went by, and then the truck, slowing down, and finally the second Plymouth; its brake lights made a red pool on the road surface, to match the turning red light sliding along the tree branches up above.

  Now Parker and Tommy moved out closer to the road. The second Plymouth had come to a stop just beyond where they’d been waiting, and in the Christmas-tree array of rear lights on the truck the four men inside the Plymouth could be seen in silhouette, their heads turning as they talked to one another, undoubtedly about the accident up ahead.

  Ed Mackey came trotting back past the truck toward the Plymouth. In motion, he looked more sensible in the uniform. He hurried to the driver’s side, and as the driver rolled his window down, Mackey called, loudly enough to be heard by everyone inside the Plymouth, “Looks like we got somebody under the car up there. We’re gonna try to roll it off him.”

  The driver said something. It was probably an objection to doing anything with an injured man before proper medical attention could show up, because Mackey answered, “Out here? This time of night? Our first job is get that car off him and stop him bleeding to death. Come on.”

  Four men got out of the Plymouth: two in front wearing uniforms, and two in back wearing civilian clothes. Mackey shouted to them to hurry it up, and all five went trotting away past the truck.

  Parker and Tommy came out onto the road and walked quickly to the car. The driver had shut his door behind him, but the other guard had left his open; Parker slid in on that side, reached over to the steering column, and turned the key to shut off the engine. With the louder growl of the truck cab closer to them, the people from this car wouldn’t hear the Plymouth’s engine cutting out. Parker took the keys, got out of the car again, and slipped the keys in his shirt pocket.

  Tommy was at the rear of the truck, looking around the corner toward the Dodge. As Parker came around the front of the Plymouth, Tommy turned his head and grinned at him, his face yellow and red in the truck lights. “They’re all out,” he said.

  Parker stood behind him and looked around the corner of the truck. Up ahead, twelve men were milling around in the Dodge’s headlight glare. Mackey and Devers were both shouting at everybody now, trying to keep them all moving, not give any of them a chance to look under the Dodge and see nobody there. Mackey was shouting, “Stand along the side of the car! Against the car! We’ve all got to work together here, God damn it! Get against the car!”

  They were doing it, ten of them lining up along the side of the Dodge, facing the car, their backs to Mackey and Devers. Mackey was standing back a ways, shouting at them as a group, while Devers worked in closer, moving individuals into place; it was as though Mackey were the shepherd and Devers was his dog.

  Parker moved out from behind the truck and walked along next to it. Tommy following behind him. Five private guards, four civilian passengers, one truck driver, all lining up beside the Dodge. Parker’s revolver was in his hand now, and he walked smoothly, neither hurrying nor making any attempt to be unobtrusive. Things were under control now.

  Mackey put the lid on. He took the revolver out of the holster at his right side, aimed it away at the woods, and fired once. The sound of the shot wasn’t particularly loud in the open air, but it cut through the noise and confusion as though a radio had been switched off. Ten startled silent faces turned to stare. Devers quickly backed away, drawing his own gun. Parker and Tommy moved up on either side of Mackey, both with pistols in their hands. And Mackey shouted, “Everybody stop! Stay right where you are.”

  The switch was too fast. It was four against ten, but the ten were too confused by the sudden change, it would take a few seconds for them to understand that the police officers were something other than police officers, and the few seconds were all that would be needed. Confused men don’t make any moves, and when the confusion was over, the new status quo would already be a fixed situation.

  Mackey made it more of a sure thing by leaning on them while they were still bewildered: “The first man that moves is dead! Turn around, face the car. Turn around, God damn it, I don’t care which one of you I kill!”

  They all turned around, shuffling, bumping elbows into one another, staring at one another with shocked faces. Each man obeyed because the men flanking him were obeying, and very quickly all ten were facing the Dodge.

  It was a good situation, but it couldn’t be held forever. While Parker and Mackey stood guard, Tommy and Devers frisked the ten men, starting at the outside ends and working toward the middle, searching for nothing but weapons. It turned out that only the five guards were armed, with a holstered revolver each. The five revolvers were taken away and thrown into the ditch.

  Next, they had to be immobilized. Lengths of
cord were in the trunk of the Dodge. Tommy got them out, and he and Devers went down the line tying wrists.

  By now, the first shock and bewilderment were over, and several of the men were starting to get verbally tough: “We’ll get you for this.” “You won’t get away with this.” That sort of thing. Which was fine; so long as they bled off their hostility and embarrassment that way, they wouldn’t cause any serious trouble.

  After four of the men had been tied, Mackey holstered his revolver and went to help, leaving Parker the only one still holding a gun. If all ten of them were simultaneously to start running now, several of them would surely get away. But there was no way for them to plan a move together, and none of them wanted to be the only one running, so nothing happened.

  The next step looked like something from a prisoner-of-war movie. All ten were herded across the road to the beginning of the side road Parker and Tommy had driven down before. Then Parker got into the Dodge, backed it out of the ditch, turned it around, and followed slowly as Mackey and Devers marched the ten men down the side road in the shine of the Dodge’s headlights. The uniforms on Mackey and Devers and on the five guards helped to reinforce the prisoner-of-war idea.

  Tommy meanwhile had swung up into the cab of the truck. Originally Mackey was to have driven the truck away at this stage, but when it turned out that Tommy, among his other unexpected abilities, had experience driving big rigs, the jobs had been switched around, Mackey being a more believable and intimidating figure than Tommy when holding a gun on somebody. Now Parker saw in the rear-view mirror Tommy swing the truck out past the front Plymouth and accelerate away.

  They didn’t go very deep into the woods with their ten prisoners before tying them to trees with their belts in the same style as the two troopers. Mackey stood guard on the dwindling untied group while Parker and Devers did the work. Then all three went back to the Dodge, Parker driving, the other two in the back seat with their change of clothing. Parker backed the Dodge out to the road, and he and Devers moved the two Plymouths into the side road, just deep enough to be invisible to anyone driving by. Devers was down to socks and T-shirt and uniform trousers by now, and kept up a muffled yelling of “Ouch, ouch, ouch” as he ran back along the stony dirt road with Parker to the Dodge. Parker got behind the wheel again, Devers slid once more into the back, and Parker drove north.