It was the best one, all right. Better than cute little Linda. Better a thousand times than that five-dollar whore. Better than anything he'd had since he could remember. And she was a dog.
"The curves kinda turned to lumps," he said later. "Soon as I got her naked." But no matter. The fear of Greg made it good.
"Did I hurt you, Max?" he asked, patting her stomach gingerly.
"No." She shrugged. "I've had kids before. I'm used to it."
Then Greg was at the door. But they were dressed. Jimmy's heart raced because he forgot about the telltale smell. He was sniffing the air like a birddog when Greg and Billy entered. Greg was all business. He didn't notice.
"Come on, Jimmy," Greg said after a quick whiskey and soda. "Let's drop you off at the hotel. But first, we'll take Billy to his pad."
"So long, Max," said Jimmy. "Thanks for the coffee and hospitality."
"Anytime, Jimmy," said Maxine, with her usual friendly smile, and they left.
After dropping Billy, Greg and Jimmy didn't speak much. Then Greg said, "Jimmy, I gotta dump Billy. He's no good to me the way he is. Maybe I can use him again when he slows down on the drinking but right now I just gotta dump him."
"I can understand that." Jimmy nodded, knowing what was coming next.
"I need a driver, Jimmy, and you fit the bill. Now you and me could make plenty, but we gotta handle it right. Billy and me are just living too high. You gotta hold back a nest egg. You can't save anything with old Bill, drinking the way he does."
"You're right, Greg."
"You and me can go all the way, Jim. I'd like you to be part of our little family." Greg's face swiveled toward Jimmy on the long pole of a neck and he smiled, the upper teeth protruding and hanging over the lower lip, the cheeks so hollow they drew the chin to a point so that his face was like a spade upside down.
"I'll get hold of you tomorrow, Jim," Greg said as they pulled up in front of the hotel. "Hang loose, partner."
"Yeah, I'll sure be glad to make some bread. I sure need me some bread and all. You know, Greg?"
"See you, Jim." Greg waved and the wagon whined and slipped from the curb.
"Catch you later, you pencil-neck motherfucker," Jimmy whispered under his breath, while he smiled and waved.
All that talk. All that big talk and what did he get out of it? Not even a sawbuck to tide him over a day. Nothing. It was only two in the afternoon when he went in the hotel and he knew that the odor of disinfectant from the morning mopping would still be in his room, so he found a comfortable chair in the lobby, one which was not too greasy, had some nap left, and no broken springs. He sat and drank coffee from paper cups and smoked and thought about his future. That is to say, thought of the remainder of this week which was as far in the future as it was reasonable to plan. Life had taught him that. Think about a week ahead. He'd be way past the majority of street hustlers, who can only go a day at a time. Who could plan farther than a week? Not him. Not anyone he'd ever known. So he planned for the rest of the week.
The most important thing to consider of course was what Gregory Powell represented to him.
I should cut this bastard loose, right now. Right now, Jimmy thought. And then get down to business. Like, I'm a booster, a boss booster. And look at me. Fuckin around with this jiveass fool and not thinkin about my real business. Look at me! Shoes practically wore through. Dirty pants with the creases gone and flappin around my legs. Losin weight and hungry. Not even a change of clothes. Shoot, I shoulda had fifty suits boosted by now. Why ain't I out on Wilshire, rippin through those stores on the Miracle Mile? Maybe teamed up with another good thief. By this time we coulda had a hundred suits, is all.
And then Jimmy thought of the work that went into shoplifting a hundred suits. How many trips in and out of the store carrying only what he could conceal on his person. And he thought of hustling around with the stolen suits to sell them for less than a third of their retail value, if he were lucky. Sometimes the risk was greater on the sale than it was when he stole them, what with cops ready to jump on a guy carrying new suits. And one of his customers might get busted with a suit and snitch him off. Yes, the risks were great. It made him tired to think of the work and the risk.
Robbery was essentially a more dangerous game, that couldn't be denied. But for whom? For Greg. Jimmy was just a wheel man. Number two as he had always been. There was no real risk. Then Jimmy thought of the liquor store proprietor firing blindly in the night at the station wagon as they crawled from the curb with that miserable slimy clutch that Greg said he had fixed to avoid quick getaways.
But Jimmy's hands became clammy when he thought of that gunfire in the night and the fantasy he had of a .38 slug cracking through the back of his skull and him dying on the steering wheel as that lousy engine raced and that clutch slipped and slid him to oblivion.
But it was stupid to think about that. There was no real risk to the wheel man. If Greg should ever run into any trouble inside- a foolish gun-toting proprietor, or a police stakeout-and if shooting started, then it would be adios, turkey neck, because Jimmy would slide off in that wagon.
Hell, only two or three big scores with Greg and he could make enough for a good transportation car, pay the fee for the union dues, get a good job as a painter. Even some clothes, and some good restaurant meals. Maybe some records, and a record player, and a good radio, a TV, and some women. Like, why bother with Linda? There was lots of it around. And a decent pad someplace. Maybe an apartment with some chick who had a hustle of her own, or maybe even a square job of her own. They could split the rent and play house. But now he was dreaming and he knew it. Getting past the one week at a time.
So he stopped and thought of the coming week. Today was March 4. He would work with Greg this week. Maybe until after the weekend. Then he would have enough bread to do it all. He would cut Greg loose after this weekend.
For the rest of the afternoon and evening, Jimmy hung around at a Fifth Street bar, drinking and smoking until midnight, watching the winos mooch drinks. He wasn't interested in Linda or any woman that night. He was still thinking, and when Jimmy returned to his room he cursed the darkness. He was sick to death of dark and dingy rooms. He wanted white blazing lamplight and gold leaf wallpaper like he'd seen in pictures, and a snow white carpet. But then he remembered a farm worker's camp he'd once lived in near Bakersfield when he was following crops. He remembered greasy clay, being wet to his knees in the mud. The mud was everywhere, cold slime you could not escape, where cockroaches crunched under foot like gravel. This was better. A dark hotel room was infinitely better.
Jimmy was shaving the next morning when the phone rang and made him jump and cut his lip.
"Hello, old partner," a familiar voice said.
"Come on up, Greg," said Jimmy. "I'm shavin." And in a few minutes Greg was sitting in the only chair in the room with his feet up on the bed watching Jimmy brush his teeth.
"This is sure a crummy little room, Jim," said Greg cheerily and Jimmy started getting irked already. "But you won't have to live in places like this for long. I got good news, Jimmy. I cut Small loose so it's just you and me. And furthermore, I got a job in mind that's gonna be worth twenty-five grand. And we're gonna case it today."
"Twenty-five grand?"
"And it's easy as pie." Greg laughed. "Come on, Jimmy, finish up and let's get going."
In fifteen minutes they were once more in the vicinity of Small's shine stand, and Greg was explaining animatedly as they stood in a parking lot in the hot sunshine.
"There's a colored man here who takes care of this lot, Jimmy. He's crippled and he also takes care of the two across the street. He watches to make sure nobody steals the cars and all that. Now we know where he is and he's no problem. So let's go through the alley and see if there's a back entrance to one of the department stores that'll take us through to Broadway if we run in this way."
Jimmy was still unsure of the nature of the robbery, but he would let Greg act like a general
planning a battle if that's what he wanted. They found a public entrance at the rear of a large five-and-dime. Greg walked ahead with his swaggering stride. They passed a counter displaying cheap imitation leather briefcases.
"We need one of these, Jim," Greg said. "I want a big briefcase that'll open real easy. This guy carries money loose."
"Uh, Greg. Who the hell is this guy?"
"A collector, Jimmy." Greg smiled, paying for the briefcase. "He collects the take from about one hundred parking lots."
"A hundred parkin lots!" Jimmy whistled, now really impressed. "I can dig it, Greg. A hundred parkin lots!"
Greg chuckled and Jimmy followed him out onto Broadway and around the block to Small's shine stand.
"I'll hit him when he drives into the lot beside Billy's shine stand, Jim. He drives in back of Small's at about eleven-thirty in the morning in a little coupe, dark blue, with a dent in the fender. Now, I want you to park on Broadway. Put it in one of those loading zones. Or double park it if you have to, but here's where you're finally gonna pick me up. Got it?"
"Yeah, but what's the first part?"
"Well, the first part is this: you park in a lot over on Hill where you can watch Billy's. You get your ticket but park the car yourself. Sit in it and watch the shine stand. When the guy pulls in I'll signal to you. See, I'll be sitting like I'm getting a shine. I'll wear my hat, the felt with the little feather. And when he pulls in, I'll take the hat off and run my hand through my hair. Then you pull out down to Seventh, turn and come around to Broadway. In a few minutes I'll be there with the dough. See, all I gotta do is stick a gun in his face, take the money, make him get down on the floor, and come through the alley and in the back door of the store and out the front. Got it?"
"Yeah."
"Twenty-five grand. At least."
"Yeah."
"We're gonna do it now."
"What?"
"Now. Today. It's almost eleven-thirty."
"Jesus. I thought we was only gonna case it today."
"No sense screwing around."
"Jesus."
"Just think of it, Jim. Twenty-five grand."
"Jesus."
Then they returned to the car, got the gun, put it in the briefcase, and Greg put on the hat and sunglasses and swaggered across the street toward the shine stand, turning once to wave at Jimmy.
It was very hot in the car in the parking lot. It shouldn't be this hot in March, Jimmy thought. And there's lots of traffic. And it's smoggy. And thinking of his half of twenty-five thousand didn't help. Because he couldn't think of twenty-five thousand. It was much too much to think about. It was at last just a number. So he thought about getting a contractor's license and going into business for himself. Painting houses, offices, meeting sweet little office girls while on painting jobs in air-conditioned buildings that had piped-in music. He sat for half an hour watching Greg, but Greg never removed the hat. Jimmy waited, sweated in the heat. At one-thirty Gregg swaggered back across the street carrying the briefcase.
"Guess the guy changed his routine," Greg said, getting in the car. "Or maybe he came earlier today."
And with that went Jimmy's momentary dream of a contractor's license and painting in air-conditioned offices with piped-in music. And sweet little secretaries.
"Let's go home and have Max fix us dinner," Greg said. And Jimmy drove dejectedly to Greg's apartment.
When they got there Jimmy was even more depressed to see that Max didn't respond to his wink when Greg went in the other room. She showed no sign that there was anything between them. Jimmy's vanity was hurt. He wondered if he had done an adequate job yesterday. Jesus, maybe he couldn't even do that very good anymore.
"No luck today?" Max asked sympathetically, kissing Greg on the cheek as she put a Schenley's and Seven-Up in front of him, and another in front of Jimmy.
"Nothing," said Greg.
"How about a nice dinner?" Maxine asked, stroking Greg's hair and Jimmy winked again, but still she ignored him. Aw fuck it, he thought, and didn't wink again.
"Yeah, we could use something to eat. A nice dinner sounds good."
Several drinks later the dinner was steaming in front of them. They were TV dinners. Jimmy tore the tinfoil and ate hungrily.
"This tastes real good, Max." Greg smiled at her and Max beamed happily. "Jim, why don't you stay the night?"
"Well, I dunno, Greg. My P. O. might call to check up on me."
"Hell, phone the hotel. See if there were any messages."
"Okay, I'll do it," said Jimmy. And he walked down to the corner gas station to find a phone to call his hotel. When he came back the fantasies were already being woven and after a few more drinks, he eagerly took part.
"Listen, Jim," Greg said as they sat on the couch drinking. "I got plans for us after we get the big dough. We can't go on robbing forever."
"You're right, Greg."
"I used to work as a mechanic in Oceanside, and I figure I could open up a little garage or something, but it's gonna take about ten thousand."
"Dig, I learned how to paint real good in the joint and I could get a contractor's license and paint houses, and that. And maybe you and me could go into painting, and all."
"Well, could be, but I don't know anything about painting. Could be we could go in together, five grand from you and five from me. Half a garage and half a painting business."
"An automobile garage that paints houses? Don't sound like it makes too much sense to me, Greg. But I could be wrong." Jimmy finished his drink and poured another.
"Well anyway, we'll do something together. We're gonna be great partners."
"We'll do somethin together, Greg," Jimmy agreed. And he was right.
The next day was spent shopping with Maxine in Hollywood pawnshops. They were cheerful that day and Max was happy to be buying things: a radio, a record player, a ring for Greg, a watch for herself.
"This setting is loose," Greg said to the pawnbroker after he'd been wearing the ring for a few minutes.
The pawnbroker examined it with the glass and said, "No, it's just the way it's made. But you bought a lot of things. I'll give you a bargain on the record player and radio." Greg seemed satisfied and forgot the ring setting.
"How about a watch, Jim?" asked Greg expansively. "How about one of those?" He pointed to a tray full of watches with a cardboard sign saying: "Your pick, $14.95."
"I don't need a watch," said Jimmy.
"Sure you do," said Greg, picking one. "Take this one. It's a gift. It's a good watch. I want you to have it."
"Yeah, I think it is," saicl Jimmy shyly. "It's a pretty good watch. A pretty good watch for a cheap watch."
"We'll take it," Greg said to the pawnbroker, and Jimmy was truly grateful for the gift. His first gift since the small things he'd gotten as a child. "I really like the watch, Greg," he said softly.
The rest of the day was spent at Greg's apartment enjoying the purchases, drinking Schenley's and Seven-Up, eating a TV dinner, and listening to Greg recalling cons he knew from prison whom he thought Jimmy might know or might have heard of. And he did remember names. He had one hell of a memory, Jimmy thought.
After talking of boxing experiences in Vacaville and describing how his nose was broken in a grudge match, Greg said, "Well, it's eight o'clock, Jim. Ready to go to work?"
It was the same outfit for Greg: felt hat, trenchcoat, dark shirt and pants, boots, the mole and the hairline moustache, but he had added one thing-a fast-draw holster. It was an old holster he had cut away below the cylinder section, and it could be strapped on the inside of the belt.
"Watch how this half-breed holster works, Jim," said Greg, and reached for his waist, fumbling twice before getting the gun out.
"That wasn't too awful fast, Greg," Jimmy said gravely.
"Well, it hung up on the trenchcoat," said Greg. "But the thing I really practice besides drawing and shooting is the look. I do it in front of a mirror."
He drew again and stared at an
imaginary victim, and Jimmy chuckled and smoked and watched as Greg said, "Give me the goddamn money." Then the imaginary victim apparently wouldn't comply because Greg's hand whitened at the knuckles and the gun trembled for a few seconds and the look started to come. Flat. Icy. With the glint. Jimmy started to go cold watching it happen. Then Greg laughed, put the gun in his half-breed and it was gone.
Baby, you and me are partin company real soon, Jimmy thought as he snuffed out the cigarette. His hand was shaking but Greg was giving Max a long drawn-out kiss and didn't notice.
They hit the first market at closing time. Jimmy's mind was racing as he waited for Greg. That fuckin trenchcoat. Jesus, the trenchcoat is too much for such a hot night. And there ain't hardly any white guys wear hats in L. A. Jesus. He's got stickup written all over him. If I worked at that market I'd hit the fuckin alarm button the minute he came in the door. Jesus.
Jimmy thought of Greg drawing that gun and cocking the hammer in the same motion. "That's how it's done, Jim. Let them hear the click when you cock it. And point it right where they live."
That cocked gun, thought Jimmy. The click. And the look in his eyes. Jesus.
"Just relax, Jimmy," Greg said as he got out of the car. "And when you see me coming, don't panic. I'll be covering ground fast. I got this step I practiced, what you might call a hop skip and jump that to a normal eye looks like I'm walking fast."
"Yeah, Greg," said Jim nervously. "You thought of everything. Yeah."
"I'm gonna take both checkout stands, Jim. Two tills full of dough" "Yeah."
After he was gone, Jimmy noticed the old car parked next to the driveway with the Mexican and a flock of kids. What if they were there when he came out? Jesus, this could turn into real trouble. What if there was a shootout?
But in a few minutes he saw Greg moving fast across the parking lot with a skip and a jump every few yards, and to Jimmy he looked like a hungry kangaroo. He was craning his neck for cops as the car moaned and sighed and lurched away sliding.
"Turn right, Jim," said Greg jumping in the moving car. "Turn your goddamn lights on! That's it, take it easy, turn onto the freeway there at the on-ramp. Where the hell're you going, Jim?"
the Onion Field (1973) Page 12
