Stone 588

by Gerald A. Browne

  Townsend's alarms ran to an electronic console at Reliance that was continuously watched. An alarm set off showed up at once. A closed-circuit television channel monitored view after view of what the various cameras at Townsend's were picking up. Trial runs of break-ins were conducted twice a year. On the average. Reliance officers and Midtown North precinct police with guns drawn reached the Townsend vault in four minutes.

  One last thing: A backup alarm was situated behind a panel of boiserie on the south wall of Townsend's office. All alarm systems and television cameras were connected to this backup. It was battery-operated and, in the event of a power failure, could be switched on.

  Springer got a pistachio that had no accommodating crack to its shell. It refused to be opened.

  He let the last of Strand's pages drop to the floor.

  "Shit," he said futilely.

  Audrey pulled up the comers of her mouth. "Perhaps that's only an amateur's opinion," she said. She moved up to be in the cave of Springer's arm,

  comforted herself there before suggesting, "Why don't we get really dressed up, black tie, everything, and go out somewhere snazzy to eat?"

  "Snazzy?"

  "You know how good dressing up is for the mopes."

  "Not tonight."

  "Then let's just go out somewhere for dinner, walk and discover. We haven't done that in a while."

  "I'm not hungry."

  Neither was Audrey.

  They remained there on the sofa while, suitably, the day also drained away. No need to discuss the robbery. It would be foolish to give it another thought. They couldn't get close enough to Townsend's vault to throw something at it, much less get into it. And a fence that fries, and half the most frozen-hearted ex-cops in the city just waiting to pounce.

  Forget it. Springer told himself. If he was to get back stone 588 for Jake it would have to be some other way. Giving Townsend the muzzle of a pistol for a hearing aid again came to mind.

  In the gloom of only the light reflecting from the city. Springer gathered up Strand's pages. He thought he'd keep them as a souvenir of folly, or a reminder not ever to underestimate the invincibility of people of Townsend's ilk. He took the pages up to the dressing room and put them in one of the drawers designated for his things, beneath his socks and underwear.

  Audrey took a long bath.

  Springer disliked himself in the mirror and thought of growing a beard like Balzac's.

  Audrey meditated. For an hour sat tranced with eyes closed, palms lying open on her lap.

  Springer was glad when she'd had enough of that, was back with him and his give-ups.

  "I love you," she said from across the room.

  "I know you do."

  While he read a John Updike and merely saw the words, Audrey sat on the floor among her pillows and buffed her legs. Springer had never seen her do it before. It fascinated him, the way she applied some special lotion and, like polishing boots, used a length of flannel cloth to put a shine on the skin of her lower legs and thighs. He'd wondered on occasion how her legs got their slick finish. The tricks of women, he thought, a bit more depressed than amused.

  At one o'clock they tried for sleep.

  At two dropped off.

  At three Springer came stark awake. He didn't toss, not to disturb Audrey.

  She was on her back eyes closed, one hand beneath her head. Apparently having peaceful dreams. Then, without any thickness or mumble, as though continuing a conversation, she said, "Tomorrow, what we should do is indulge, go out and buy one another something ridiculously extravagant."

  "What is it you want?"

  When she didn't reply. Springer thought she might be mentally going over some long list. As for himself, all he wanted was a miracle or two.

  At seven o'clock he got up and padded nude down to the kitchen for coffee. He was too bleary to bother with anything more than instant. Audrey called down that she wanted some hot chocolate. That supplied him with a little purpose. He made it extra rich with heavy cream.

  At five to eight Springer decided he wouldn't wait until nine to call Strand. It didn't matter that it was a bit early, he was only going to tell Strand that the move was off — because of impossibility. It had occurred to Springer during the night that probably the reason Strand had come up with the information on Townsend's was to have him reach that realization.

  Springer was reaching for the phone when it rang.

  It was Strand.

  After apologizing for calling so early he said, "This project of yours. I've given it some thought. I believe we should go ahead with it."

  "Good," Springer heard himself say.

  "Do you know someplace where we can get together for a few days to work it out?" Strand asked. "Someplace quiet and out of the way."

  Chapter 30

  The country house in Sherman.

  Springer and Audrey arrived there just as Mattie was driving out in her mechanically slighted and rarely washed Audi 5000.

  Mattie stopped to say a goodbye hello. She was bound for a Psychical Society seminar being held somewhere in Maryland, cheerily looking forward to a whole ten days of being around no one other than sensitives and believers. Springer and Audrey would have to fend for themselves. The fridge needed restocking, Mattie said, and she thought but wasn't certain she'd changed the linens on their bed a few days ago. "Pick the raspberries" were her last words before she shaped her mouth into a kiss and threw it at them. The wheels of the Audi spun up pebbles and dust as, with Maryland in mind, she took to Route 37.

  The house was as welcoming as ever. The huge chairs in front of the fireplace and by the side windows seemed to be begging to be sat in. It was impossible to be in any room and not be within reach of a challenging book or magazine. There was a two-month stack of Manchester Guardians by the commode in the main floor bathroom. Now serving as a stop for the kitchen door was a sizable new brook-polished speckled black rock. Springer noticed. And Buddha was gone from the top of the piano. Was he in disfavor this month or gone for good to one of the consignment shops down on Route 7?

  In his place was a frosted Lalique vase that contained wild phlox. Picked that morning but already dropping. Many tiny blossoms had sown pink on the black mahogany surface.

  Audrey and, especially, Springer should have known by now what a loving fibber and surpriser Mattie enjoyed being. The refrigerator with many of their favorite things in it told them she'd shopped that morning, and when they went to their room, that done-over former slaughtering shed they called the boucherie, they found their bed freshly made and folded open neat and clean as a new envelope. The room was well aired and wildflowers, expecting to be appreciated, were here and there in cut glass containers. For Audrey, on her bedside table, a new supply of bookmarks: feathers blown loose by the wind or the vigorous rufflings of flickers and cardinals and jays.

  Mattie's efforts, thoughtful as they were, did nothing to ease Springer's self-conscious feeling about using these surroundings to plan a burglary.

  At seven o'clock Strand and Scoot drove up, in a five-year-old Mustang that Scoot had borrowed from a girlfriend who was so straight he was 95 percent sure it wasn't stolen. Strand's driver's license had expired while he was in prison, and neither he nor Scoot had any credit cards that were really their own, so it had been impossible to rent a car.

  Springer showed them up to their bedrooms. Like most old New England houses, the second-floor ceilings were lower and, although there was ample clearance, Strand and Scoot moved about hunched down. They appeared out of place in their suits and white dress shirts. Their leather-heeled black shoes clacked on the bare wideboard floors.

  Springer believed from the size of their satchels they couldn't have brought an adequate change of clothes, an error commonly made by those unfamiliar with country life. No doubt tomorrow he'd be digging up some proper rough wear and some mucking-around shoes for them. No problem. Springer left them seated on their respective beds, checking out the quality of the mattresses with s
mall bounces.

  A quarter hour later they came down to the kitchen, changed. Now they had on faded blue jeans, chambray shirts. Puma sneakers. What Springer hadn't known was how compactly they could fold and roll up such clothes, part of the respect for space they'd acquired while living in cells.

  Audrey asked if they were hungry.

  They said they'd stopped at a place called Schubie's on the way up, had a couple of great burgers and fries.

  "Okay," Audrey said, "you guys go find wherever you want to sit, and I'll bring coffee. But you've got to promise not to discuss anything important until I get there. Otherwise I'll stop playing woman." Her eyes let them know she damn well meant it.

  Strand and Scoot followed Springer out onto the wide screened-in back porch. The porch faced west but already the sun was gone behind the hump of Connecticut hill across the way, and much of the color, the greens especially, was gone from everything. They sat in white-painted wicker chairs that creaked and caused Scoot to regard his chair dubiously. He kept glancing down at it as though expecting it to collapse.

  Actually, Scoot should have been less concerned than anyone. He was a naturally gaunt five-foot-ten, weighed at most one thirty-five. He had thick, coiling, sandy hair and the mealy pale complexion of a full-blooded Irisher. His real first name was known to the authorities and hardly anyone else. His last name was Healy.

  "Where are you from?" Springer asked Scoot just to make conversation, naive to the code that under the circumstances it wasn't something to be asked.

  "Kansas City," Scoot replied because it sounded knock-around.

  "You live in New York now?"

  "Detroit."

  "Never been to Detroit."

  "Me neither," Scoot said pointedly.

  Strand was amused. He explained to Springer that Scoot had been one of his team of swifts; in fact, more or less its leader.

  "I ain't worked except here and there for six months waiting for Strand to get out," Scoot said.

  "I don't know why, but I assumed you and Strand were in Danbury together."

  "I've only done time in two places," Scoot told him. "Greenhaven and Dannemora."

  "Dannemora has the ring of a nice little Irish village," Audrey remarked brightly as she brought sweating glasses on a tray. "I changed our minds and made iced tea," she said and served around. She chose the chair next to Strand's to offset the possible feeling of factions.

  Strand spooned six heapings of sugar into his tea and stirred it methodically. "What we ought to first get settled is the split," he said.

  A surprise to Springer. Why at this stage deal with anything so far down the road? It made good sense to Audrey, however. First thing anyone starting a new job wanted to know was how much it paid.

  "What would you say the goods in Townsend's vault are worth?" Strand asked Springer.

  "I don't know. I suppose the amount varies substantially."

  "Give or take a million," Strand prompted.

  "Take," Audrey quipped.

  Springer told Strand, "You're more qualified to know."

  Strand agreed. He was merely plumbing Springer's expectations. "Then let's just work out what kind of cuts would be fair. It's your thing. It's up to you."

  Springer wasn't ready for it. He hesitated.

  "All we have to decide on is two chunks," Strand said. "I'll take care of Scoot out of mine and you and your lady ..."

  "Audrey," she put in.

  An apologetic nod from Strand. "... you and Audrey probably already have some kind of arrangement."

  "Yeah."

  "So, you tell me."

  "Well, as you say, it's my thing. I brought you in."

  "How about sixty-forty?" Strand suggested.

  "Why?"

  "Because I think even if we go at it all night that's where we'll end up."

  "Who's the sixty?"

  "We're the forty," Strand assured him, as though that was obvious.

  Springer looked thoughtfully into his emptied glass, tilted it up, and got the melt from the ice cubes. He felt Audrey's eyes on him. "I only want one stone," he said.

  Strand believed he'd misheard.

  "One particular stone," said Springer.

  "Danny mentioned something about that."

  "The rest is yours."

  Strand looked to Scoot with amused incredulity.

  "You think I'm some kind of case," Springer said.

  "No," Strand told him, "What I think is when it comes down to it you'll change your mind."

  "What about me?" Audrey contended, "How about what I might want?"

  "How much?" Strand asked her.

  "You offered him sixty-forty."

  "Are you saying you want sixty?"

  "Maybe I'm saying 1 want to be offered sixty," Audrey said.

  "I was under the impression that he was speaking for you."

  "He was ... to a point."

  Strand smoothed his cowlick. "I don't know about sixty. Perhaps thirty."

  "Tell you what." Audrey leaned forward, elbows to knees, fingers loosely laced, a bargainer. "If you guys will promise not to be at my elbow, so to speak, not to concern yourselves with helping me up or helping me down or any of that other chivalrous shit, I might go for thirty."

  Strand decided he liked her a lot. Springer was lucky.

  "And," she went on, "if during this thing you don't hold back swearing, I could even knock off the thirty."

  "We're to forget you're a woman?"

  Audrey tossed her chin in Springer's direction. "Except him at times," she said, shamelessly forthright.

  "So what would be your split?"

  "One stone," she said. "Just any old stone. For a souvenir."

  By then the sky was indigo to mauve to vermilion, as though the sun had rolled into a cave. The moon, a slivery scallop, was taking its turn. Darkness pressed the sides of the porch.

  Springer lighted a glass oil lamp, adjusted its wick.

  Instead of another round of iced tea, Scotch was accepted. Springer broke out a bottle of Usquaebach. They had it, as he suggested, neat in thick glass tumblers. They toasted to the success of the thing they were in together.

  Strand, with the luxurious Scotch sliding like a molten gold wire down into him, thought how far he was from Danbury cell 328. He could, he told himself, finish the drink, say thanks and good night, and go sixty miles an hour away from this thing. He had four hundred thousand cash in a safety deposit box, along with another hundred thousand or so in loose stones. Wouldn't that much do? There was no use manipulating himself; he was in this for more than the take. He had to wonder, though, why it wasn't something that had occurred to him. Probably it had. Probably it had been crouching there in some lair of his mind for six-seven years. For some reason it was always easier to get into someone else's idea, as though that way there was partial exoneration.

  Strand had a sudden catch inside at the possibility of more years in a cell. That same moment Audrey was laughing at a remark Springer had made. For Strand her laughter was catalytic. He tried to recall the sound of Patricia's laugh and couldn't. The paid-for company over the last few days had been inadequate, not even a fraction of what he'd needed.

  They didn't discuss the burglary that night. The mood was wrong for it. And so was the place. Strand was too used to having snitches around, and the exposure of the porch made him uneasy.

  Springer topped their drinks.

  Audrey asked Scoot why he was called Scoot.

  "Because I can run and still look like I'm just walking," he said. "It comes in fucking handy, believe me."

  That got Scoot started. It wasn't usual for him to open up so quickly. He had a near infallible antenna when it came to people. He liked Springer and Audrey even though they were straight. Besides, they wouldn't be straight for long.

  "Shit, man," Scoot said, "I've hit rich-looking houses that turned out to be so fucking poor inside, instead of me stealing from them I felt like I should leave them something."

  He
was on.

  "I get into this apartment and I'm about to shake it down when I hear the people coming in the front door. Must have changed their minds about going to a movie or something. I jump into this closet that's there. I leave the door open a crack. One of the people notices it's open and shuts it. I can't get out. I spend the whole fucking night on the floor in this little closet. I don't sleep. I can't sleep. Not because I'm nervous but because there's no air and there's all these mothballs. I'm close to passing out. I don't know if I'm fucking dizzy or not in the dark, know what I mean? I'm close to banging on the door and taking the fall. Shit. Better than dying. I'm in fucking solitary, man. I'm in there until two o'clock the next afternoon when finally all the people leave. I bust out. I'm weak. I stick my head out a window for ten minutes to get my breath. Then, of course, I clean the place. I remember there were these nice five-carat pear-shape drops and some other stuff hidden in the most likely place, a douche bag."

  Springer's watch told him quarter after ten. He glanced at Audrey.

  She did a yawn and blamed it on the country air. She gathered up the glasses and carried them into the kitchen.

  Strand asked Springer would it be disturbing anyone if he stayed up and watched television? Sleep was the last thing he needed.

  Springer led Strand inside to the den, turned on the television set, adjusted it, and apologized for the poor reception. "By the way"—Springer tried to sound offhand—"How much do you think the goods in Townsend's vault are worth?"

  Strand told him. "Counting loose stones, finished pieces, everything, I'd say ... in the neighborhood of two hundred and fifty million."

  Chapter 31

  The next morning, Monday morning.

  As soon as the sun had dried the dew, Springer, Audrey, Strand, and Scoot went out to be in the meadow. They sat in a spot about two hundred feet from the house. The grass, waist-high and thick, was like a springy net beneath them. There was huge headed purple clover in it and spindly buttercups and seedy horsetail rye that stood around and swished approvingly.