Boyd grinned, pushed his glasses up his nose. “Well, hell, what are we waiting for?”
“Planning,” said Virgil. “Good, clear planning. Especially the getaway. You never know when they’re gonna be tearing up streets.”
“You mean case it?” asked Alex.
“Case the bank, case the town. Everything.”
Hazel came in from the kitchen, carrying a tray loaded with sandwiches. Virgil stopped her from setting it down on top of the map. “Not now, huh?” She shrugged and laid it across the arms of a nearby overstuffed chair. Boyd snatched a chicken salad sandwich off the top of the pile as the tray went by. “Thanks, Hazel,” he said, and bit into it. Hazel left the room.
“All right,” said Virgil, removing his jacket. “First thing we’re gonna do is get guns. I’m sick of paying a bill and up on each damn cork pistol we get from that jerk in Oklahoma City.”
“The police station?” mumbled Boyd through a mouthful of chicken salad.
Virgil smiled. “The police station.”
On the way up to Kansas City, the Ballard Gang, as it was now being called by the sensation-hungry press from the border of Mexico to the tip of Maine, stopped off to rob the Walker Police Department. There were only three policemen on duty at the time, and they were so busy playing pinochle at the back of the tiny station house that they didn’t even notice the visitors until they had gotten the drop on the officers with their rented weapons. As a result, Virgil, Boyd, and Alex Kern walked out a few minutes later with three new machine guns, two sawed-off shotguns, a Browning automatic rifle, two Lugers equipped with special thirty-one-shot magazines, a case of .45-caliber ammunition—and one bulletproof vest. It was Boyd who insisted upon lugging it along, accompanied by a chorus of cursing on Virgil’s part. They abandoned the Plymouth, too identifiable, in the next county and stole a snappy new red-and-white DeSoto for the drive into Kansas City.
Chapter Fourteen
The Kansas City First National occupied the first floor of a lofty fourteen-story structure just off Main Street. It was a conservative establishment, set off by an imitation marble pillar on either side of the revolving door, and marked by its name tastefully chiseled into the concrete lentil atop them. The Depression had made its presence known in the staggered pattern of shaded and darkened windows that studded the side of the building. Each represented the corpse of another dead business.
The three newcomers sat unspeaking in the DeSoto parked across the street, silently watching the swarm of people hurrying in and out through the revolving door. Virgil struck a match on the wooden steering wheel and lit a cigarette. “Busy, isn’t it?”
“That it is,” agreed Alex gravely. “We’re gonna need an extra man behind the wheel, ’cause there’s no way just the three of us is gonna rob that bank.”
“I figured that before we left Stockton. That’s why I called a guy recommended by a buddy of mine in McAlester. He lives here in K.C. Name’s Roscoe Hunter.”
“What’s he done?”
“My buddy says he used to hijack beer trucks for the Capone mob.”
Boyd Harriman whistled from the back seat. “That’s some qualification.”
“Yeah, but what’s he done since? Capone’s in stir two years now.” The long drive had irritated Alex.
Virgil dragged on his cigarette and blew the smoke curling out the open window at his elbow. “Oh, he went legit for a while. Raced cars someplace in Indiana. Don’t know what he’s doing now.”
“Any guy who’s good enough to race in Indiana’s good enough for me,” said Boyd. “Where is he?”
“I got the address,” said Virgil, starting the engine. “First I got to find a phone and let Hazel know we’re here.” He released the brake and drove off.
Hazel said goodbye to Virgil and hung up the receiver. She was seated on the couch with the flowered slipcover, her legs curled beneath her, a magazine lying open on her lap … a tencent New York detective quarterly, fresh from the Stockton drugstore.
It had been an empty conversation on both sides. Virgil had avoided mention of the upcoming bank robbery, though she had heard them planning it the day after her wedding, and Hazel had not brought up the subject of the magazine. Now she studied it again more closely. There was a rotogravure portrait of Virgil, Lansing Prison number and all, at the top of the page, and beneath it a bold offer of $5000 for any information leading to his arrest. This was standard. It was the facing page that had grabbed and held Hazel’s attention. Here, a flattering picture of a stocky, distinguished-looking man occupied a spot in the center of a bold-faced article. The caption beneath identified the man in the photo as J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the Division of Investigation of the Department of Justice. The Feds were after Virgil Ballard.
Roscoe Hunter strode into the hotel room as if expecting a standing ovation. He was a medium-sized fellow with square shoulders and a toothy smile. He wore a long overcoat of some expensive material. Hatless, his thick hair tumbled in shiny black curls over his forehead. He drew an ivory comb from his coat pocket and ran it swiftly through these, smoothing them into symmetrical waves running straight back from his forehead. “Wet out there,” he commented, jerking his thumb back toward the door.
Virgil looked up sharply from the damaged Luger magazine with which he was fiddling. He was sitting cross-legged on the thin flowered carpet, gun parts scattered around him. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I told you to be here by ten. It’s half-past eleven.”
“What’s the hurry? We don’t have to be there till one. Hiya, Boyd.” He clapped a hand on Boyd’s shoulder, making him drop the machine gun recoil spring he was holding. He caught it before it rolled off the table.
“It would be nice if we could drive past the bank a couple of times and figure out a good escape route, just in case the cops decide we’re worth chasing.” Virgil’s voice was savage in its sarcasm. He rammed the vertical clip into the handle of the pistol. It protruded seven inches below the grip. “Where’s that other Luger?”
Alex Kern reached into a compartment of the steamer trunk standing open in the center of the room and drew out a gleaming blue automatic, which he handed to Virgil. The gang leader picked up the second clip and began loading it from the square box of 9 mm. ammunition beside him on the floor. “Verne Wilson said you was hot stuff in Chicago. I’m beginning to wonder. What’d Capone say when you showed up an hour and a half late for the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre?”
“Aw, Virgil, I told you I didn’t have nothing to do with that. I was strictly a hijacker.”
“How are you on speed?” Alex wanted to know.
Roscoe shrugged. “I can handle sharp turns at eighty. After that I can’t make guarantees.”
“Yeah. Well, we damn well better be getting some guarantees before long. I’m sick of all this poor planning.” Virgil got to his feet, jammed one of the assembled Lugers into his belt, and buttoned his vest over it. The overlong clip bulged beneath the material. “Boyd, Alex, ready?”
Boyd gave the actuating lever on the drum of his machine gun three fast twists and got up from the table. “I’m ready.”
Alex slipped into his jacket. The shoulder holster he wore was effectively hidden beneath it. “Yeah, let’s go.” He clapped his hat on his head and grabbed his machine gun from its resting place against the wall.
“How’s the weather?” Virgil fired the question at Roscoe Hunter.
Roscoe hesitated for a second before answering. “Just quit raining. Pavement’s gonna be hell on driving.”
“Good enough,” said Virgil. “Break out the slickers.”
Alex and Boyd went to the narrow closet and each took out a heavy raincoat and put it on. Alex’s was a brown trench coat that, when buttoned up and buckled about the waist, hung down in sharp pleats just below his hips. The one Boyd had on was a simple oilcloth slicker, the kind Buster Crabbe wore in his Joe College movies, and swept around his knees. It was a shade darker than the gray cloth cap he had pulled low over his gl
asses, but that didn’t matter because Boyd was not as clothes-conscious as Alex. Both coats were ideal for concealing machine guns.
Roscoe, who understood the purpose of the apparel, turned to Virgil and appraised his tan suit. “Where’s yours?” he asked.
“I don’t need one,” said Virgil, smiling and patting the odd-shaped bulge beneath his vest. “No tommy gun.”
“What good is that popgun if you got to shoot someone? What if you miss?”
“I won’t miss.” Virgil checked his wristwatch. “Okay, let’s pull out.”
Boyd said, “Hold it,” and hurried across the room, stripping off his slicker as he went. “I almost forgot.” He stopped at the open trunk and lifted out the heavy bulletproof vest. It took him a moment to figure out the complicated system of straps and buckles, then he slid his arms into it and strapped it on.
Virgil swore. “What are you doing? Leave that sissy vest here!”
“It ain’t sissy,” insisted the youngster. “Cops always go for the guy with the machine gun. I’m not taking any chances here in cop city if I can help it.” He straightened with difficulty, and pulled the raincoat on over the bulky vest.
“Jesus!” snorted Virgil. “Late wheel men and sissy vests!”
A few minutes later, the bank robbers were all seated in the red and white sedan, Alex Kern and Boyd Harriman, machine guns across their laps, in back, Virgil and Roscoe Hunter up front, Roscoe behind the wheel. “A DeSoto!” Roscoe exclaimed. “Classy, but ain’t it a little … ah … conspicuous? For what we’re doing, I mean?”
Virgil shook his head. “Nobody notices automobiles. By the time we’re a block away from the heist, it’d be everything from a dark green Hudson to a bright yellow Essex with red spoke wheels. It’s the guy driving that counts. So drive.”
Roscoe started the engine, released the clutch, and the car lurched forward with a squeak of tires. “I just hope this thing is as hot as it looks,” he said, and wheeled it into traffic.
When they got to the bank, they discovered a big green unmarked van parked before the entrance, its back doors hanging open and a stack of clean white lumber protruding over the bumper. A red flag flapped from the end of the longest board. “That ain’t no armored car,” observed Roscoe.
“Must be making repairs,” said Virgil. “Drive around the block; maybe it’ll be gone when we get back.”
Roscoe accelerated and drove to the next intersection, then turned right. Traffic in the bank’s vicinity was building up toward the rush hour. Motorists guided their vehicles carefully down the wet pavement, their tires skirting the broad standing puddles and sending droplets out in a fan-shaped pattern across the gutters. Other cars were parked bumper-to-bumper beside the curb, some of them jammed into tight spaces so that their rear ends angled out into the street. Roscoe steered the DeSoto around these, cursing as he did so. “Some people should never be allowed behind the wheel of a car,” he said through clenched teeth.
Virgil pointed out a side street to the right. “That street leads straight out of the business district. We can hit that after the heist and head north.”
“What if we’re tailed?” asked Alex from the back seat.
“Roscoe here’ll shake ’em,” said Virgil, and slapped the driver on the knee. “Won’t you, Roscoe?”
“Well, like I said, no guarantees.”
They turned and came abreast of the bank once again. The van was still there. “What now?” said Roscoe. “There’s no place to park.”
“Double-park it next to the van.” Virgil studied the busy bank entrance.
“What if a cop comes along?”
“We’ll worry about the cops.”
“Yeah, but what’ll I do if they tell me to move the car?”
“Move it.”
Roscoe slid the car in next to the van and set the brake. Virgil swung open his door and put one foot on the running board. Then he turned to the driver. “Keep the motor running. If a cop comes anywhere near the bank, touch the horn three times, fast. Lightly. If they find out you’re here, we’re all dead. Got it?”
Roscoe nodded vigorously.
“Okay, c’mon.” The order was snapped to Boyd and Alex in the back seat. They gathered their weapons and got out on both sides, Boyd having difficulty because of the heavy vest. Then they stepped between the battered van and a two-year-old Packard eight parked in front of it and mounted the low steps to the entrance.
Virgil was first through the revolving door, his thirty-one-shot Luger held out in front of him. Then came Alex and Boyd, machine guns cradled, and spread out on both sides of the entrance. The bank was full of people.
“This is a stickup,” announced Virgil loudly. “Everybody get their hands in the air and nobody’ll get hurt.”
A woman customer began screaming and couldn’t stop. Some of the customers near Virgil made a dash for the door, but Boyd’s machine gun stopped them. In his low cap and big raincoat open to reveal the quilted vest, he looked extremely menacing. They backed away from him, hands raised.
Virgil pointed his Luger at the pretty stenographer who sat petrified behind her little desk near the door, and waved it in the direction of the others huddled along the left wall. “You. Over there.”
The girl sprang to her feet and fled across the room, high heels clacking on the checkerboard floor.
“Cut out that damn squawking!” Virgil swung the gun in the direction of the screaming woman. She couldn’t stop. A little, gray-suited man at her side, probably her husband, clamped a hand over her mouth and choked it off.
The bank president, a man in his forties with graying hair and a small moustache, stood behind the varnished wooden gate that closed off his cubicle, hands held so high that the sleeves of his expensive jacket had slid down almost to his elbows. Two beefy forearms and the striped material of his shirt were exposed. “Open the vault,” said Virgil, stepping through the gate. The president hastened to comply, leading the way around in back of the tellers’ cages toward the enormous round vault door recessed into the rear wall. They passed a group of workmen clad in overalls, who had stopped their work on the half-finished pine partition they were building between the cages and the president’s cubicle in order to raise their hands. “What’s going on here?” said Virgil, pausing before a carpenter with a large paunch that hung over where his belt would have been if he had been wearing one.
“They’re doing some remod—” began the bank president, but Virgil cut him off by jabbing his gun at him.
“I was asking him.” Virgil glanced at the man with the paunch, expecting an answer.
The workman said shakily, “We’re puttin’ a wall ’twixt the tellers an’ the president.”
“How come?”
“He ordered it.” The carpenter nodded at the executive.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Virgil, turning back to the president. “You figure maybe you’re too good to associate with your employees? You’re better than they are?”
The president stared at the gun the robber was pointing at his groin. “That’s not true,” he protested. “It’s only to provide some privacy—”
“Privacy! Hah!”
“—Provide some privacy for the bank’s customers. Savings accounts are very personal things, one must protect confidences—”
Virgil said, “I don’t like it. Tear it down.”
The carpenters stared at him, blinking.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said tear it down!” He pointed the gun at the workmen.
Alex said, “Aw, Virgil, for Christ’s sake—”
“Shut up!” snapped the other, and planted the muzzle of his Luger in the bank president’s soft stomach. The executive grunted. “Now, if you bastards don’t start tearing down that goddamn un-American partition by the time I count three, I’m gonna blast this man’s guts all over the back wall. One!”
The carpenters snatched up their tools and began working furiously at the unfinished wall, wrenchingly tearing the clean wh
ite boards from the frame. Nails screeched and wood splintered as a particularly ambitious workman scurried along the partition, slamming his claw hammer into the bottom of the boards and loosening them, unmindful of the damage he was doing. The hammer blows reverberated like gunshots around the high-ceilinged lobby.
When the destruction was well under way, Virgil stood back and smiled with satisfaction. “That’s more like it,” he said, and spun the bank president around so that he could place his gun barrel against the man’s spine. “Okay, you capitalist swine, the vault.” He marched him toward the big steel door.
Out in the car, Roscoe Hunter had just snapped off the radio when he heard the hammer blows resounding from inside the bank and thought they were gunshots. He sat up straight, heart pounding, and stared toward the entrance through the side windows of the van beside which he was parked. Fifteen seconds went by, then thirty, and nobody came out the door. After a full minute, he figured the entire gang had been killed or captured. The motorcycle cop puttering up the street toward him confirmed it. He had been sent out to pick up the wheel man.
Roscoe released the hand brake and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The car lurched, the engine coughed and died. He started it again and took off, this time successfully. The big DeSoto left the curb in a flurry of squealing rubber and roared down the street right past the motorcycle cop, fishtailing wildly on the slick wet asphalt. It barreled around the corner on two wheels and was gone.
The motorcycle patrolman stopped and turned in his seat as the two-toned bomb sped past, and wondered what was going on. The bank was just up the street, on the left. He decided to go in there and check it out, just in case.
Inside the bank, the president fiddled with the big combination knob on the vault, his hand shaking so badly that his fingers kept sliding off.
“Come on, you fat bastard, hurry it up.” Virgil kept jabbing him with his gun.
“I’m trying,” protested the president. “I’m nervous. I keep going past the number.”
“Well, get it. You want to foul up our neat schedule?”
Red Highway Page 11
