“How’d you guys like to go on a stickup with me?”
LISTEN TO JOE. HE HAS IT
ALL FIGURED OUT.
“I said, how’s about we all go on a stickup? It’s foolproof. If it works, we’ll be in great shape. If not, maybe they’ll give us three years… maybe… and that would be free room and board and when we’d get out we’d each have thirty-six Social Security checks waiting for us. And that, by the way, adds up to eight thousand, five hundred and thirty-two bucks… apiece. Not a bad hunk of change. Maybe we could all put it together and buy one of them newspaper and candy stands in one of them big buildings in Manhattan. A friend of mine’s son bought him one and he lives pretty good. But what the hell am I talking about that for? That’s only if we get caught… and I don’t think we’d get caught.”
IT’S THE PERFECT CRIME… almost.
GOING IN STYLE
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1979 by Warner Books, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: November 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-57008-4
For Joe Seinberg, who taught me
all I know about erasing.
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
1: Winners Either Way
2: Family Album: Joe
3: The Goats in the Basement
4: Family Album: Al
5: The Glass Hill
6: Confusing Yesterday With Tomorrow
7: Family Album: Willie
8: The Touch of Cold Steel
9: Tears’ End
10: Death of a Stickup Man
11: Ten Coats of Stab
12: Only Young Once
13: A Run of Luck
14: Like Thieves in the Night
15: The Sky’s the Limit
16: Game Over
Prologue
It had been four years since Joe had last eaten dogfood. Cycle Four had been advertised as especially suited for “the older pooch, the dog who may have difficulty chewing, who may not get around like he used to.” That’s me, Joe had thought sardonically. The older pooch.
He hadn’t liked it. “I’ll take Alpo or Carnation any time over that crud,” he’d said, and Willie and. Al had laughed, although it wasn’t funny. Joe had been a braggart. “I was eatin’ dogfood before it became popular,” he’d crowed. He was the most adventuresome of the three old men, or the most foolhardy, depending on one’s point of view. It was Joe who had proposed they all move into one apartment. “Share the misery,” was his phrase.
“I don’t think I can get along with anybody,” said Willie, and he went on to explain that thirty-nine years of driving a cab had soured him on humanity. “Not that you guys aren’t the best, dearest friends a man could have,” he added, “but, still, living with you…” He lowered his head and, with a peculiar, horse-like motion, shook it from side to side.
Al was not too hot on the idea either. “Never did room with anyone,” he explained. “Man or woman.”
“How about beast?” asked Joe.
“That neither,” said Al, “although I did have some plants. I like my privacy, you know. That’s why I’d never go into one of them nursin’ homes.”
Joe had rolled his eyes skyward. “So you’d rather stay where you are, is that it? Keep the status quo. Tell yourselves that two hundred fourteen dollars a month is really providin’ ya with ‘social security.’ You feel secure, walkin’ down the streets of Corona? You feel secure lyin’ in bed with a fever, not able to afford a bottle aspirin? You feel secure wearin’ the same trousers for two weeks in a row, because you can’t take your other pair out of the cleaners till your check comes? Does it give you a good rush to see some mutt on TV diggin’ his snoot into the same thing you just ate for dinner?”
Willie and Al remained silent.
“Ah, but our sensitive personalities might not harmonize in one large apartment,” continued Joe, “so we better let it go. Preferable to continue on like we are.” He shrugged. “Oh well, it was just a thought.”
Of course, it was only a matter of time before he had reasoned and shamed them into it. Joe was a master at that, Mr. Hard Guy and Mr. Softy rolled into one aging, wrinkled body. They’d found a four-family house in Astoria, just off Ditmars Boulevard. It seemed perfect—a kitchen, living room, three bedrooms, reasonable neighborhood, good shopping, close to Manhattan. Rent was three fifty-five, steep but not impossible. The landlady was a nasty bitch, but so what? They were ideal tenants—quiet, no children, income guaranteed by the U. S. government. They signed a three-year lease.
Al and Willie’s fears about group living had not materialized. The benefits of steady companionship, of mutual care, outweighed the minor loss of privacy. When one man was cranky or irritable, the others learned to leave him alone. When one was sick, the others helped take care of him. They went to movies together, sat in Astoria Park together, accompanied each other to the mailboxes in the hallway, and then to the bank. Once Joe had brought a woman up to the apartment, but she hadn’t stayed overnight. For the most part, things went quite well… until the economy soured.
In the mid-1970’s a crazy thing happened—simultaneous unemployment and wild inflation. The Arabs cut off oil. Fertilizers, which require oil for various steps in their manufacture, skyrocketed in price. Which led to increased costs for grains. Which led to meat shortages, and made beef unaffordable for great numbers of Americans. Farmers were killing their chickens because they could not absorb the cost of feeding them. There was a depression, yet prices did not come down. Those who suffered most were those living on fixed incomes.
Joe, Willie, and Al found themselves living on pasta. “Spaghetti for breakfast, lunch, and supper,” Al complained. “My body is starting to look like a noodle.” The movies had to be eliminated; even at senior-citizen rates the prices were too high. Once again, the old men found themselves scrimping on medicines, wearing clothing till it had holes in it, not running the exhaust fan even on hot summer nights. When the new lease came up, the landlady wanted four hundred twenty-five dollars a month. “And I can get it,” Mrs. Flaum had snapped. “If not from you, then somebody else. I got people waitin’ for this place.” They’d signed a two-year renewal. Their social security payments were now two hundred thirty-seven dollars a month, an increase of about ten percent over three years earlier. During that time, of course, the cost of living had risen thirty percent. Even pasta was becoming a luxury. On the night the men shared their first package of dogfood, eating quickly and ashamedly in glum silence, Joe found himself unable to sleep.
A couple of the day’s events had stimulated him so much that he lay wide awake in his bed, tossing uncomfortably in the darkness. He felt righteous anger. He was seventy-eight years old, had worked hard all his life, had never accepted welfare. If society was going to reduce him to living like an animal, eating an animal’s food, he would retaliate. Someone, somewhere, he knew, was making a bundle on his misery. He felt this to be a law of economics—average wealth remained constant. Increases in productivity were offset by increases in population. If some bastards were raking it in, piling up profits, it was because he, Joe, and people like him, were on the verge of starvation. Time for us to get ours, he thought. Old is not dead. At least not yet.
After an hour and a half, he climbed out of bed, walked through the darkened hallway, and entered the kitchen. He flicked on the light and scanned the small counter for a pencil. His mind was whirring like an eggbeater. Why not? he thought. Desperate peopl
e have always taken desperate actions. The operative principle was: Nothing to lose. It was the idea behind murders and revolutions. Besides, thought Joe, this has an advantage. This will be fun. He located a tiny stub of a pencil, sharpened it to an irregular point with a kitchen knife, and sat down at the table. He retrieved the Daily News from the trash pail and placed it in front of him. This was the second time this newspaper had been removed from the garbage; Al had found it that morning in a waste basket in Astoria Park. The men referred to that particular basket as the “newsstand,” since it was their primary source of newspapers. Joe carefully wrote the multiplication example in the margin: 237 x 36.
He mumbled as he worked out the answer; 8532. He grinned. He checked his work, stood up, and sat back down. “Eight thousand five hundred thirty-two dollars,” he said aloud. He replaced the pencil stub on the counter, shut out the light, and started back toward the bedroom. Although it was still early September, the night was chilly; Joe, dressed in shorts and sleeveless undershirt, should have been cold. But the figures had left him pleasantly warm. His mind burned with a thousand plans and calculations and fantasies. He returned to his bed, not to sleep but to dream.
Al poured the steaming water, and the coffee crystals dissolved to a rich brown liquid in Joe’s cup. Joe had gotten up an hour earlier than usual; already he was showered, shaved, and dressed. Normally he strung these activities out slowly, a way of using time, making the day pass. But not today. Al gently pushed the cup toward him.
“Thanks,” said Joe.
Al filled Willie’s cup.
“Thanks,” said Willie. He stared at the coffee a moment, then looked up. “Lemme have a little more water.”
Willie was finicky. Sometimes after Al poured the water, Willie would add several more crystals of instant coffee to get the strength just right. Sometimes he’d actually count out the crystals.
“You want I should get an eyedropper?” said Al.
“Don’t be a wise guy,” said Willie. “Just pour.”
Al gingerly tipped the ceramic pot.
“That’s good!” said Willie quickly. “Perfect.”
Al nodded, then filled his own cup. He put the pot back on the stove and returned to his seat. Joe and Willie added milk to their coffee; Al took his black. The three drank in silence. Today was not a “toast” day; the coffee would constitute their entire breakfast. Four days of the week, they allotted themselves one slice of white bread each. The remaining days were devoted, as Al put it, to “keeping trim.”
“Must you sip so loud?” asked Al teasingly as Willie drank.
“Why, you got something better to hear?” said Willie. “This is my enjoyment.”
“For your birthday I’ll buy you a straw,” said Al.
Joe smiled as he looked at them. “How you fellas feeling this morning?” he asked.
“What’re you, a nurse?” said Al.
“Maybe he wants to take our temperatures,” said Willie.
“Aw, come on,” said Joe. “Give a guy a break. I was just interested in how my two best friends were doing.”
“Well, I’m doing fine,” said Al. “I’d be better if not for Willie’s sipping, but I’m still pretty good.”
“Willie?” said Joe.
“All right.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. Me, on the other hand, if I gotta spend another day doing nothing but sitting around in that park, looking at them ugly kids, I’m gonna go nuts.” Joe pushed his cup away, and swallowed nervously before he voiced the idea that had kept him awake most of the night. “How’d you guys like to go on a stick-up with me?” he asked.
1
Winners Either Way
The germ of the idea had generated spontaneously in the crushing boredom of the previous day. It began as a feeling, an intense desire for change, something to break the routine, no matter how good or bad or irrational.
The park where the three men were setting in spite of its openness, might as well have been a cage. The bench was their perch. And they themselves were tired denizens of an urban zoo, rotting away in captivity. Willie fed the pigeons with a piece of moldy bread he’d found in the garbage. Al read his Daily News. And Joe sat staring out into space. Behind them, children laughed and screamed as they ran through the shower of a water sprinkler. Young mothers rocked infants in carriages, talking about the price of meat, or their husbands’ new jobs, or the start of school. It was 11:30 in the morning, and the old men had already been there for two hours.
Al lowered his paper and watched Willie dispense a chunk of bread to two scrawny birds. “How come you’re always feedin’ them, Willie?”
Willie shrugged. “They remind me a little of me. They’re always here in the damn park. They toddle around without goin’ anywhere. An’ they’re always hungry.”
Al lifted his heavy eyebrows. “You know they say that they’re supposed to bring disease.”
“What disease? Cancer?”
“No, no, I don’t know. I heard it somewhere.”
“They never brought me no disease,” said Willie.
Al nodded. “Look, don’t get me wrong. I ain’t one of those guys who got it in for pigeons. I—”
“You sound like it.”
“No, no, I like the little buggers. It’s nice havin’ a little nature around here.” Al paused. “I just heard they cause disease.”
Willie broke off several chunks of bread in quick succession and scattered them around.
Al turned to Joe and elbowed him gently in the side. Joe nodded to indicate he understood: Al was not serious; Al was only teasing Willie to try to get a rise. It was an old story. Suddenly a fat three-year-old boy came running toward them, waving his pudgy arms and screaming. He thundered directly into the flock of pigeons that Willie had collected, and sent them flapping away violently in all directions. The men covered their faces as the cloud of crazed birds rose in the air, leaving a gradually settling residue of dust, dung, and feathers. The fat kid stood in front of the bench. It was as if he’d jumped into a pool and all the water had splashed over the sides. He had a round, florid face and close-cropped hair. There was not a single aspect of his appearance that could be considered cute or endearing. He stared relentlessly at the three old men.
“What the hell’s the matter with this kid?” said Joe.
The boy kept up his steady gaze. It was apparent, from the way his thick lips pinched together, that he found the men repellent. Al tried smiling gently, but the boy failed to respond. Food stains covered his fleshy face, and spilled onto his neck and shirt. The colors were red, yellow, and brown.
“If he eats any more jelly doughnuts,” said Joe, “they’re gonna have to take him to kindergarten in a moving van.”
The boy continued to watch them curiously.
“They’ll call him ‘Tiny’ when he grows up,” said Al. “Hey Tiny, what’s your name?”
The boy raised a buttery forearm and slapped at the air.
“Look at that mug,” said Joe. “He’s got one of them heads they make pisspots out of.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you believe the nerve this kid got?” Joe asked. He stood up. “Get the hell outta here!” he roared angrily.
With surprising fat man’s speed, the boy scuttled hastily away. Joe shook his head and sat down. “Bugger!”
Al smiled. “Maybe he’s going to get his father.”
“From the looks of the kid, he’d need a building permit just to enter the park,” said Joe.
“A little hard on the boy, weren’t you?” said Willie.
“I don’t enjoy bein’ stared at like I’m some kind of exhibit,” said Joe. “He wants to stare, let him go to a freak show or museum. There’s such a thing as manners, you know.”
Willie shrugged, and began again to distribute bread. The pigeons were returning.
“Too much excitement for one day,” said Al, going back to his newspaper.
“I’m tellin’ you,” said Joe. He watche
d his two friends drift off into their own worlds. After a while he felt the muscles tighten in his jaw and a tension begin to build over his eyebrows. Why, exactly, was he feeling so angry? he wondered. And why so sad? Was it just an old man’s summer melancholy, a wistful longing for more of life? Joe turned his face into the sun. He tried closing his eyes, thought maybe he’d doze off, but ten minutes passed and he was still awake. He stood up.
“I’m sick of this shit,” he announced.
“What shit?” said Al, head still in the paper.
Joe swept his arm in front of him. “This. All of it.”
Al looked up. “Beats getting hit in the head with a dull axe.”
“Yeah?” said Joe. “I wonder about that.” He looked over at Willie, who’d run out of bread. The pigeons, whose loyalty was minimal, had drifted away.
“Let’s go home,” said Joe.
“What time is it?” asked Willie.
“Time to go home,” said Joe. “Checks are probably in by now.”
They walked the four blocks back to their house, climbed the stoop, and entered the small lobby. The remains of a broken lounge chair were heaped in one corner. Great hunks of ceramic tiles were missing from the floor. A torn, sun-browned curtain lay lankly against the glass portion of the door. Halfway up the right-hand wall was a row of rusting mailboxes. Joe fumbled with a tiny key, then inserted it in one of the locks. The metal panel squealed open, and he reached inside. Out came five envelopes. Joe kept three, handed one to Willie, another to Al.
“They’re here,” said Willie.
“What’s your other two?” asked Al.
Joe opened the largest of his three envelopes. It contained a brochure advertising sexually oriented products. He thumbed through the pages while the others watched. Magazines with internal views of genitalia; sixteen-millimeter films featuring two women, women and beasts, two beasts; condoms with hundreds of spines, ridges, and tracks “to increase your partner’s pleasure”; plug-in vibrators, battery-operated vibrators, vibrators that glowed in the dark, that had built-in FM radios; creams that got you hard, lotions that kept you hard, herbs that increased your staying power; devices for the kinky—electric wet suits, ben-wa balls, matching chain-whip-high-heel sets, stainless steel dildos; and finally, the books—How to Make Slaves of Beautiful Women, Getting Girls Through Hypnosis, Thirty Things You Can Say That Will Drive a Woman Wild.
Going in Style Page 1
