Going in Style

by Robert Grossbach

  “I like the last one,” said Al. “Let’s order it.”

  “I never said nothin’ that drove a woman wild,” said Willie.

  “Who wants to drive a woman wild?” said Joe. “I jus’ want ‘em to lay down, that’s all.” He replaced the brochure in the mailbox. “Nice of ‘em to send us this stuff, though. I guess they figured we’d be good customers.”

  The other men chuckled. “What’s the last envelope?” asked Al.

  Joe held it up. “Electric bill.”

  They headed for the bank. On the street, Joe ripped open the envelope. “You wanna see real pornography?” he said. “Here’s real pornography.”

  Al glanced over his shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Forty-nine dollars!” said Joe. “For what? Who’s using all the lights?”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Willie.

  The sun beat down steadily on the concrete. “Al?” said Joe.

  “What?”

  “Don’t ‘what’ me. You know.”

  “I know what?”

  “Every time you get up to take a leak at night, you forget to shut off the light in the bathroom.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You heard me,” said Joe. “I know. I’m up all hours.”

  “If you’re up all hours,” said Al, “you should know I don’t even turn the light on.”

  “No wonder the seat’s all wet in the morning,” said Willie.

  “Yeah?” coutered Al. “Well, at least I don’t forget to flush.”

  Willie stopped. “Wait a minute. What are you trying to say here?”

  “I’m not trying anything. I said it. You don’t flush.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Willie. “I never forget that.”

  “You do.”

  “Don’t.” Willie hesitated. “Prove it.”

  Al guffawed. “You want evidence? You want me to save a sample and give it to the police crime lab?” He was rolling now. “Maybe you think it’s like a bullet, that they can match it up to your particular rear end.”

  “All right,” said Joe, coming between the two. “I’m sorry I brought it up already.”

  “He insulted me,” pouted Willie.

  “He had it coming,” said Al.

  “Let’s forget about it, okay?” said Joe, and he resumed walking. “Nothing to start fighting about,” he added. “It’s only a couple of dollars.”

  “Couple here, couple there,” said Willie. “Before long, you’re broke.”

  At the bank they waited patiently on a long line. The air conditioning provided a relief from the outside heat. Joe’s attention was caught by an armored truck that pulled up to the curb. As he watched, the rear of the truck opened, and two guards climbed out. A third guard began handing down canvas bags. An officer from the bank wheeled over a dolly, which was quickly filled to capacity. The officer and one guard pushed the dolly over to a special entrance adjacent to the front door and disappeared inside. A moment later, Joe saw them emerge behind the counter.

  The line had moved up. Willie was already cashing his check. Joe nudged Al. “Get a load of all that dough.”

  “Yeah.”

  A male teller removed stack after stack of bills from one of the bags and placed the money in a large metal tray near his cage.

  “I sure could put a dent in some of that,” mused Al.

  “You’re telling me,” said Joe.

  “Next!” came a voice from behind the counter. Willie was standing off to one side. “Sir?” repeated the teller.

  Al wrenched his gaze from the money.

  “Sir, you’re next.”

  Al’s eyes remained glazed. “Al, wake up!” said Willie.

  Al moved forward toward the counter, but Joe was still staring at the money.

  For dinner they divided two-thirds of a chicken, and added some boiled potatoes. Dessert was Jell-O. The food was unsalted, in deference to Willie’s high blood pressure. Afterward, Willie sat at the table reading someone’s discarded Post, while Joe stared into his coffee and Al washed the dishes, singing loudly. First he sang “Sweet Adeline,” and then, even louder, “That Old Gang of Mine.”

  Willie turned a page. “I see where Con Edison is asking for another increase,” he said. “I think I’ll learn to live in the dark.”

  There was a sharp knock at the door.

  “Police,” said Joe. “You know you ain’t allowed to criticize the electric company.”

  Al stopped singing. “I’m all wet,” he said, his hands immersed in soapsuds. “Can somebody get that?”

  Willie folded his paper, shuffled to the door, and undid the two locks. Before him stood Mrs. Flaum, the landlady. She was fifty-six years old, had her hair up in papered curlers, wore a raggedy smock, and stockings rolled down to the knees. There was a huge, hair-sprouting mole adjacent to her left nostril.

  “Why, as I live and breathe,” called Al from the sink. “ ‘Tis a vision of pure loveliness I see. I believe I died and went straight to heaven.”

  Willie stood sheepishly smiling, embarrassed by Al’s mock praise.

  “I… hello,” he said awkwardly.

  “What the hell do you think this is?” said Mrs. Flaum.

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “You runnin’ a cabaret up here?”

  “No, no, uh—”

  “I’m trying to live a life downstairs.”

  Al nodded and smiled. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Flaum,” he said. “I didn’t realize how loud I was. Sometimes I get carried away.” He bobbed his head. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not happen again,” said Mrs. Flaum. She peered over Willlie’s shoulder into the kitchen. Something caught her attention, and she brushed past him into the apartment. It was not the first such visitation.

  “Can we help you, Mrs. Flaum?” said Al sweetly.

  The landlady ran her fingers over the stove top and came away with a thin coating of grease. “What is this?” she rasped. “Look at this.”

  “Just a little oil, Mrs. Flaum,” said Al.

  “Disgusting,” she said. “This is really disgusting.”

  “We were just cooking on it,” said Al. “We’ll—”

  “Don’t you men ever clean up in here?” The landlady bent sightly to sniff her fingers and grimaced at the odor.

  “Stove’s been giving us fits,” said Al. “Pilot light keeps goin’ out.”

  Mrs. Flaum scowled. “By looking at this, you’d think a bunch of slobs live here.” She stared at them. “Well?”

  “We’ll clean it right up,” said Al. From the corner of his eye he noticed Joe sitting at the table, watching intently, his face rigid.

  “You’d better,” said Mrs. Flaum. The hairs on her mole stood straight out. “If you don’t scour it all the time it gets so that you can never remove the filth. What do you think, I’m gonna buy a new stove for each new tenant?”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Flaum,” said Al.

  “What do I tell the people after you?”

  “Tell them there were three slobs used to live in the apartment,” said Al, “but aren’t there no more.”

  “You won’t be there,” said the landlady. “You read your lease. I got clauses coverin’ things like this. The law is on my side.”

  “Of course it is,” said Al. “We’ll clean it right up.”

  “That’s right, you will.”

  “We will.”

  Mrs. Flaum started for the door, which Willie hastened to hold open. She spun around. “And no more of that singing!”

  “No more singing,” said Al.

  Mrs. Flaum stepped halfway out the door. “Okay, then.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Flaum,” said Willie.

  The landlady placed her hands on her hips and glared. “What are you trying, to rush me off my own property?”

  “No,” said Willie. “I was just saying good night.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “You were, huh?”

  “Y
es.”

  “Because the lease gives me rights to perform inspections, ya know, if there’s a reasonable presumption of damage to the premises.”

  “There’s no damage,” said Al. “You needn’t worry your pretty head about that.”

  Mrs. Flaum watched him darkly. “All right. Good night then, gentlemen.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Flaum,” said Al cheerfully.

  Willie shut the door behind her and waited quietly, hearing her footsteps on the stairs. “Bitch,” he said after a moment.

  “I swear,” said Al, “that woman’s got eighty-eight teeth.”

  “If they threw her in a tank of piranha,” said Willie, “it’d be the fish you’d see jumpin’ over the sides.”

  “I’d like to try the experiment,” said Al.

  Willie shook his head. “I was a fool,” he said. “I should’ve bought a house right after the war when I had the chance.”

  “Hindsight,” said Al. “If you was to kick yourself for all the things you shoulda done, you’d wear your legs out.” He paused a moment, aware suddenly that Joe hadn’t spoken in nearly five minutes. It was unlike him to tolerate Mrs. Flaum’s intrusion without even a single word. Al walked to the table. “Joe?”

  Joe slowly lifted his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “You want a doctor’s note?”

  Al shrugged. “I noticed you ain’t been eating too much lately. That could be a sign of something.”

  “Like poverty,” said Willie.

  Joe’s attention seemed to drift. “Just haven’t had an appetite,” he mumbled.

  Al and Willie exchanged glances, then Al returned to the sink. He rinsed the last glass, dried his hands, and headed into the living room to turn on the TV. Willie lingered behind with Joe. After awhile, Joe’s eyes seemed to refocous. “What?” he said.

  “Nothing,” said Willie.

  “Something’s on your mind.”

  “No, no. It’s just—you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah,” said Joe. “Just thinking about things, that’s all. You kow.”

  Willie nodded. He went into the living room. Al was turning the dial on the old 1956 RCA television. Al was the only one who could operate it properly, since the tuner was worn and the channels did not come in where they were marked. Al had the knack of stopping the dial at the right point and then using the fine-tuning to bring in the picture. An image appeared halfway between channels nine and ten.

  “Leave this,” said Willie.

  “Leave what?” said Al, still working to clarify the picture. “You don’t even know what it is yet.”

  “Let’s see it,” said Willie who was enthusiastic about anything that moved on the screen. Al found this lack of discrimination very irritating.

  “C’mon, Willie. This is a rerun.”

  Willie sat down in the chair. “It looks good.”

  “We must’ve seen this a thousand times already.”

  “What’re you talking about?” said Willie. “We ain’t seen this once.”

  “Willie, I’m tellin ya—”

  “Sit down, I can’t see.”

  “We saw this already.

  “Never.”

  “Don’t you remember?” said Al. “They build a giant robot monster to fight the real monster, and the two of them battle it out just outside Tokyo.”

  “And who wins?”

  Al looked at the ceiling. “The real one wins.”

  “He don’t,” said Willie. “See? You’re thinkin’ of somethin’ else.”

  “Willie, I’m telling you, we saw this.”

  “Nope.”

  Al puffed out his cheeks. “You goin’ senile on me now?”

  Willie fell silent for a moment, then looked at him coldly. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Hey, I was only—”

  “Go ahead, change the damn channel.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Willie, I was just kiddin’.”

  “That’s all right,” said Willie, his voice still cold. “Change it.”

  “Willie—”

  “Go ahead. Turn the knob. We saw this a thousand times, right?”

  Reluctantly, Al moved the tuner. He hadn’t wanted to hurt Willie’s feelings, but there was little to do now. Willie was beginning to get senile, and he knew it, and was touchy about it. Al resolved not to tease him on that subject any more. There were plenty of other things to tease him about, after all. Between channels eleven and twelve an old gangster movie came on.

  “Ooh, leave this,” said Willie. “This is good.”

  Al fine-tuned the picture, then took a seat. The characters in the movie were on their way to rob a bank. He sat back and watched.

  In the kitchen, Joe had shut off the light. Alone in the darkness, his attention was caught suddenly by snippets of dialogue that drifted in from the living room.

  “All right, everybody! This is a stick-up! Everyone down on the floor!”

  “…small bills, only, you hear? Tens and twenties.”

  “Anyone moves for the next five minutes, they get their heads blowed off!”

  Joe stood up and moved to the doorway. The light from the TV filled the kitchen with strange, flickering shadows. He studied the screen. Four gangsters were collecting sacks of money from frightened bank tellers. Guns blazing, the thieves exited the bank just as a black getaway car pulled up in front. As the men dived inside, the car jerked forward. A moment later, its brakes shrieking, it disappeared around a corner.

  A commercial came on for an amazing vegetable processor that could cut in five different ways and would make a hit of any party. It sold for nine-ninety-nine and was available only from a special number in New Jersey. Joe retreated into the kitchen and sat again in the dark. His mind was going faster than even the fabulous chopper.

  “What was that again?” asked Al at the breakfast table the next morning.

  “I said,” said Joe carefully, “how’s about we all go on a stick-up?”

  Willie looked at him blanky; Al began to smile.

  After several seconds, Joe smiled back. “It’s foolproof.”

  “That’s what half the guys in Sing Sing said,” noted Al.

  “Different story entirely,” said Joe. “With this, even if we lose, we win.”

  Al wrinkled his eyebrows. His wire-rimmed spectacles nearly fell off his nose.

  “Look,” continued Joe, “if the job 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.”

  “Three years could be a life sentence,” said Willie.

  “Could be,” agreed Joe. “But if not, when we 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.” He looked around, as if proud of the calculation. “Not a bad hunk of change.”

  “That is a lotta dough,” agreed Al. “You checked your numbers?”

  “I did.”

  “You could buy a lotta meat with that kind of money,” said Willie. “And I don’t mean dogmeat, either.”

  “Or you could invest it,” said Joe. “Maybe we could put all our dough together and buy one of them newspaper and candy stands in some big Manhattan building. A friend of mine’s son bought him one, and he lives pretty good. But what the helLare we talking about this for? Investments are only if we get caught… and I don’t think we will be.”

  Willie was looking at him queerly.

  “Well?” said Joe.

  “Well, what?” said Willie.

  “Well, what do you guys think?”

  Al’s face compressed itself in a tight smile. “I dunno. Sounds like a great idea.”

  “Willie?”

  Willie turned to Al. “What do you mean, it sounds like a great idea?”

  “I mean it sounds like a great idea.”

  “I don’t understand,” said
Willie to Joe.

  “Don’t understand what?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Are you talking about actually doing this, or what?”

  “Yeah… actually doing this,” said Joe.

  “Wait a minute,” said Willie. “Just hold on there. I’m confused. Do you hear what you’re saying?”

  “Look,” said Joe, “let me tell you something. I gotta think back and say my life was okay. I got my share of everything but money, and the guys that went out for that, some of them got it today but they put too much time in getting it. People forget that part. Whatever… that’s history.”

  “Get to the point,” said Al.

  “It’s coming,” said Joe. “It’s coming. Right now, here we are and I ain’t complaining, but things would be a lot easier if we had a little extra cash. You agree so far, Willie?”

  “Yeah,” said Willie reluctantly.

  “And besides,” went on Joe, “what the hell is there for us to lose? Either we get the money, or we get caught. We’re winners either way.”

  He looked at Willie triumphantly, confident his logic was impeccable. Willie would hem and haw and bitch a little, but he would come around.

  Of course, Joe thought he had omitted perhaps the most compelling argument of all, the one that could not be measured in dollars and cents. Working on this project would relieve the deadly terminal boredom, would restore the sense of themselves as human beings instead of dried-out, mindless husks waiting to take their place among the fossils. This was the true worth of the idea, the real reason it was irresistible. Oh, Willie would stir up a fuss, Joe knew, but in the end he’d choose life. Past a certain age, conventional morality simply no longer applied. Willie would come to understand that, Joe thought. He’d have to.

  2

  Family Album: Joe

  It’s 1901. Baby Joey Harris lies in the maternity ward at Bellevue, eight pounds six ounces of shriveled, bald, grasping, sucking half-Irish American. Three days later he’s home, a tenement on Ninety-sixth Street, two rooms, occasional hot water. He grows up with Italians and Jews, raises a little hell, has his knuckles rapped in school. His parents are hardworking, uneducated, dedicated to their only son; they take him sledding in Central Park, touring around the Museum of Natural History, swimming at Coney Island. He graduates high school, gets a job as a clerk at the Five-and-Dime. There is no money for college, and besides, his grades aren’t that good. He joins the Army, fights in the First Big One, is gassed in France, recovers.