“Ain’t we. . .” Linc sputtered, “done this before?”
Rick snorted a hoarse laugh.
“We only got about fifty feet or so,” he said. “We gotta pull ourselves along under water, hand-over-hand. We’ll be going against the current, so it’ll be hard, but it’s our only chance. There’s no way I can swim back towing you. Can you do it?”
“I’m a fucking marine, ain’t I?” Linc said.
Rick told him to go first. “You get in trouble, double your hand around the line and I’ll try to kick us up to the air pocket.”
Linc was still clearing his throat, his mouth tasting like the foul water. He managed to take a couple of normal breaths, coughed a few times, then managed a couple of deep ones. “I’m ready,” he said.
Rick nodded.
“When we get to the ladder we’re home free,” he said. “Twenty-five feet or so. You go first.”
“I thought you told me fifty,” Linc said, taking a deep breath and grasping the line. His hands sought out the line, and he began pulling himself along, his massive body suspended by the water. Soon he found a rhythm to it all. Suddenly, it was easy, almost fun, his great upper body strength moving him along with ease. It was almost like being able to swim, after all. Until his lungs started burning and screaming for air. He knew he dare not open his mouth, but he wanted to shout for Rick to help him. He started to double the rope over his hand when he felt Rick’s arms encircling his chest, propelling him upward. Their faces broke the surface and they drank in the musty air.
“Figured you’d need a break,” Rick said, holding Linc’s head in the crook of his arm. “We should be almost there.”
“Okay,” said Linc.
“I got to teach you how to swim,” Rick said.
“Yeah, but some other time, okay?”
They gripped the rope again and after going several more yards, Linc grasped a metal rung. He hung on, then Rick was beside him, grabbing his head and pushing him downward. Linc instantly felt panic as they submerged to go under the ladder, but then he felt them rising again, and the fear left him. Rick’s kicking propelled them upward and Linc suddenly saw the flat surface of the water a second before his face broke through. His hands felt the solid assuredness of the cement platform a few scant feet above his head. Linc’s fingers grasped the edge and, in one deft motion he pulled himself up and onto it. He managed to get to his knees and spent the next few minutes puking. When he’d finished and his breathing had returned to normal, he lay on his back.
“Oh, Lordy,” he said. Suddenly he heard the chirping and saw scores of small, rodent eyes peering at him, maybe wondering if he was dead. He swore and kicked his legs, the movement sending them scattering.
“I’m going to dive down and set up the ladder,” Rick said.
Rick’s face disappeared beneath the surface. Linc waited, his breath coming in ragged rasps, as he lay curled-up on the cold cement. There was a splashing sound and Linc looked over the edge. Rick was there grasping the cement corner to keep himself afloat.
“Can’t move it. It’s wedged in place. Current’s too strong,” he said, gasping.
“Then fuck the ladder,” Linc told him, stretching his hand downward. “I’ll boost you up. You can stand on my shoulders.”
“Then how’re you gonna get up?” Rick said. Then added, “Wait,” and disappeared under the water. Linc kept staring at the surface until he saw Rick’s white face surfacing again. This time he held up his hand. Linc reached down and felt the rope. He pulled a few lengths of it onto the platform then held his arm down for Rick to grab. Their hands met, and Rick hoisted himself up, folding his upper body over the edge next to Linc. Once he was on the platform, he rolled over Linc’s legs, anchoring him.
“All right, big man,” Rick said. “Use your muscles and pull up that fucker up.”
Linc drew the line up toward him, feeling the weight of the ladder ascending with it. The silver rungs broke the surface with a whoosh. They tugged and pulled on the rope until they finally managed to get a hold on the wet aluminum, pulling it to the next platform.
“Watch out for the puddle of vomit over there,” Linc said as Rick began feeling around for something.
“Been there, done that,” Rick said.
Then he stooped and picked up the knapsack from the corner and slipped it over his shoulders. Linc’s face split open with a wide grin.
“Thought it got lost in the shuffle,” he said, slapping Rick on the back. “Pretty soon you’ll see. This whole thing was worthwhile.”
4:37 A.M.
The disappointment came later, after they’d gotten back to Diane’s place. They’d been stopped at several checkpoints, but the cops just took one look at them, both soaked to the skin and stinking like sewer water, and motioned them through. The knapsack had been stowed behind the seat, just in case one of the coppers decided to check the truck. At Diane’s they took quick turns in the shower, and Linc gave Rick some of his clean clothes to wear. When they came out, Diane was already counting the money.
At first it looked like a lot more, but, as they counted it, they saw that it was mostly smaller bills. Fives, tens, and twenties. Not a fifty or hundred in the bunch. Basically, it was a flash-roll. It amounted to seven thousand dollars.
“Chump change,” muttered Diane, who seemed to be devastated. She just sat there staring at the piles of cash. “Are you sure you got the right fucking box?”
“No doubt about it,” Linc said. He picked up a VHS cassette tape in a white cardboard package. “Wonder what this is?”
“Probably a porno tape, or something,” Rick said.
Diane snorted in disgust.
“All that planning, all the shit I went through, and for what?” she said. “Are you two positive you did the right one?”
Linc gave her a harsh glance.
“We almost got fuckin’ killed in there,” he said. “Drowned like motherfuckin’ rats.”
“We all took risks,” she said. “You want a fucking medal? If it wasn’t for me you would’ve never even gotten close.”
“Listen, ‘hoe, we were the ones puttin’ our asses on the line in there.”
“What did you call me?”
“Hey,” Rick interjected. “If we pool it, we still got enough to put down on a business or something.”
“Shit. Chump change, that’s all it is,” Diane said dejectedly. She turned away from them. “We all still gonna be working for somebody else for as long as we can see.”
“Hey, Rick’s got a point,” Linc said. “We can all chip in and—”
“Chip in, shit,” she said. “I want my portion now, so I can at least do something worthwhile with it.”
“Meaning what?” Linc said.
Before Diane could answer, Rick spoke quickly.
“Hey, could we all please cool it? It’s almost five o’clock and we both gotta be at work in another two hours.” He looked from Linc to Diane. “Diane, do you mind if I sack out on your couch for a little bit?”
“Go ahead, man,” Linc said.
Diane was still glaring angrily at Linc when she answered.
“No, Rick, go right ahead,” she said. “You can sleep on my couch, cause he’s sleeping on the motherfucking floor!”
She moved to her bedroom door and slammed it shut. Linc stared at the door for a moment, then shook his head slowly.
“Hell, you can have the couch,” Rick said. “I’ll go out in the truck.”
“Huh-uh,” Linc said. “Just toss me one of them cushions.” He walked over and stretched out on the floor beside the couch, then grinned up at Rick. “This ain’t the first time.”
6:30 A.M.
The door opened and suddenly the stark little six-by-ten windowless room in which Reginald Fox had spent an exhausting, sleepless night was bathed in light. Fox looked up from the curled, fetal position he’d managed to cram his long body into and stared at the source: an extremely powerful flashlight.
“Mr. Fox,” a voice
said from behind the beam. It was a deep, rich baritone, and the word mister had been drawn out with a glide over the first vowel, lending a slow, southern twinge to the sound. “It’s time to rise and shine, sir.”
Fox recognized the voice. It was that white-haired cracker asshole who’d shocked him with that crazy electronic stun gun. The lawyer rolled to his knees and stood up slowly. The anger and outrage had long since dissipated, and now he felt a searing terror begin to creep up along his bowels. Who were these people, and what did they intend to do with him? But his time in law school and in the courtroom had taught him to mask his emotions. Better not show them any fear, he thought.
“What the hell’s going on?” he said in an almost demanding tone. “Where the hell am I? What fucking time is it?”
His fingers automatically traced over his barren left wrist.
“What time it is, will be up to you, sir,” the southerner said. He became a back-lit silhouette as the door swung open all the way, revealing a lighted area behind him. “That is, it will be measured by the degree of your cooperation. All your questions will be answered in due time, of course, but now, I must ask you to accompany me.”
He held out his hand indicating that Fox should walk through the doorway.
“Do you know who I am?” Fox said, pointing all of his fingers on both hands back toward his chest as he walked toward the door. “I’m Reginald Fox, an attorney. And I do suggest that you let me get to a phone immediately, and let me get the hell out of here.”
The southerner smiled benignly as Fox moved through the hallway.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Reggie,” the man said. “For a Yankee lawyer, you’re showing a lot of balls, even though you’re probably really shitting in your drawers.”
Fox stopped abruptly as he saw an immense form standing in front of him. He didn’t have the Afro-wig on, and his dark, shaved head glistened under the overhead fluorescent lights shining down from the ceiling. The huge black man held out a hand, palm upward, indicating that Fox should step into the open door on the left. The room inside held a small wooden table, two chairs, and a telephone that was sitting on the table-top. It was one of those cellular models. The monster pointed to the chair farthest from the door. Fox went to it and sat down, trying his best to look as nonchalant as he could.
“Now,” he said, trying to suppress the hint of a quiver in his voice, “would you mind telling me what this is all about?” He swallowed hard and looked from one impassive face to the other.
The southerner settled himself in the chair opposite Fox and leaned back, stretching out his legs. He was wearing ornate cowboy boots, Fox noticed. Black, with red and gold ornamentation along the sides.
“Mr. Fox,” he said casually as he withdrew a package of long, thin cigars from inside his gray sport coat. “We have much to talk about, sir, and it will go along a lot smoother,” he paused to look at Fox over the partially unwrapped cigar. “If you. . . cooperate.”
“Cooperate?” Fox said. “How the hell can I cooperate if I don’t have any idea what’s going on? I don’t know where I am, who you guys are, what you want. . .”
The southerner crumpled the cellophane and let it fall to the floor. Then he took out a gold-plated, butane lighter and pressed down the button. A thin, bluish flame shot up and engulfed the end of the cigar.
“Mr. Fox,” he began.
“Don’t pull that syrupy, mint julep shit on me,” Fox said, deciding that boldness might give him the initiative. Besides, he figured, if they wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be sitting there. Better to act as if he were in control. Calling the shots. It worked in court, and what was court but a sidebar to life? “Either you tell me where I am,” he held up a finger, “what this is all about,” he held up another finger, “and let me call my office,” the third finger, “or I’m not going to tell you shit.”
The southerner puffed on his cigar, then licked his lips.
“I can see that this is not going as I had expected,” he said. “I imagined that after spending the night in our commodious facilities, you would be more agreeable, Mr. Fox.”
Fox just crossed his arms and legs and stared at the wall. The southerner took another long draw on his cigar and continued.
“It seems what we have here, is a communication failure,” he said, withdrawing the cigar from his mouth. “What was that line in that old movie with Paul Newman? Cool Hand Luke? A failure to communicate.” He paused to smile, then went on. “And in the interests of saving time and effort for all concerned, I do believe that some remedial education is in order. Gumbo.”
Gumbo, Fox thought. He called him Gumbo.
The man who had been standing off to Fox’s left, reached out suddenly and grabbed the lawyer’s thin wrists. Gumbo took a wrist in each hand and walked around behind Fox, stretching the lawyer’s arms up over his head. The southerner slid the table up against Fox’s chest, then the black giant leaned down, forcing the captive forearms down flat onto the table top.
“Do you recall elementary school, Mr. Fox?” the southerner said, hunching over so that he was eyeball to eyeball with the lawyer. “How your teacher would say something and you’d do it automatically, because you knew that you invariably had no choice. Because discipline was the fulcrum for learning.”
Fox could feel the other man’s breath on his face.
“Now we’re going to return to those halcyon days of yore, Mr. Fox. To recover that discipline, that climate of cooperative, question, and response. And I’m going to use a little nursery rhyme to illustrate my point.”
Gumbo’s massive chest was pressing against Fox’s shoulders, holding him down in the chair. The big black fingers of Gumbo’s hand slowly slid down Fox’s left arm, pressing the palm flat on the table. The southerner grabbed the lawyer’s hand and straightened the index finger.
“This little piggy went to market.” He released the index finger and peeled the middle finger out straight. “This little piggy stayed home.” He grabbed Fox’s ring finger next and forcibly extended it against the tabletop. “And this little piggy cried wee, wee, wee, all the way home.” His lower lip twisted downward as he flicked the butane lighter and held the bluish flame against Fox’s exposed flesh. The lawyer’s high-pitched scream echoed in the tiny room.
CHAPTER 8
Wednesday, April 15, 1992
9:04 A.M.
Tina was both relieved and angry when Reginald Fox’s call came into the office. Angry because, after flirting with her on the way out yesterday he hadn’t even bothered to call her, and she’d ended up sitting by the phone all evening waiting for it to ring. But then she was a trifle bit relieved when he called in that morning saying he was sick, thinking that was, perhaps, the reason he hadn’t called.
“I’m a bit under the weather,” Fox said over the phone. “Started last night when I got home. Must be food poisoning or something. I’m going in to the doctor’s this morning. Are there any messages for me?”
“No, Mr. Fox,” Tina said, trying to sound professional, but leaving a hint of sympathy in her tone.
“Listen,” he said. She suddenly got hopeful as he paused. “I need Dave to cover my cases in court this morning. Tell him to get continuances or something, okay?”
“Okay, Mr. Fox.” The vestiges of sympathy fluttered away. At least he could have called to tell me he wasn’t feeling good, she thought. Or maybe that we’d make it another time, or something.
“Oh, yeah,” his voice said, sounding somewhat distant. “I need you to look up a client’s home phone for me. Johnny Osmand’s. You know the file number?”
“Yes, I do,” she said, her tone becoming clipped. Of course she knew it. Did he think she was stupid, or something? She put him on hold without saying anything and left her desk to look up the file. The music that played on the hold button would let him know that she hadn’t hung up. After retrieving the number she went back to her chair, settled herself, and picked up the receiver. “Mr. Fox, I have the number.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Listen, if Mr. Osmand calls the office, just take a message. Don’t mention that I called in sick, understand?”
“Yes.”
“And just tell him that I’ve got to get a hold of him,” Fox continued. “Tell him that something important has come up and it’s imperative that we talk, okay? You got it, Tina?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve got it.”
“Good. Thanks. I’ll call back later and check my messages.”
He hung up. Tina looked at the phone briefly before slamming it down in its cradle. Asshole, she thought.
On the other end of the line, in the same small room that had earlier held his screams, a haggard, battered-looking Reginald Fox swallowed hard as he stared across the table at the southerner.
“That was real fine, Reggie,” he said, his lips forming into a soft smile. He blew out a smoke ring. “Real fine.”
9:35 A.M.
Diane hadn’t even bothered to call the special number to see if there was any news about when the bank would be opening again. She certainly didn’t want to waste time wondering about it. She glanced at the stack of money bundled on her kitchen table. They’d left it there and gone off to work. Trusting souls, but then again, it really wasn’t that much to worry about anyway. Certainly not the bundle she’d been counting on, hoping it would change her life. Now she knew that, despite the few grand or so she’d get from the heist, she’d still be in the same rut, getting up every day, taking the train downtown, punching in on that goddamn time clock, listening to her asshole supervisor ragging at her all the motherfucking time. . .
She went over and kicked the plastic garbage bag with Linc’s and Rick’s clothes in it. There was a note from Linc asking if she’d run over to their apartment and throw the stuff in the washer. Fuck him, she thought. What did he think she was, anyway? Some fucking maid, or something? She gave the bag another kick, which split the side open. The odor from the stinky clothes permeated the room, and she quickly carried the broken bag out to the porch. After slamming the door she returned and looked at the money. She felt like taking the whole thing and going to Vegas or Atlantic City. Maybe she could win enough to set her up. But she knew next to nothing about card games or any other games of chance. She decided to hide the money before somebody got a glimpse of it though a window, or something.
The Heist Page 11
