The Getaway Man

by Andrew Vachss

  The movie went on after that, but it was right then that I figured out how to do what I had to.

  I looked over at Vonda, to see if she understood, but she was lost in the movie.

  She cried when it was over. I couldn’t tell if she was crying sad, or crying happy. A kid—a little, scared kid; the best friend of the guy who ended up with the girl—he died at the end. But the rebel and the girl he liked ended up being with each other.

  A few years ago, a guy brought his Mustang into my place. He wanted it to get off the line better. Not for real racing; just the kind of thing some guys do at stoplights.

  I told him, he either needed more engine or a lower rear end. He asked me a lot of questions about changing the rear end, like he never heard of such a thing.

  I went behind the car to show him something. He had a lot of stickers all over the bumper. I remember there was a couple of Confederate flags. And one that said, “WWJD.”

  I asked him what that stood for. He told me, “What Would Jesus Do?”

  That confused me, so I asked him, how would a person know? He said, you just have to ask yourself the question. “What would Jesus do?” Then, whatever Jesus would do, that’s the right thing. And you try to do it yourself.

  I couldn’t see how people could know what Jesus would do, but I didn’t say anything.

  Before, watching the movie, I was thinking I knew what I had to do. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized, just knowing how to do something doesn’t mean you should do it.

  What would Tim do? I asked myself, inside my mind.

  J.C.’s the smartest man I ever knew. He’s smart about planning and things like that. But Tim was the smartest one about doing what’s right. Everybody said that about him. Especially after the trial.

  I felt grief in my heart, because the one man who would know the answer I needed, I couldn’t ask.

  And then I was disgusted with myself for what I had been thinking. Feeling bad because I couldn’t ask Tim was just another way of feeling bad for myself, not for Tim.

  I never think about Tim or Virgil. Because, every time I do, I feel all empty and crushed, like a soda can in one of those recycling machines.

  I used to dream—not a real dream, I guess, because I was always awake when I had it—of breaking Tim out of prison, the way I saw in some movies.

  It’s not impossible. People break out of prison. I heard, once, guys even broke out of death row, over in Virginia. I don’t know if that one’s true, but I feel like it could be.

  I know Tim would try, that’s for sure.

  The guys who broke out in Texas, that whole bunch of them, they did it themselves, from inside. But, when they got out, there was a car waiting for them.

  I could do that part. If Tim could ever get out, I could be the driver.

  I didn’t know how to do anything else. If Tim ever got word to me, I’d be waiting wherever he said. With the fastest, best car there ever was.

  But Tim never wrote me a letter, and I never wrote him. I knew why Tim never wrote, and I wouldn’t dishonor him by going against what he wanted.

  I always read the papers, hoping. But Tim’s name doesn’t get in the papers anymore.

  There’s other ways to get out of prison I heard about. There’s lawyers, people with connections, politicians. They can fix things. I don’t know anything about that for myself, but everybody in prison says that’s the way things are. What it takes is money. Heavy money, because it has to be spread around.

  When this job is over, I’m going to find one of those fixers, see if he can do something for Tim. I’m not sure where I would look, but there’s people I guess I could ask.

  I kept thinking, the best person to ask would be J.C. I felt bad I couldn’t do that, but that wasn’t a selfish feeling. Because, that time, it wasn’t me that I was feeling bad for.

  I truly believed, if Hiram was still around, he would be a man I could ask. Not because he was a preacher, or because he’d know what Jesus would do. Because of the kind of man he was, to have his woman love him so deep, long after he was gone.

  And she had picked me, too, to look after Hiram’s car.

  One day, I took the Thunderbird out for a drive. I knew I shouldn’t have done it. But I just had to, even though I couldn’t say why.

  I didn’t want to go fast, or practice turns or anything. I just wanted to drive. By myself.

  The sun was bright, but it wasn’t that hard white it gets sometimes. It was a soft, pretty glow, like it was coming through those big colored windows they have in churches.

  The Thunderbird wanted to run, but I kept the leash tight. I found a good station on the radio. They had a Delbert McClinton song playing. He’s one of the ones I like the best.

  I came around a long curve, as smooth as water over river rocks. I was thinking those new shocks I had put in were really doing the job … and then I saw the cop car.

  It was parked over the side, like it was waiting for speeders. I knew I wasn’t speeding, but I kind of held my breath.

  And then the cop car pulled out behind me.

  His light bar wasn’t flashing.

  I knew the roads around there perfect. I should have, as much scouting and practicing as I had done. I didn’t know what the troopers had in their cars, but I was sure I could lose him if I could get off the highway.

  But, sooner or later, I would have to go back to the cabin. There was no phone there; I’d have to go myself.

  And if the cops were watching for me, everybody was finished.

  I didn’t need to have Tim around to ask what the right thing to do was.

  I slowed down and moved a little to the right, like I was letting the cop car pass.

  The trooper swung out and came alongside me. I looked over at him—that’s the natural thing to do. And he pointed with his right hand, telling me to pull over.

  I did it. The trooper pulled over, too. But not behind me, the way they always do. In front.

  The trooper got out of his cruiser and walked toward me. I rolled down the window and reached in my wallet for my license and registration. Even scared, it felt good, knowing I had all that, like I was a regular person.

  “Where’d you get this?” the cop asked me.

  “It’s mine,” I said. “I bought it from—”

  “No, son. I mean, where in the world did you find yourself a fifty-five? You don’t see one of these every day. You cherrying it out?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ve been working on it for almost three years.”

  “Damn! Mind if I take a look?”

  “My pleasure,” I said. And I wasn’t lying. I popped the hood. Then I got out and lifted it up for him.

  “That carb’s not stock,” he said. He sounded a little disappointed.

  “I got the original back home,” I told him. “And the original exhaust manifolds, too.”

  “You going to put them back on when you’re done?”

  “I … I don’t rightly know. I was thinking, maybe I would, someday. But it runs a lot better this way.”

  “I’ll just bet. Cold mornings, I can sit there forever before I get mine to fire up.”

  “You’ve got one, too?”

  “A fifty-six,” he said. “Goldenrod yellow, with a white porthole top.” He looked at the seats. “Yours was, what, red from the factory?”

  “Torch red,” I told him, proud that I knew.

  The trooper walked around to the back of the car, but he didn’t roll his shoulders the way cops do when they’re trying to make you nervous.

  “Are those the original skirts, or did you get them NOS?”

  “Original,” I told him.

  “I’ve been looking for a pair for mine for years,” he said. “I got the Continental kit, though.”

  “I saw one of those, once. On a fifty-seven. It looked great.”

  “Gives you more room in the trunk, too,” he said. “I’m not one of those guys who only brings his car to shows. I drive mine.”


  “Me, too,” I said.

  “I know a place sells the original paint,” he said. “They still got some in stock.”

  “For real?”

  “Absolutely. When you’re going numbers-match, it has to be all authentic, right?”

  “Right. Where’s it at, that place that sells the paint?”

  The trooper stayed with me for quite a while. Long enough for me to smoke a couple of cigarettes. He even had one with me.

  Finally, he said he had to get going. He said it was a pleasure meeting someone else who had an old T-bird to drive, not just to keep in the garage and only bring out on Sundays when it doesn’t rain, like some.

  We gave each other our names, and shook hands. He never asked to see my license.

  After he took off, I kept driving in that same direction for a while, just to be sure.

  I felt a happiness in me, like I had done good. I wished Hiram’s wife could have seen me, representing his jewel.

  “You got her ready to roll?” J.C. asked me, at the end of the week. He was talking about the hearse; the truck didn’t need anything.

  “Pretty much,” I said. “I still don’t know where Gus wants to put that stuff of his.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” J.C. said. “Gus says it’s no bigger than a little suitcase. Not like the damn money. That’s all going to be in mixed bills, so we’re figuring about two, three hundred pounds for every million. Going to be a lot of heavy little sacks. That’s why we had to get the truck.”

  “I thought it was because—”

  “Because the hearse isn’t coming back? Nah. Look, Eddie, every good plan is really a simple one. The more complicated you make it, the more that can go wrong.”

  “You really plan stuff out, J.C.”

  “That’s my job,” he said.

  “I guess there’s no way.…”

  “What? What’s on your mind, kid?”

  “This guy. Monty. He’s not, like, one of us, right?”

  “One of us? Oh, you mean, he’s a square john? Sure. You think they’d let a guy with a record pilot one of those rigs? Monty’s a guy who never would have thought of this whole plan on his own. But, some of those citizens, once you figure out how to get their nose open, there’s nothing they won’t do.”

  “But what if … what if he’s like … what if he’s like Kaiser was?”

  “You mean, if he’s got some friends waiting around? Not a chance, Eddie. One,” he said, ticking off the numbers on his fingers, “like you said, he’s not from our world. He wouldn’t know where to find a crew could lift that heavy a weight. Two, he don’t have a clue where we’re staying. He doesn’t know anything about this place. All the trust’s on us, see?”

  “So how does he—?”

  “Soon as it’s done, he’s got to jump. Get gone good. But Monty’s slick. He’s been planning something like this for years, before we even met him. Just been waiting for the right crew to come along.

  “Monty’s been making regular trips to New York. There’s a plastic surgeon up there that’s going to do his face as soon as this is over. He’s got a whole new set of ID waiting, too, for when he can get the new pictures taken.

  “We know where he’s going to hide out until we can get him the money. All he has to do is hold tight for a few days, and then he disappears. They’ll never find him.”

  “I guess. But if he ever does get caught, he’ll—”

  “Rat us all out, sure. So what? He’s never seen you. Besides, if Gus’s stuff works like he says, nobody’s even going to be looking for him, am I right?”

  “You’re right, J.C.,” I said. “You thought of everything.”

  Gus wanted to play cards that night. Me, him, and J.C., cutthroat hearts. I didn’t feel like doing anything with Gus anymore, but I knew I had to.

  “I want to play, too,” Vonda said. She never had before.

  “You can’t have betting with four players,” Gus said.

  “We can play partners,” J.C. told him. “Me and Vonda against you and Eddie.”

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Gus said to me. “Couldn’t you see I was shooting the moon?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Get with the program, kid. We’re down damn near a hundred bucks already.”

  “Few weeks from now, you’ll be lighting cigars with hundred-dollar bills,” J.C. told him.

  I knew J.C. and Gus wouldn’t be going away anymore. So I wasn’t disappointed when Vonda stopped watching my movies with me. She stopped exercising, too.

  The only time I saw her was when she came out to the barn one day with J.C. and Gus.

  “Hey, what’s with the front door on that hearse?” Gus asked me.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “How come it opens from the front? It looks weird.”

  “They’re called ‘suicide doors,’” I told him. “They used to make all cars like that.”

  “I can see why they call them that. Christ, you could fall right out on your face.”

  “Not if you’re careful. And I figure it gives me an extra second or so if I have to get out fast.”

  “That’s why Eddie’s the ace,” J.C. said. “Best getaway man in the business.”

  Even with all I knew about him by then, it meant a lot to me, that he said that.

  “You’re sure he hasn’t got a move?” Gus asked J.C. that same night.

  “You and Eddie, Jesus Christ,” J.C. said. “Monty’s got nothing. He’s the one’s got to trust us. He’s taking the armored car, but we’re taking the money.”

  Gus didn’t say anything.

  J.C. took a long deep breath. Then he let it out slow, like he was trying to keep his temper.

  “All right,” he said, looking at both of us, “one more time. Two men are making the run in the armored car. One of them is Monty. The other guy, the one behind the wheel, he doesn’t know anything. We’ll be behind those rocks; nobody can see us from the road. When they get close, Monty pulls his piece, makes the other guy drive up to us.

  “Monty keeps him under the gun; Gus slips behind him with that pad of chloroform and clamps him down. He goes out like a light, be unconscious for a good hour, minimum.

  “When the guy wakes up, he’s in the armored car, a few miles away from where we took him. He’s cuffed to the steering wheel, but his radio’s disabled, and every fuse has been pulled, so his horn and lights don’t work.

  “Even when the cops finally find him, all he can tell them is that Monty was in on it. He never sees our faces, never hears us talk. But we make sure he sees the hearse … that’s Eddie’s job.

  “The way the cops dope it out, the robbers and Monty all pile in the hearse to make a getaway. The driver loses control around the curve just opposite the quarry, and it goes over the edge.

  “When they finally get down there to examine the wreck, they won’t find any actual bodies, just little tiny pieces of them, all burned. Even if there’s enough left to DNA, none of it’s our DNA. So even if they don’t buy it complete, the only person they can ever look for is Monty.

  “And even if they do catch Monty someday, so what? Sure, like Eddie already asked me, he’d rat us out in a heartbeat. But what’s he got to tell them? Meanwhile, time’s passing, and the statute of limitations is running. This isn’t a murder; it’s a robbery. Sooner or later, they’ll have to throw in the towel.”

  “Yeah,” Gus said. “All Monty’s got to do is drive the armored car down the road a few miles, nice and slow, then ditch it and disappear. That’ll give us plenty of margin, especially if the base calls him on the radio while he’s still behind the wheel.”

  “And the cops, they’ll think we took Monty with us,” J.C. said, smiling. “Right over the edge.” He turned to look at me. “Hey, Eddie, you sure that ground won’t take tracks?”

  “Car tracks, just a little, maybe,” I said. “But never us, walking back.”

  “Can’t you fix something with the gas pedal,
make it go over by itself?” J.C. asked me.

  “No. I mean, I could, but it might not work. The only way to be sure is to put it in drive, and all three of us shove it over. I’ve got the idle set up real high. It’ll be easy.”

  “Isn’t there something I could do, too?” Vonda said.

  “All you have to do is sit right here,” J.C. said. “We’ll be back with enough money to light you up like a Christmas tree.”

  Saturday, we all stayed up. When J.C.’s cell phone buzzed, I jumped a little. But it was only Monty, saying that it wasn’t going to be that night.

  It was a bad week after that. With J.C. and Gus around all the time, Vonda could hardly talk to me. But, sometimes, when no one was looking, she’d give me a quick little secret squeeze.

  I spent a lot of time in the barn. But I never watched any of my movies.

  The next week was like my first week in prison. It never seemed to get closer to another day.

  Saturday night, J.C.’s phone went off again. When he hung up, he said, “It’s show time.”

  We went out to the freezer for the bodies. They were too slippery to handle; we had to wrap them in blankets.

  Gus and me loaded the bodies in the back of the hearse. J.C. kept looking at his watch, saying, “Plenty of time, plenty of time.”

  When I first poked the nose of the hearse out of the barn, a spring rain was slanting down.

  “Roads’re going to be greasy,” Gus said.

  “Eddie knows what he’s doing,” J.C. told him.

  I felt good about what J.C. had said. But Gus was right, and I paid close attention.

  I could feel the extra weight in the back right through the wheel. More weight back there helps keep you from sliding, but if the rear end ever does break loose, it makes it harder to catch, too. The trick to driving on wet roads is to stay smooth—it’s jerky moves that get you sideways.

  J.C. was right about there being plenty of time. When the armored car showed up, we had been waiting in the hearse for over an hour.

  We were pretty much hidden behind the big pile of rocks, but I could see the whole road out of the windshield, even with the wipers off. I had my window down, too.

  The armored car slowed way down and pulled over. It kept coming, real slow, until it was back in the brush near where we were. Its lights went off.