by Iain Levison
10
CHAPTER
“THIS IS IT. This is the place,” said Kevin, pulling into a driveway that was little more than frozen mud. At the far end of the driveway, by a garage that looked like it was a day from total collapse, was the car they had come to buy, a 1980 Chevy Impala which had been listed in the paper for $300.
They had been excited after reading about the Impala, because in a big old car like that, there was plenty of room to work on the engine. Kevin was always ranting about how cars nowadays crammed everything in so tight, all the computerized gizmos and gadgets, so that you practically had to remove the engine block to check the oil. But not on these old babies. You could crawl under the hood and sleep in there after your wife threw you out, he said, a comment which made Mitch and Doug look at each other in concern.
“I just meant there’s a lot of room in there,” he explained, noticing their reaction.
The plan was to check the car out, maybe do some work on it, and get it running—all without registering it. The Impala, with its eight-cylinder engine and bulletproof appearance, was the perfect getaway car. They would slap the Nevada plate on, drive it to the bank, then drive with the money to a preselected spot in the woods where they had parked Kevin’s truck. Then they would push the car into the ravine (the preselected spot required a ravine) and speed off, rich men.
It was important, therefore, to give the guy who sold them the Impala fake names, in case the cops ever found it in the ravine and traced it back to the last registered owner. They had practiced their fake names so there would be no slipups. Doug had even suggested wearing fake mustaches and wigs, but after consideration, that suggestion had been discarded because none of them knew enough about applying a fake mustache to be able to guarantee that it would work. The possibility of a mustache falling off while they were talking to the guy who was selling them the car was too great. Anyway, the town where they were buying the Impala was fifteen miles from Wilton and over twenty from West-lake, where the robbery was going to occur, so they figured they’d just take their chances.
Before going to look at the car, they had also reiterated the final part of the plan, the aftermath: Absolutely, positively, no spending any of the money for at least six months. The money was to be buried in three packages, one for each of them, in the exact same spot where they had parked the Ferrari on their most humiliating night of crime, a location chosen because it was neutral ground that they all knew well and also because burying money there would be a symbol of their new status as successful criminals, as opposed to bungling ones. It would be like giving the finger to the LoJack company and their fine product.
“Dude, this car stinks,” said Doug, who was sitting in the backseat. Kevin had driven Linda’s car because all three of them had decided to go and look at the Impala, and Mitch and Doug were sick of being crammed in the pickup. Linda’s car had a backseat, and to Doug, it smelled like something really bad had happened in it quite recently. “Do you think Ellie, like, had an accident back here?”
“She’s nearly eight, douchebag,” Kevin snapped. “She doesn’t have accidents anymore.”
“It reeks back here,” said Doug.
“Whatever.”
“Remember our names,” said Mitch, becoming the embattled paratroop commander again. They were bitching about smells while he was trying to get into character as “Rick.” Rick, his Chevy Impala–buying alter ego, was a devoted employee of a major discount retailer, and Mitch was eager to try out this new fake personality on the man who was selling the car. He was disappointed that neither Doug nor Kevin had bothered to fabricate any details to go with their fake names, and he wasn’t even sure if Doug remembered his. They didn’t seem to think the fake identities were important, but screwing up something like that would be as bad as a fake mustache falling off while you were shaking hands. They were acting like amateurs.
Mitch went up to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. He had spoken to the guy on the phone not more than an hour ago, and he had sounded very old. Perhaps he had just hung up the phone and gone out and forgotten all about them.
“Dude, I’m telling you, it reeks. There’s something in there,” he heard Doug saying. Standing on the front porch, Mitch rolled his eyes. They were still bitching about whether or not Linda’s car smelled. Obviously the car smelled. It had nearly made Mitch gag on the ride over, but so what? Couldn’t these guys see the need to focus? He wondered how they were going to pull this robbery off if they kept getting sidetracked and bitching about trivial shit.
“Come on, you guys,” Mitch said, deciding that he had to be the leader of this crew. They hadn’t even gone over to look at the old Impala. Instead, Doug was digging around under the driver’s seat of Linda’s car and pulling out a bag.
“Ohmigod,” said Kevin. He had turned pale.
“What are you guys doing?” said Mitch, but he was alarmed enough now by Kevin’s reaction that he was no longer angry.
“God, this bag REEEKS,” said Doug, holding it at arm’s length. It was a heavy, dark green trash bag that unfurled as he held it out, and as it was upside down, the contents fell out and landed with a thud at Doug’s feet.
It was Scotch Parker.
Doug yelped and hopped away from the dead terrier’s little body. Released from the trash bag, the full odor of the rotting carcass hit all of them at the same time, and Mitch gagged and felt his eyes water. He looked over at Kevin, who had covered his face with his hands, seemingly more ashamed than disgusted.
“Dude,” Doug croaked. “Why are you driving around with, like, a dead dog under the seat?”
Kevin was strangely silent.
“Seriously, man,” Mitch said after a second. “That’s a good question.”
They all stared at the little terrier’s body, bloated and gray. Mitch took a deep breath and went in closer to get a better look. The dog’s eyes were half open, his tongue hanging out of half-open jaws, his tiny teeth exposed. For most people, the sight of a dead body of any species was a cause for emotion, so seeing a dead animal that he had never known in life was a rare opportunity to study death in a neutral context. Then he breathed and got a whiff of the decaying carcass, and he gagged again.
“Kevin, man, we gotta bury this thing,” he said.
“His name’s Scotch,” Kevin said, his voice flat.
Mitch was taken aback by Kevin’s tone and turned to Doug. “You wanna help me bury it?”
Doug nodded and walked over to the half-collapsed garage. Leaning against some rotting firewood was an old, rusted shovel.
“FUCK!” Kevin screamed.
Doug and Mitch, who were about to start digging a hole by the pile of rotting firewood, flinched.
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” Kevin was screaming at the top of his lungs. He walked over to the front of Linda’s car and began savagely kicking a headlight. This isn’t good, Mitch thought. The whole aim of this transaction was to keep everything cool, to pay cash for a junk car and leave, and not be remembered.
“What the hell is his problem?” Doug asked Mitch.
“I dunno,” said Mitch, looking equally mystified. He handed Doug the shovel and ran over to where Kevin was screaming. “Dude,” he said, putting his hand firmly on Kevin’s shoulder. “What are you doing? What’s the matter with you?”
Kevin seemed to run out of energy and slumped forward. “Fuck,” he mumbled.
“Is this about that dead dog?”
Kevin suddenly lurched forward, full of fury again, and kicked the bumper. “FUCK!” he screamed. Mitch tried to hold him back.
“Settle down,” said Mitch softly.
“I’ve got . . .” Kevin said, panting from the effort of his outburst, “a goddamned dead dog under the seat of my car.” He threw his arms up and turned around to face Mitch. “That’s like the story of my fucking life.”
“Well . . .” said Mitch, trying to think of something helpful to say, “I wouldn’t go that far. But as long as we’re on the s
ubject, why is there a dead dog—”
“I’VE GOT A DEAD DOG UNDER THE SEAT OF MY CAR AND A FERRARI IN A FOREST AND A FUCKING DRUG-DEALING DOCTOR MAKING ME SELL HIS PILLS FOR HIM!” Kevin was bellowing like a wounded animal and Mitch’s only thought was that he was glad they were in a neighborhood where the houses were fairly far apart. If he’d had an outburst like this back where they lived, neighbors would have been peering out their windows and calling the cops by now.
“Dude, keep your voice down!” yelled Doug from over by the garage, where he was dutifully digging a hole.
“Goddammit! Fuck my life! Fuck my fucking life!” Kevin kicked the front of the car again, but the burst of energy was gone, though the fading rage seemed all the more heartfelt. “Fuck, dude,” he said to Mitch, as if imparting a profound piece of wisdom. “I mean, fuck.”
Mitch nodded.
“I can’t do anything right. Not one fucking thing.” Kevin sounded like he was about to start sobbing. He was wearing a frozen half-smile, though, and Mitch wasn’t sure which of his senses he should be guided by. “I mean, I leave a goddamned dead dog in the car and let my wife and my daughter drive around with it in there for a fucking week and . . . and . . . they fucking poisoned him with antifreeze, man.”
“Poisoned who?” Mitch ventured, trying to piece the rant together.
“ANTIFREEZE!” Kevin screamed and Mitch flinched, realizing the tirade wasn’t nearly over. “And the cop wouldn’t do a goddamned thing about it, and he said I could investigate myself for five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars! Do you have five hundred dollars to investigate . . .”
Kevin seemed to be pausing for breath so he could bellow some more incoherent syllables, but Mitch put his hand up, almost as if he were requesting a turn to speak in class.
“Dude,” he said. “It’s OK. We’re going to rob an armored car.”
Kevin considered that for a second and Mitch thought how odd it was that robbing an armored car was the only hopeful thing he could offer. Maybe things really were that bad. “I’ll probably fuck that up too,” Kevin said, but more softly, and Mitch thought the outburst really was over. Thank god the old guy wasn’t home.
“We’re not gonna fuck it up, man. We’re gonna do it right.”
Kevin stared into the grass of the old man’s yard for a moment, then looked up, suddenly cheerful. Suddenly enough for Mitch to be a little alarmed. The switch in emotion was almost psychotic.
“OK,” Kevin said, brimming with energy. “Let’s do it.”
“You wanna have a look at the Impala?” Mitch asked cautiously.
“Yeah,” said Kevin, his eyes now insanely bright. “Let’s have a look at the Impala.”
“You OK, man?” asked Doug, who had just finished burying the dog by the garage. He tamped down the last piece of earth and put the shovel back against the woodpile.
“I’m great!” said Kevin, with an enthusiasm that made Doug and Mitch glance at each other. Mitch shrugged. They opened the hood and looked at the Impala’s engine, which was in surprisingly good condition.
There was the sound of footsteps behind them and Mitch was startled to see an old man dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt standing there.
“Hey,” Mitch said, trying to hide his surprise. “I didn’t see you there. Where did you come from?”
The old man appeared annoyed. “Came out the back door. To see what all the commotion was. You fellas wanna buy this thing? It’s three hundred dollars.”
“I’m Rick,” said Mitch, extending his hand. The old man grabbed it and then let go. This grumpy old bastard was barely looking at them, so the subterfuge was, hopefully, unnecessary.
“You wanna buy this thing? It’s three hundred dollars.”
“Does it run?” asked Kevin.
“Yeah it runs. It runs OK. What do you want, a goddamned new Cadillac? It’s three hundred dollars, for chrissake. Get it outta here.”
You had to love grumpy people, Mitch thought, because they didn’t ask questions. Foul, grumpy people were the opposite of nosy neighbors. If only there were more of them.
Doug pulled three hundreds out of his pocket and gave them to the man.
“You a dealer?” he asked Doug as he was counting the bills.
“Nah, man. I just have long hair. It doesn’t mean anything.”
The old man looked at him, confused.
“I think he means a car dealer, dude,” Mitch said. Doug burst out laughing, which only irritated the old man more.
“Get this damned thing outta here, and you go too.” He began to walk back into the house. “Making all that commotion. Disgraceful. Goddamned disgraceful.”
Well sonofabitch, Mitch thought, watching the old man climb the steps back into his house. That was easy. They had a getaway car.
THE GETAWAY CAR, it turned out, had a top speed of about fifteen miles an hour and labored mightily up even the slightest grades. As the Wilton area was nothing but steep grades, it became apparent to them that the getaway car wouldn’t get them away from very much until it had a tune-up or, at the very least, some new sparkplugs.
“I can do that,” Doug said. “But for a tune-up I’ll need to buy a timing light. That’s going to cost, like, two hundred dollars.”
“Dude, this time next week we’ll have hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“I’m just saying, man. When we count out the money, I want to get repaid for all this.”
“OK, fine,” snapped Kevin, whose glum mood returned after they left the old man’s yard. “We’ll have a million fuck-ing dollars to split, but we’ll pay you an extra thirty-five fucking cents or whatever you want.”
“Chill out, man,” said Mitch, hoping this wasn’t going to degenerate into a full-blown fight, leaving the goal of the whole partnership, the robbery, forgotten. He had decided he was the leader here, based on the fact that he didn’t have dead dogs stuffed in his car, like Kevin, and he wasn’t prone to flights of fancy, like Doug. “Let’s all relax,” he said, trying to sound soothing.
“Dude, fuck you,” said Kevin. “We’ve got dogs to walk.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of Linda’s Toyota, indicating a desire to go.
Doug hadn’t responded, which was in keeping with his recent respect for everything Kevin said, as if he owed the guy something. Mitch thought maybe he was overdoing the leadership thing. Maybe nobody was really ready to accept him as the leader yet. So instead of trying to mediate, he suggested they all go inside and smoke a bowl. Doug accepted the offer.
“You’ve got to walk Duffy,” Kevin said. “I’ve got dogs to walk too.”
“We’ll just smoke a bowl, then I’ll walk Duffy.”
“You do what you want. I gotta go.” Kevin peeled off.
“I’m worried about him,” said Mitch.
Doug said nothing.
Inside, they went over all the necessary details as they packed the bowl. The car had to be kept in the grass lot behind their house, away from prying eyes, they agreed. All the work Doug did on it would have to be as secretive as possible, and in the event he wasn’t able to fix it, they agreed they couldn’t take it to a garage because a mechanic would remember the car. An old car like that was just too distinctive.
“I’m worried about Kevin,” Mitch said again, after he had smoked. Again Doug said nothing. Mitch was also worried about Doug for that matter. Whenever they smoked, they would trade a few bits of deep philosophy or random thoughts, and lately the thoughts Doug was having indicated an awareness of death, or at least change. In the old days, he would come up with such gems as, “Why do we only use the word recess in court and elementary school? Why don’t we take recesses at work?” Recently his pot ramblings had been more along the lines of, “It would suck to have to be identified by your dental records.”
Doug took a deep, slow hit and leaned back on the couch. “Man,” he said. “If we get shot during the robbery, I hope the car doesn’t blow up and burn us beyond recognition and shit. I’d hate for
someone to have to identify me by my dental records.”
“Not again,” said Mitch. He took a long hit himself and lay on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. “Man, the ceiling’s gray,” he said. “We gotta paint this place.”
“Not again,” said Doug.
They both chuckled. “We need a change,” Mitch said. There was silence and the comment hung heavy in the air because they both sensed that change was coming.
THE NEXT WEEK was a one of busy preparation. Doug used his free time to get the Impala running better, which required a fuel filter change and some new sparkplugs. He was going to give it a tune-up, but as they intended to drive it two miles and then push it into a ravine, he decided to save the money it would have cost to buy a timing light and instead invested it in a car stereo that he bought from a junkie who lived behind the Dumpster at the convenience store. Then, instead of getting the sparkplugs to fire in perfect order, he spent the day installing the stereo so they could listen to tunes while waiting for the armored car to show up.
Kevin and Mitch devoted time between dog walks to finding a ravine in a forest near the Westlake branch of the First Susquehanna Savings Bank. There was plenty of forest. There was even a great dirt road that led back into the forest not a mile from the bank, but the road was flat all the way back, no ravines on either side. There was a small drainage ditch at the very end of the road, but it would scarcely conceal the Impala and might well cause water drainage problems for the farmer who lived there, who would most likely be out to investigate after the first rainfall. So no good.
“What we need is a rock quarry we can push the car into,” Mitch told Kevin.
“Man, all the quarries are twenty miles over on the other side of town.”
“We can’t drive this thing twenty miles.”
“No way. Lucky if we can get five miles out of it at a reasonable speed.”
“Goddammit. Everywhere you look around here there’s a ravine. Then, when you actually need one—”
“How about burning it?”
“No way, dude. That’s all we need, a giant tower of smoke over Westlake. Then if . . .” Mitch was going to say “if we get caught” but searched for a different phrase, not out of any sense of superstition, but because successful people did not entertain ideas of failure. “If . . . if. . . . We want to avoid the possibility of an arson charge. That’s serious shit.”
