IT ALL TURNED HARD. Up to that moment it had seemed like a game, a gamble. And we had won: The hairbreadth escape from New York, the jaunty selling of the jewelry—all had gone well, with grins and laughter.
Now we sensed the presence of an implacable enemy, everywhere, a nemesis.
“I get so goddamned sore!” Jack Donohue burst out. “We made the score; why don’t they leave us alone?”
Foolish? Irrational? Of course. But I think that’s the way we all felt. Maybe all criminals feel that way. Our planning and daring and bravery were for naught; we were being condemned and hounded. The cops were unfair, the law was unfair, life was unfair.
We drove south on the Turnpike, keeping to the speed limit. I couldn’t stand the silence.
“It wouldn’t have done any good to kill him, Jack,” I said. “He might have already called someone, told them about us.”
“No,” Donohue said definitely. “If he had done that, there would have been four hammers in that restaurant instead of just him. But he’ll sure as hell gab when he comes to.”
“The Corporation?” Dick Fleming asked.
“Who else? An FBI man he ain’t.”
Silence again while we all thought of what had happened and what it might portend. I had a sudden, depressing vision of a wild flight south, an endless succession of scrubby motels, pickup meals in out-of-the-way diners and second-rate fast-food joints. And all of us, heads on swivels, looking over our shoulders for the pursuers.
“Hyme,” Jack said, “if you were tailing and got the word we had been spotted in Philly, what would you figure for our next stop?”
“Baltimore,” Hymie Gore said promptly. “Right, Jack?”
“Right,” Donohue said, nodding. “I think that’s what they’ll figure. So this’ll be just a short trip; we’ll hole up for the night near Wilmington, get some sleep, drive through to Baltimore around noon. Give us a better chance to look around. And maybe, if they don’t get a sniff of us in Baltimore tonight or tomorrow morning, they’ll follow their noses on to Washington.”
“Jack,” Dick Fleming said hesitantly, “I know it’s a crazy idea, but if they’re on our tail, the Feds and the Corporation, and are figuring our route and stops, wouldn’t it make more sense to double back to New York? They wouldn’t be expecting that.”
“Never work,” Donohue replied immediately. “Too many eyes in New York, too many big mouths, big ears. Where would we hole up? How would we peddle the rocks for walking-around money? And then what would we do—I mean eventually? How would we get out of the country? No, Miami is our best bet. We’ll get there; don’t chew on it.”
We crossed the Delaware River, came into Farnhurst, just south of Wilmington, and saw signs pointing to Interstate Highway 95. Jack Donohue laughed delightedly, the first time in the past hour.
“Dear old Route 95,” he said happily. “We can take that mother right into Miami. We’re heading home!”
We came down 95, turned off, and found a suitable motel just east of Elkton, Md. It was called something or other.
I didn’t care, and it wasn’t important; it was just a place to sleep. Donohue signed us in for two adjoining doubles. This time, he said, he and I would share one, Fleming and Gore the other. No one objected.
We checked entrances, exits, possible escape routes. We brought in the luggage and guns.
“Uh,” Jack said, almost embarrassed, “the situation’s changed; I think maybe we should start carrying when we go out, and on the road. Jannie, you and Fleming know how to use these things?”
“We can learn,” Dick said.
“Sure you can,” Jack said. “Hymie will show you how. It’s easy. Hyme, give them the automatic pistols. Just put off the safety and pull the trigger; that’s all there is to it.”
So that night, before we all went to bed, Dick and I were issued loaded pistols and shown how to use them. You switched that little dingus up, pointed the gun at what you wanted to hit, and kept pulling the trigger until the pistol was empty. You hold on tightly because the gun would jerk in your hand, and also you had to be prepared for the loud noise and not be startled by it.
“That seems simple enough,” I said.
“Yeah,” Hymie Gore said. “Nothing to it. You’ll get the hang of it right off.”
Later, Donohue and I in our separate beds, lights out, I called softly, “Jack? You asleep?”
“Can’t,” he said. “My brain’s churning. So much to figure. We’ll have to ditch the Ford.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s got that goddamned sticker of a rental car on it. And maybe the license plate. Can the cops make a rental car from the license plate like they can a cab?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anyway, the Feds will have your photograph sooner or later. It’ll probably be in the papers and on TV. The rental agency guy might spot it. You rented under your own name, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So then they’ll get out a bulletin on the car. That’s why we’ve got to ditch. We’ll pick up another heap in Baltimore and just walk away from the Ford. Then we’ll make tracks.”
Silence in the darkness. I saw him light a cigarette, so I lighted one.
“Jack,” I said.
“What?”
“Something I’ve been wondering about: Why did you bring Smiley into the deal? I thought you owed him money?”
“That’s why I had to bring him in,” he explained. “I told him I was going to score big and he’d get his five G’s. But he wanted to protect his investment, so he declared himself in. It was the only way I could stall him. The bastard didn’t trust me.”
“Oh.”
“Well, he got his,” Donohue said vindictively. “I hate people who don’t trust me.”
The aggrieved plaint of the confirmed liar, con man, cheat: People don’t trust him. What was so unbelievable, even to me, was that knowing this, I still trusted him. And so did Hymie Gore, and so did Dick Fleming.
I wondered if we loved him. It was possible. You never love people for their virtues. It’s their shortcomings that make you lose control.
After a while we put out our cigarettes. We lay awake in the darkness. I could hear him stir restlessly. I thought I heard a groan.
“What is it, Jack?”
“I been on the con all my life,” he said, as if speaking to himself. “I admit it. A grifter since I was ten years old. I had to be to survive. Listen, I worked hard at it. Lost my cracker accent. Learned how to wear clothes, order from a menu, who to tip and who to grease—like that. You know?”
“I’m listening.”
“So, being on the hustle as long as I can remember,” he went on, “it’s become my whole life. I mean, I could have been someone else. I keep thinking that with the breaks I could have been someone else. I mean, I’m not a monster, I know how to behave and I got a brain. I know I got a brain.”
“I know you do, Jack.”
“So, with a break or two I could have been something. Instead of busting my ass on the con every minute. Hitting and moving on. Always moving on. Jesus, what kind of a life is that? But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is that the con, the hustle, the scam has become such a big part of me that it’s a habit. I mean, when does it stop? Am I conning myself? That’s what’s worrying me. Is this the biggest hustle of my life—swindling myself?”
I thought about that a moment. Then I said:
“You mean about getting to Miami? Getting out of the country with the ice and living happily ever after?”
“Yeah,” he said, sighing, “that’s what I mean. What do you think?”
I didn’t answer. He kept stirring restlessly. I stared out the window, and in the light from the motel sign I saw that it had started to snow. Big fat flakes were coming down slowly, like petals.
“Jack,” I said finally.
“What?”
“Want me to come into your bed?”
“Yeah,” he said. “That might help.”
The Donohue Gang didn’t do much on Sunday, just mooched around, went out for breakfast and lunch. Armed.
Then we repacked the suitcases and carryalls, dividing up the Brandenberg loot so if one or two cases were lost or stolen, we’d still have plenty. Hymie Gore cleaned the guns that had been fired during the wild getaway. He used handkerchiefs and a package of pipe cleaners he had bought.
“Jack,” he said, “we’re going to need more pills.”
“I know it, Hyme,” Donohue said. “I figured we’d wait till we get a little farther south. Easier to buy ammo down there, and no questions asked. We got enough to see us through, don’t we, Hyme?”
“Oh sure, Jack. But, you know …”
Late in the afternoon we were all sitting around in the room occupied by Fleming and Gore, watching a football game on television and drinking vodka. The snow had stopped—only an inch or so had fallen—but it was cold enough so that it wasn’t melting. We knew we’d have to hit the road again soon, but it was warm and cozy in there: no one wanted to make the first move.
A short news broadcast came on: the usual about the Mideast situation, a famine in Pakistan, a plane crash in Poland, a fire in Bombay that killed 196. All swell stuff. Then the expressionless announcer said:
“New York police admit they have no leads in a particularly gruesome double homicide discovered early this morning in an abandoned butcher shop in the South Bronx. The bodies of a man and a woman were found hanging from meat hooks. Both victims, said police, had obviously been tortured before they died. Identification has not yet been definitely established, but it is believed the woman was of Hispanic extraction. And now, back to today’s football scores …”
Black Jack Donohue got up slowly. He switched off the TV. We watched him walk to the window. He stood staring out at the snow-covered scene.
“Jack,” Hymie Gore said falteringly. “You hear that?”
“I heard it, Hyme.”
“You think …?”
“Yeah, Hyme, that’s what I think. Angela and the Ghost. They didn’t make it.”
“Uh …” Dick Fleming tried. “Uh …”
Donohue whirled on him.
“You mean did they talk?” he demanded. “Is that what you’re wondering? Did they talk?”
Fleming hung his head.
“Goddamned right they talked! So would you, so would I, so would anyone. Now they got our names, descriptions, everything. Jesus Christ, we got to dump that car!”
“How did they get to the Holy Ghost?” I asked, hoping to calm him down. “You said he’d play it smart.”
“Who the hell knows?” he said, shrugging. “Maybe Angela gave a ring to a relative, a Christmas present, and they flashed it around. It could happen a dozen ways. Oh, those bastards! They didn’t have to cut them up. The Ghost would have sung right away. He’d know I’d understand. But no, they had to hurt them. You know why? A warning to us. Oh, yes. An example. You rip off the Corporation, that’s what you get. They knew we’d hear about it or read about it. They want us to know what’s in store for us.”
“Oh God,” I said faintly, remembering the finger-tapping, foot-tapping Holy Ghost, the skinny little Angela wrapped around with yards and yards of knitted wool.
“Want to take off now?” Donohue said harshly. “You and Fleming? Turn yourselves in? Go ahead. I wouldn’t blame you. Hyme and I will keep the car, the rocks, and split. You call the cops and take your chances.”
Dick and I stared at each other.
“No, Jack,” he said, looking at Donohue. “We’re in this as deep as you are. We’ll stick.”
“It’s your ass,” Black Jack said with a mirthless grin.
“Let’s pack up and get moving. This place gives me the creeps.”
Dick drove down to Baltimore, staying on Route 95. Hymie Gore sat beside him, Jack and I in back.
“These short trips are no good,” Donohue grumbled. “But we’ve got to pick up another car and maybe some more cash in Baltimore. Once we’re south of Washington, we’ll make time. Hell, we could even drive straight through if we want to, taking turns at the wheel. No more motels until we hit Miami.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “I can do without any more motels.”
“Yeah?” Donohue said, in a low voice for my ears only. “Last night I thought you were having the time of your life.”
But as he spoke, he was watching the cars that whizzed by, turning to look through the back window, leaning forward to keep an eye on cars we overtook and passed.
I started talking to him about Project X, the manuscript he had been lugging along since we left my apartment in Manhattan. I told him I knew why he wanted it, and that was all right with me. What I wanted was to keep it up-to-date, record what was going on.
“Look, Jack,” I said, “it can’t do you any harm. At least if I write what really happened, they can’t get you on a kidnapping charge. You can carry the manuscript under your arm for all I care. All I want to do is add to it as we go along. I’ll need a portable typewriter and some paper. Give me something to do in the motels. Or, if we decide to drive straight through, I can even use the typewriter on my lap in the car, while we’re on the road.”
“The typewriter is definitely out,” he said. “Just more junk to lug along. Also, that’s all we’d need: someone next door hearing your typing and remembering, or complaining to the desk.”
So I settled for a bunch of ballpoint pens and a stack of long yellow legal pads. I’d bring Project X up-to-date in longhand. I could always rent a typewriter in Miami, or buy one, and transcribe the written record into an acceptable manuscript. Jack promised to pick up pens and paper on our next shopping trip.
I won’t describe the motel we stayed in just east of Baltimore. What I can tell you—it was a motel. Drinking glasses in little paper bags, a strip of paper across the toilet seat, an oil painting of geraniums bolted to the wall, a plastic bucket for ice cubes, the smell of pine-scented disinfectant, and mattresses that had been pounded by a thousand strangers.
This time, in our little game of ring-around-the-rosy, I shared a room with Dick Fleming, while Donohue and Gore bunked together. I figured Jack wanted to get some sleep. He sure as hell didn’t get much the night before. He had been a wild man.
“You think he’s doing it deliberately?” I asked Dick as we undressed.
“Doing what?”
“Schlepping me around. One night with Hymie, one with him, one with you. What am I—the Sweetheart of the Regiment?”
Dick laughed. “I don’t think he’s doing it deliberately. What would be the point?”
“I don’t know,” I said, perplexed. “But that lad never does anything carelessly. He’s thought these sleeping arrangements through, and it’s all part of some deep, dark, devious plot.”
“Oh God,” Dick said, sighing. “Can’t you ever forget you’re a novelist?”
“No,” I said, “I can’t. You like him, don’t you, Dick?”
“Yes, I like him. I admire him. He’s very strong. A man of action. Takes what he wants. Does what he wants.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Your bed or mine?”
“It makes a difference?”
But he wasn’t ready for the traditional scrabble in the hay. I tried, but he backed off. He wanted to talk. All my men wanted to talk. Except Hymie Gore, and he wanted to snore.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Fleming said. “I didn’t know I could do these things. Taking part in a robbery, running from the cops, learning to use a gun. It’s like it’s all happening to someone else. Someone I don’t know. I can’t believe it’s me. Jannie, how can you live with yourself all your life and not know yourself?”
“We all do it, kiddo,” I said. “Enjoying it?”
“Am I ever! It’s like being born again. A second chance. I’m scared witless most of the time, but that can be exciting too, like I’m on the edge, the very edge. Jack and Hyme talk so casually about killing and death. ‘Should I step on him?’ ‘We should have killed the cocksucker.’ Like that. But they’re used to it. To me it’s new and scary. But it’s a high, a real high.”
I asked the question I had wanted to ask and thought I never could. But lying naked in bed with him, with the intimacy that darkness lends, I asked it:
“Dick, did you have, uh, sex with him?”
“Yes,” he said, almost casually. “And that’s another thing: Where the hell did that come from? I mean, I’ve never swung that way before. Never had any desire to. Consciously or unconsciously, I swear it. But with Jack, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. How do you feel about my making it with him, Jannie?”
“Jealous.”
He laughed again. “No reason to. It doesn’t affect at all the way I feel about you. But it’s part of my whole life turning inside out, of becoming a new person. We could get killed, couldn’t we?”
“Easily,” I said. “Any day. And hung up on meathooks to dry.”
He shivered and moved closer to me.
“I know it,” he said. “Maybe it’s why I did it. The plague moves closer and everyone copulates like mad. You think that’s it?”
I thought a moment.
“Part of it,” I said, stroking his soft, velvety skin. “And maybe you just love him.”
“Admire him.”
“Love him,” I insisted.
“If you say so,” he said, sighing.
We moved closer, held each other tighter.
“Do you love him?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t. I’m as mixed up as you are. Why am I doing all this? The book is just an excuse now; I know that. But here I am wearing a crazy wig and running for my life. Why? Maybe, like you, I was just bored and wanted theater.”
“Maybe.”
“And maybe, like you, I wanted to discover just what I’m capable of. I suppose those nutty novels I wrote were a kind of sublimation. But this is the real thing. I want to see if I can handle it.”
“You’re doing great so far.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Can I kiss you here?”
“Yes. That’s nice. I like that. My turn now …”
And in a few minutes we were at it again: our ritual of lickings, nippings, strokings, pinchings. Ended before it went too far. He snuggled down in my arms, huddled in my arms. He smelled so sweet, so sweet.
“You know,” he said drowsily, “I would like it to go on forever.”
I knew what he meant. I had the same irrational hope. I thought of what a strange person I was to myself. I searched for clues to my character and couldn’t find them. I seemed to be acting from hidden motives, buried passions, I couldn’t glimpse an outline of me.
Is everyone in the world like that? I mean, do we plan careers, make out budgets, plot craftily how we will live our lives, and all the time we are being turned and twisted by forces we don’t recognize? I don’t mean outside forces: chance and accident. There’s always that, of course. But I mean powers, surges, whims deep within ourselves, drives we aren’t conscious of until we find ourselves wearing a fright wig and running from retribution?
The next day, a Monday, we had a council of war over a late lunch. The main project was obtaining new wheels. Donohue said that he and Hymie Gore would take care of that.
“How are you going to do it?” I asked, interested. “Steal a car? Jump the wires?”
“Nah,” Black Jack said, offended. “We can pay cash on the line. We find a used car lot owned by Honest John, Honest Sam, Honest Abe. Now you’ve got to know that the biggest crooks in the world are the guys who start a conversation, ‘To be perfectly honest—’ or ‘To be absolutely frank—’ Count your rings after you shake hands with those guys. So a used car dealer who calls himself ‘Honest Whatever’ has got to be a gonif. He’ll go for a quick cash deal, no questions asked, and if we plan to use the car to crash the White House, he couldn’t care less. Hyme and me we’ll take the Ford until we get the new wheels. Jannie, you and Dick go shopping.”
We borrowed a pencil from the waitress and wrote out our list on a paper napkin. My ballpoint pens and yellow legal pads came first. Then the men wanted shorts, underwear, socks. I marked down the sizes carefully. I wanted a new bra, at least one, and some pantyhose. We all needed cigarettes and more whiskey.
“And a plastic picnic chest,” Donohue reminded me. “Big enough for a couple of six-packs. Also some nibbles for the road: crackers, pretzels, potato chips, candy bars, gum—like that.”
“A bottle of white wine would be nice,” I said.
“Why not?” Jack said. “And some plastic tumblers. Don’t forget a bottle of gin and a small dry vermouth. Buy the best. I like a martini now and then.”
“Olive or lemon?” I asked.
“Lemon,” he replied, absolutely serious. “And a small paring knife to take off the peel.”
We returned to the motel, packed up, checked out. Donohue drove Dick and me to a shopping center on Moravia Road. As I got out of the car, he leaned close and whispered, “Have a good time last night?”
“Better than I had the night before.”
“You bitch!” he said, laughing.
Then they drove away in the Ford, and Dick and I started our shopping spree. It took us almost three hours, and when we had finished, we could have used a strong packhorse. We lugged all our purchases out to the parking lot and settled down to wait.
After about fifteen minutes I said, “You and I decided not to take off. But maybe they have.”
“No way,” Fleming said definitely. “Jack said he’ll be back, he’ll be back.”
“You’re a trusting soul.”
“He needs to be trusted.”
“Oh?” I said, looking at him. “You found that out, too, did you?”
“Sure,” Dick said, nodding. “And if you need proof, here they are now.”
They pulled up in a three-year-old black Buick Riviera, Hymie Gore sitting proudly behind the wheel. There were a few nicks and scratches on the side panels, and the right front fender looked like it had been crumpled, straightened, and repainted. But generally the car appeared to be in good condition.
“The hell with the appearance,” Donohue said, helping load up. “We don’t want a brand-new car that might attract attention. No one will look at this heap twice, but it’s got it where it counts: under the hood. I mean, it’s a big, big engine, with all the power we’ll need. We took it for a test drive and it takes off like a goosed jackrabbit.”
“Any trouble buying it?” I asked.
“Nah,” Hymie Gore said, laughing. “It was like Jack said. The guy’s name was ‘Honest Percy.’ Jack offered him five hundred less than the marked price, in cash. He couldn’t make out the papers fast enough.”
“Use your real name?” Fleming asked.
“Yeah,” Donohue said sourly. He wasn’t happy about it. “I had to show my license. But I asked Percy a lot of questions about the best route to Pittsburgh. If anyone tails us this far, maybe that’ll send them on a phony chase. For a while anyway.”
We pulled away from the shopping center, headed back to Interstate Highway 95, and turned south. Hymie Gore was driving, Fleming beside him.
“Where did you dump the Ford?” I asked Donohue.
“You’re the expert in crime,” he said. “Wrote all those great novels. If you had to get rid of a car and didn’t want it found and identified, how would you do it?”
“I don’t know,” I said slowly, thinking about it. “Drive it out to some deserted place in the country, I guess. Heavy woods would be best. Drive it off the road into the underbrush. Then cover it over with branches. Take the license plates and throw them in the river. Either that or push the whole damned car in the river if you could do it without being seen.”
“Too fancy,” Black Jack said. “Too chancy, and too much work. What we did was this: I drove the Ford, and Hymie followed me in the Buick. I found the worst neighborhood I could. A real tenement slum down near the river. Talk about Bed-Sty; that place was just as bad, or worse. So I parked the Ford and got out. Left the doors unlocked and just walked away. I got in with Hyme and we took off. I guarantee you that by tomorrow morning that Ford’ll be stripped down to the bare bones. They’ll take the wheels first, then the battery, carburetor, distributor, fuel pump—anything that can be unscrewed, unbolted, or whacked off. The gang kids will take the seats for their clubhouse and the parts pirates will take everything that’s left. In twenty-four hours nothing will be left but a burned-out frame. And that’s how to get rid of a car, Jannie. The modern way.”
We stayed on 95, and went around Washington, D.C., without stopping. All I saw of the nation’s capital was a rosy glow in the sky. We had dinner at Fredericksburg, at a restaurant designed to look like the white, pillared mansion of a southern plantation. They even had plastic Spanish moss hanging from the trees outside. They featured “Southern Fried Chicken,” which also might have been plastic.
Back in the car, we switched places. I drove, with Dick beside me, and Donohue and Gore in the back seat. At our last gas stop we had bought a bag of ice cubes and loaded our picnic chest. Now, as we headed south for Richmond, the weather definitely improving, Jack broke out the booze and the tumblers and served as bartender. I had white wine as I drove, Fleming and Gore had scotch on the rocks, and Donohue built himself a martini, complete with a paring of lemon peel.
I drove to Richmond, where we paused long enough to stretch our legs and switch positions again. Donohue and Gore moved to the front seat, Jack driving, and Fleming and I tried to get comfortable among all the gear in the back seat. I wanted to write on the yellow legal pads, bringing Project X up to date, but the light was so bad I gave up.
We continued our flight south, Donohue trying to put on the miles. He said we’d hole up for some sleep at Rocky Mount, N.C., or maybe drive straight through if traffic was light. Dick and I dozed off. I remember hearing Jack and Hymie talking in low voices, and the next thing I knew, the car was slowing. Jack was cutting to the right lane to make a turnoff.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Rocky Mount,” Jack said. “Hyme and me have got to pee.
“Me, too,” I said.
“Me, too,” Dick Fleming said, rousing, yawning, stretching.
“There’s a place, Jack,” Hymie Gore said after we were off the highway. He pointed to a sign on our right.
It was in the shape of a rooster, outlined in red neon, with the name spelled out below in blue tubing: “The Game Cock.” It looked like a roadhouse, with beer signs in the windows. We pulled into a graveled parking lot. There were a half-dozen cars, a pickup truck, a van, two motorcycles, and an enormous tractor-trailer. We heard a juke blaring country-western.
“A real fun place,” I said. “I can tell.”
“As long as they got a can,” Donohue said, “who cares? Everyone heeled? Okay, let’s lock up and see what the Game Cock’s got to offer.”
What it had to offer was a squarish room with bare wood floors, scarred and pitted. There was a stained bar along one wall. No stools; strictly for stand-up drinkers. There were tables and booths, and an empty space that apparently served as a dance floor, maybe on weekends.
When I tell you that the most attractive objects in the Game Cock were the juke box and cigarette machine, you’ll get some idea of its glories. Ugly seediness? You wouldn’t believe. The dim lighting did nothing to hide ramshackle furnishings and a general appearance of spit-on-the-floor slovenliness. There was a fly-spotted sign on the wall listing the prices of hamburgers, ribs, chili, ham and cheese sandwiches, apple pie, coffee. The small kitchen was located in the rear. I had smelled it the moment I walked in: a rancid grease odor competing with the stench of stale beer and an eye-smarting disinfectant.
There were five men drinking at the bar, and about twenty men and women at the tables and booths. All the men had a rough, red-faced, outdoorsy look: farmers, construction workers, telephone linesmen—like that. The women looked like—well, to tell you the truth, all the women looked like me, Bea Flanders, blond or red wigs, tight sweaters, hooker’s heels, and enough makeup to drive a covey of clowns mad with envy.
Conversation died down when the four of us entered and heads turned. We got blank, faintly hostile stares, reserved for interlopers who lived more than ten miles away from the Game Cock. But, after we slid into a booth, the regulars went back to their dirty jokes, arm wrestling, and loud arguments competing with the thunder of the juke.
The lone waitress came over to take our order. She looked to be about fifteen years old, but obviously had to be older to be working in a joint like that. She was wearing low-slung, hip-hugger jeans. Her midriff was bare (I should have such a slender waist!), and a puckered bandeau kept her pointy breasts from stabbing a customer in the eye when she bent over a table. She had a great mass of brassy hair swinging halfway to her waist.
She took our order and went sashaying back to the bar. We all watched the swing on that hard, tight ass. A good three-inch displacement there, side to side.
“I bet she does all right on tips,” Donohue said. “You like that, Hyme?”
“Well … yeah, sure, Jack. You want I should ask her if she’d like a lift to Miami?”
“Oh no,” Donohue said hastily, “don’t do that. We just don’t have the room.”
“Whatever you say, Jack,” Gore agreed amiably. “But I’m getting—you know. Like lonesome.”
“Sure, Hyme, I understand. Hang in there, old buddy. Another day or two and we’ll be in the land of the string bikini, and you won’t be lonesome anymore. Okay?”
When the hip-twitcher returned with the drinks, Jack asked her where the restrooms were. She said they were in back of the kitchen. Actually she said, “Trew duh kitch’.”
“Me first,” Donohue said. “I want to check the place out.” He slid out of the booth. I watched him walk to the back of the room, and noticed a few of the other women were doing the same thing.
He was back in a few minutes.
“No men’s room or women’s room,” he reported. “Just one closet marked Toilet. Beautiful. Hold your nose. And that goes for the kitchen, too.”
He wasn’t kidding. How the local health inspectors had missed that dive I’ll never know. That toilet was the pits, the absolute pits. There was a sign tacked over the sink that virtuously stated: “All employees must wash their hands before leaving this lavatory.” Very nice. But no hot water, of course, and no soap. The roller towel looked like it had been used to wipe down a coal truck.
There was a back door leading outside, and a little hallway between toilet and kitchen. Two telephone booths in that hall, and a swell vending machine that sold breath-freshening mints, squirts of perfume, combs, pre-moistened tissues, and condoms. The only thing not offered patrons of the Game Cock was a quick cure for leprosy.
And that kitchen! A cesspool. The smell was enough to put you on a starvation diet. The grill was crusted with grease, and grease had coated the walls, hung in the air, and shone on the pimply face and bare arms of the gangly cook. When I walked through, he was poking at a pot of chili, tasting it from a long-handled wooden spoon. Then he used the same spoon to stir the pot.
We took turns using the john and then had one more round of drinks. After a while the waitress swayed over to ask if we wanted anything to eat.
“Yeah,” Donohue said, “but not here. Just the check, please.”
He paid, left a generous tip, and we moved to the door. Hymie Gore went first, exited, then held the door open for the rest of us. We came out into the night. I looked up: a clear sky, a million sharp stars. After the Game Cock, the air tasted polished and pure.
Buy Hymie Gore wasn’t looking at the stars.
“Jack,” he said in a low, hard voice. “On the right.”
We all looked. A black car parked head-on. Two men standing close to it, one on each side, hands deep in topcoat pockets. As we stared, powerful headlights came on. We blinked in the glare.
Almost at the same time we were hit by bright lights from the left. Another car, facing the door of the Game Cock. I shielded my eyes. I could make out, dimly, three men standing in glare. One in particular …
“Inside,” Jack Donohue said, his voice unsteady.
“Everyone inside. Don’t panic. Don’t run.”
We turned, went back into the Game Cock. Black Jack led the way to the end of the bar. We huddled.
“Back again?” the bartender asked, wiping the bar in front of us with a grimy rag.
“One for the road,” Donohue said with a ghastly grin. “Four double-Seagram’s, water on the side.”
“You got it,” the bartender said.
“Jack,” I said in a low voice, “who are—”
“Shut your yap,” he shot back viciously.
“The back door?” Dick suggested.
Donohue showed his teeth.
“You think they won’t have it covered?” he sneered. “Those guys are professionals. Don’t believe it? Just step outside back there. Bye-bye.”
The bartender brought our drinks. Jack paid with a ten, pushed the change back for a tip. No one spoke until the bartender moved away. Then Donohue turned, faced the crowded room. He rested his elbows on the bar. He surveyed the customers.
“They haven’t got anyone inside,” he said, his lips hardly moving. “I’ll bet on it. And they won’t come in blasting. They’ll wait for us to come out.”
“Our car!” I burst out desperately. “They must know our car. Why don’t they just break in and take the rocks?”
“You think that’s all they want?” Jack said scornfully. “Get smart, kiddo; they want us.”
“Uh, listen, Jack,” Hymie Gore said slowly. “It could be the Feds.”
“No way, Hyme,” Donohue said. “They’d have searchlights, bullhorns, tear gas, guys in iron vests. No, this is a Corporation gig. How in Christ’s name did they get onto the Buick?”
“Honest Percy?” Dick asked, with no irony.
“Could be,” Jack said. “Or maybe someone made the plates of the Ford when we dumped it. Hell, maybe we’ve had a tail since that last motel in Baltimore. No use worrying it. Right now we’ve got to figure out how to blow this joint.”
“Jack,” Hymie Gore said, blinking slowly, “I could go out the back door. Blasting—you know? Lots of noise. Lots of fireworks. Bring them all around to the back. Then you and the kids—”
Donohue put a soft hand on the big man’s arm. “Thanks, Hyme, but it wouldn’t work. They’d cut you down in a minute—and for what? They’ll keep the front door covered. Drink your drinks, everyone. Smile and talk. Act like everything’s just fine.”
We tried, we really tried. Stretched our mouths, gabbled to each other, sipped our whiskey. I risked a quick look out the front windows. Darkness out there; those powerful headlights had been doused.
“Hey, Hyme,” Donohue said slowly. “Before, when you were talking about going out the back door blasting, you said lots of noise, lots of fireworks. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Well … yeah, sure, Jack. You want I should try?”
“No, no,” Black Jack said. “I was just thinking about what you said. Okay, now here’s what we’re going to do …Jannie, you got change with you? Dimes and quarters?”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “You and me are going to walk to the back, slowly, easily, not a care in the world. Through the kitchen. To the phone booths in that smelly hallway. You’re going to call the fire department. Make it hysterical. The Game Cock is burning down. People trapped. The grease in the kitchen caught fire, and everyone’s frying. Get the picture? Tears, howls, screams, sobs—the whole bit.”
“I can do it, Jack.”
“I know you can. It’s a chance. The only one we’ve got. I’ll use the other phone at the same time. A call to the cops. Robbery in progress. Three bad guys are holding up the joint. Send in the Marines. If it works, in about five or ten minutes this place will look like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Hymie, you and Dick stay right here, drinking and talking. Don’t make a move. We’ve just gone to pee, that’s all. Come on, babe; let’s get the show on the road.”
I did just what he said. I sauntered ahead of him toward the back of the room, smiling and talking to him over my shoulder. Through that grotty kitchen. Into the hallway. I stepped into the old-fashioned wooden telephone booth.
That’s when I saw the sign: “Out of Order.”
I must have gone white and begun to sway, because Jack stepped close and grabbed my shoulders.
“You cave on me now,” he spat out, “and I’ll slit your fucking throat, I swear to God.”
Still holding me, he peered into the other booth. No sign there. He thrust me into the booth.
“Make the goddamned call,” he said furiously. “If they ask your name, just keep sobbing and yelling.”
He squeezed into the booth with me and pulled the door shut. It wasn’t, I guessed, the first time a man and woman (that nubile waitress?) had been together in that phone booth in the back of the Game Cock.
I got the coin into the slot with slippery fingers. I dialed Operator. It rang three times, then:
“How may I be of service?” a languid voice inquired.
“Fire department!” I yelled. “Emergency! Oh my God! The fire department. Quick!”
“Just a moment, please,” she sang pleasantly, “and I will connect you with your party.”
A clicking, and then a man’s voice came on, heavy and rasping.
“This is—” he started.
“Fire!” I screamed, my mouth close to the handset. “It’s terrible! Fire! Fire! People are burning up! We’re trapped! The whole place is—”
“Where?” he barked. “Where are you calling from?”
“The Game Cock!” I yelled. “The tavern. Near Route 95. Hurry! Oh God, please hurry! The whole place is on fire! People are burning, and—”
“What’s your name?” he shouted.
“Please hurry,” I begged piteously, getting into the role. “The flames are snapping, and—”
Donohue’s hand clamped down on the hanger, disconnecting.
“Beautiful,” he said with a thin grin. “I never realized what a ham you are. Now get out and give me a chance.”
He wrestled the folding door open, stepped out into the hallway. I got out of the booth. Then Jack reentered. He fished in the coin box, picked out the coin I had used, returned by the operator. You’ve got to admire a man who thinks of that at a time like that.
I leaned into the booth, listened to his call. He had the operator put him through to the local police department. He put his mouth close to the phone.
“Listen,” he said in an urgent whisper. “I can’t talk any louder; they might hear me. Three guys holding up the Game Cock roadhouse. You know where it is? Good. They’re doing it right now, got everyone lined up against the bar. Yeah, that’s right: three guys. Listen, be careful; they’ve got these guns. Yeah, right now it’s going down. The Game Cock. For God’s sake, get here as soon as you can. Yeah. My name is—”
He hung up suddenly. He didn’t forget to reclaim the dime. He didn’t give it back to me.
“How’d I do?” he asked, grinning.
“I think I gave the better performance,” I said loftily.
“Keep your fingers crossed, kiddo,” he said, and took me by the elbow.
We walked steadily through the kitchen, across the main room.
“Sorry I got shaky,” I said.
“You did fine,” he assured me. “Just fine.”
We rejoined Dick and Hymie. We picked up our drinks, took deep gulps.
“How’d it go?” Fleming asked in a low voice.
“Okay,” Donohue said tersely. “It went okay. With luck we may get out of this. Now here’s what we do: The moment we hear the sirens, finish your drinks. We stand around talking for a minute or so. Very relaxed. Very casual. Near the windows. We don’t make our move until the fire engines and squads pull into the parking lot. Whichever comes first. The moment they stop and cops or firemen start toward the place, then we go out. We stroll while we’re inside. Once we’re out, and it looks good, we make tracks for the car. Hyme, you drive. Go for Route 95. Turn south, and pour it on.”
“They’ll follow,” Fleming fretted. “North or south on the highway—what’s the difference? Why don’t we try the back roads?”
“Because we don’t know the back roads, dummy,” Donohue said stonily. “We’re liable to drive into a dead-end, and then we’re up Shit Creek. Pour on the juice, Hyme. If we get enough of a start, we can shake ’em.”
“I’ll shake ’em, Jack,” Hymie Gore said, nodding vigorously. “Place your money on it.”
I’ve got to hand it to the local public service departments. Less than five minutes after Jack and I made our calls, we heard the distant wail of sirens. We finished our drinks. Chatting and laughing, we moved toward the front windows.
The sirens were louder now, and we could distinguish the distinctive hoot of buffalo whistles.
“Fire engines,” Donohue said quietly. “They’re beating the cops.”
The sirens were screaming now, close by. Several customers rose to their feet, looked toward the windows. A few started moving to the door.
Then the ear-piercing wail seemed right in the room with us, and that weird, warbling whistle. A red light flashed through the windows as the engines came swinging into the parking lot, spraying gravel.
We went out the door, other customers crowding after us. There were three trucks—pumper, hose cart, a short hook-and-ladder. The firemen started dropping off even before the trucks came to a complete halt. A chief’s car, red rooftop light revolving, turned into the parking lot.
Firemen trotted toward us, carrying axes, extinguishers, hook-poles. The sirens were suddenly loud again as two police cars came careening in from the road.
Now all the customers from the Game Cock were spilling out into the parking lot. Firemen and cops tried to push their way through, shouting and cursing.
Donohue looked quickly to right and left.
“Now!” he said urgently.
Hymie Gore led the way, bulling his way through the jostling mob. The big man used his hands, pushing and shoving, and his heavy shoulders. We ducked behind him, rushed along in his wake. Jack Donohue’s hand was on my back, hurtling me forward.
We made the car, unlocked, scrambled inside. Hyme got the engine started, pulled away before the doors were closed. He rammed the Buick toward the road, narrowly missed the rear of a fire truck, cut across the path of a third police car just entering the lot, swerved down into a shallow culvert, came up the other side, bounced across the bumpy verge, got onto the pavement, put the car into a tight spin with a squeal of tires, headed toward the entrance to Route 95, accelerating, whipping the Buick around turns, his broad back hunched over the wheel, trees flickering by, a blare of horns from startled motorists as we cut them off, sliced around them, their brakes squealing, our car roaring as we went sailing up the ramp, knifed into southbound traffic, angled across to the lefthand lane, went flying down to Miami, Gore staring ahead, the rest of us craning back and seeing no signs of pursuit.
“We made it!” Jack Donohue yelled, with something between a sob and a cry of exaltation. “Made it, made it, made it!”