Donald Westlake - Bank Shot

Behind him, Herman shouted, “Jump! Jump!”

How fast were they going? Probably no more than five or ten miles an hour, but to Kelp’s eyes the pavement going by beneath his feet was just a blur.

But they had to jump. There were no windows in the front of the bank, so they couldn’t see where they were headed, whether they were going to crash into something or not. They weren’t going very fast yet because the slope wasn’t at all steep here, but the bank was angling toward the road, and down a ways farther the hill did get a lot steeper, and then they’d go too fast to jump. So it had to be now, and at this door Kelp was first.

He jumped. Off to his right, uphill, he was aware of Victor jumping from the other door. Then Kelp hit the pavement, lost his footing, sprawled and rolled over twice. When he sat up, he had a new big tear in his right trouser knee, and the rest of the gang was spread out downhill, all sitting and lying on the pavement in the rain, with the bank rolling on away from them, on the road now and picking up speed.

Kelp looked the other way, to see how Victor was doing, and Victor was on his feet already and hobbling back toward the diner site. Kelp couldn’t figure that out for a second, and then he realized Victor was going after the Packard. To give chase, to get the bank back!

Kelp got to his feet and limped off in Victor’s wake, but hadn’t even reached the gravel driveway yet when the Packard came tearing up and squealed to a stop beside him. He climbed in, and Victor gunned the motor again. He was going to stop for Dortmunder, who was next, standing there with the plastic bag full of money in his hand, but Dortmunder urgently waved them on, and Kelp said, “Don’t stop, Victor, they’ll come along in the van.”

“Okay,” Victor said and tromped on the accelerator.

The bank was far away down the long slope. It was rainy, it was mid-afternoon, and they were far out on Long Island, three things that helped to give them an empty road when they needed it. The bank, whizzing down the exact middle of the two-lane road, straddling the white line, happily met no traffic coming the other way.

“It’s gonna go over at that curve,” Kelp said. “It’ll crash down there, but we should have time to get the rest of the money out.”

But it didn’t go over. The curve was banked, angled properly, and the bank rolled around it with no trouble at all — around and out of sight.

“God damn it!” yelled Kelp. “Catch up with it, Victor.”

“I will,” Victor said. Hunched over the wheel, his attention fixed on the road ahead, he said, “You know what I think happened?”

“The bank started to roll,” Kelp said.

“Because of the explosion,” Victor said. “That’s what I think did it. You felt the way that made it rock. It must have started it, and we were on top of a hill, and once it was moving it just kept going.”

“It sure did.” Kelp said. He shook his head. “You can’t believe how irritated Dortmunder is going to be,” he said.

Victor snapped a glance at the rear-view mirror. “Not behind us yet,” he said.

“They’ll be along. Let’s worry about the bank first.”

They reached the curve, spun around it, and saw the bank well out in front. There was a small town at the base of the hill, a little fishing community, and the bank was headed straight for it.

But Victor was gaining. Also, as the road leveled out at the bottom, the bank began slowly to lose its momentum. When it ran the red light in the center of town it wasn’t doing any more than twenty-five miles an hour. A woman crossing guard blew her whistle at the bank as it went through the light, but it didn’t stop. Victor slowed, seeing the woman in her police-like uniform and white crossing-guard belt, and seeing the red light, but as he reached the intersection the light turned green and he accelerated again. The woman had whistled herself breathless, and as they went by she was standing in the rainy gutter, panting, her shoulders heaving, her mouth open.

“It’ll stop soon,” Kelp said hopefully. “There isn’t any slope here at all.”

“That’s the ocean,” Victor said, nodding ahead.

“Oh, no!”

The end of the street was a pier, jutting out a good thirty feet into the water. Victor caught up with the bank just before it trundled out onto the pier, but it didn’t matter; there was no way of stopping it. One fisherman in yellow rubber slicker and rain hat, sitting on a folding chair, looked up and saw the bank coming and leaped straight from his chair into the ocean; the bank, en passant, flipped his chair after him. He had been the only occupant of the pier, which now the bank had to itself.

“Make it stop!” Kelp cried as Victor slammed the Packard to a halt at the beginning of the pier. “We’ve got to make it stop!”

“No way,” Victor said. “There’s just no way.”

The two of them sat in the Packard and watched the bank roll inexorably out along the rumbling boards of the pier to the very end and quietly, undramatically, roll off the outer edge and drop like a stone into the water.

Kelp groaned.

“One thing,” Victor said. “It was beautiful to watch.”

“Victor,” Kelp said. “Do me one favor. Don’t say that to Dortmunder.”

Victor looked at him. “No?”

“He wouldn’t understand,” Kelp said.

“Oh.” Victor looked out the windshield again. “I wonder how deep it is out there,” he said.

“Why?”

“Well, maybe we could swim down to it and get the rest of the money.”

Kelp gave him a pleased smile. “You’re right,” he said. “If not today, maybe sometime when the sun’s shining.”

“And it’s warmer.”

“Right.”

“Unless,” Victor said, “someone else sees it there and reports it.”

“Say,” Kelp said, frowning out the windshield again. “There was somebody on the pier.”

“There was?”

“A fisherman, in a yellow raincoat.”

“I didn’t see him.”

“We better take a look.”

The two of them got out of the car and walked through the rain out onto the pier. Kelp looked over the edge and saw the man in the yellow raincoat climbing up the scaffolding along the side. “Let me give you a hand,” he called and knelt to reach down to him.

The fisherman looked up. His face looked astonished. He said, “You won’t believe what happened. I don’t believe it myself.”

Kelp helped him up onto the pier. “We saw it go,” he said. “A runaway trailer.”

“It just come right along,” the fisherman said, “and threw me in the ocean. Lost my chair, lost my tackle, damn near lost myself.”

“You kept your hat anyway,” Victor pointed out. “Tied under my chin,” the fisherman said. “Was there anybody in that thing?”

“No, it was empty,” Kelp said.

The fisherman looked down at himself. “My wife told me,” he said. “She said this wasn’t no day to fish. I’ll be goddamned if she wasn’t right for once.”

“Just so you didn’t get hurt,” Kelp said.

“Hurt?” The fisherman grinned. “Listen,” he said. “I come out of this with the kind of fish story you just can’t top. I wouldn’t care if I got a broken leg out of it.”

“You didn’t, did you?” Victor asked.

The fisherman stomped his booted feet on the planks of the pier; they squished. “Hell, no,” he said. “Fit as a fiddle.” He sneezed. “Except I do believe I’m coming down with pneumonia.”

“Maybe you ought to get home,” Kelp said. “Get into some dry things.”

“Bourbon,” the fisherman said. “That’s what I need.” He glanced away toward the end of the pier. “Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he said and sneezed again and went off shaking his head.