Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“I’m going to enjoy this money,” Carl said.

“Mmmm,” Anson said, grinning.

“What will you do with it, Carl?” Jeremy asked, stepping close to the mirror and admiring his masquerade handiwork.

“Spend it,” Carl said.

“On what?”

“Women.”

“He’s a ladies’ man,” Jeremy said to Anson.

“Damn right, I’m a ladies’ man. There isn’t anybody in the world who couldn’t be a ladies’ man with one-third of $500,000.”

“That’s a mean hunk of cabbage,” Anson said.

“I’m getting out of the country with my share,” Jeremy said. “Down to Mexico.”

“What the hell’re you gonna do there?” Anson wanted to know.

“He’ll open up a chain of houses.”

“The hell I am. I’ll just sit around in the sun and have myself a ball, that’s all. Nothing to do but soak up sun for the rest of my life.”

“I can’t go to Mexico,” Carl said.

“Why not?”

“I once cooled a Mexican cop. We were running some weed out of Tijuana, and he stepped in and began making noise.”

“There are other places besides Tijuana,” Anson said.

“Sure, but my face is in every police station in Mexico,” Carl said.

“I’ve got no worries there,” Jeremy said.

“Just so you stay out of Kansas City,” Anson said.

“I’m not wanted in Kansas City.”

“Not by the cops, no,” Anson said.

“You talking about Harry Kale?”

“Harry Kale is who I’m talking about.”

“Kale doesn’t bother me,” Jeremy said.

“No, huh?”

“No. He made up all that business. He invented all that statutory rape junk so he could get me out of K.C.”

“He did, huh? That sounds screwy, considering it brought the bulls down around his ears.”

“He made it all up.”

“Well, just stay clear of Kansas City, and you’re all right.”

“I’m not going anywhere near K.C.,” Jeremy said, “but not because Harry Kale scares me. He doesn’t scare me at all.”

“I once did a job for Harry,” Anson said. “In the old days, when we were still running booze. He pays well.”

“He doesn’t pay the way this job is going to pay,” Carl said.

“ Nobody pays the way this job is going to pay.”

“You think we should run through it again?” Jeremy asked.

“Sure,” Anson said. “Once more before Carl leaves. We’ve still got a few minutes, haven’t we?”

They ran through the job again, committing it to their separate memories, and then they synchronized their watches with Anson’s, which had been set with the bank’s clock that morning.

At 1:50, Carl left the room.

The man behind the soda fountain did not recognize him, and he considered that a good omen. He had been secretly afraid that his disguise could be penetrated, but the man behind the counter hadn’t given him a second look. To complete the transition of character, and to completely disassociate himself from the Carl Semmer who’d sat at this same counter yesterday and ordered coffee, Carl ordered a cherry Coke. He paid for the Coke when he was served, eliminating any possible delay later when it would be time to leave for the car. He sat sipping his Coke and watching the driveway across the street.

At 2:02, the International Armored Car Corp. truck arrived. He watched the guards as they entered the rear door with the American Steel payroll. At 2:08, they entered the truck, backed it out of the driveway, and drove off. At 2:10, the second armored car appeared. They finished their delivery, and drove off at 2:16. Carl glanced at his watch, checking it against the time on the bank clock, and then relaxed.

“Let me have a newspaper,” he said to the man behind the counter.

The man gave him a paper, and Carl paid for it, and then began reading it, glancing across the street every few minutes. Not many people were going into the bank. That was good. Everything was running very smoothly. He was tempted to call Anson and Jeremy, tell them the loot was there, just waiting to be picked up, but he didn’t want to throw them into a panic. He bided his time instead, aware of the crawling hands of the clock. At 2:45, he knew Anson and Jeremy were leaving the room. Carl waited, folding his newspaper, sipping at his Coke.

At 2:57, he saw them coming down the street. He rose and walked to the plate-glass door, looking out.

“Hey, mister,” the man behind the counter said. Carl whirled.

“What?”

“You forgot your newspaper.”

“Thanks, you can keep it.”

He watched Anson and Jeremy as they walked past the A&P, past the bank driveway, up the flat steps leading to the entrance doors. The bank guard smiled as they entered the bank. The clock above the doors read 2:58. Everything was moving according to schedule. At 3:00 P.M., the guard closed the big bronze doors. Carl walked out of the shop, turned right, and headed for the parking lot and the waiting automobile.

“A holdup is in progress,” Jeremy said to the bank guard.

“What?” the guard said as he turned away from the doors. “What are you...?”

“This is a gun in my pocket. Keep quiet and no one will get hurt. Open your mouth, and the whole place gets shot up.”

The guard blinked his eyes and then looked down to the menacing bulge in Jeremy’s pocket. He was tempted for a moment to begin yelling, and then his eyes took in the slicked-down hair and the pencil-thin mustache, and something warned him to keep his silence. This man was a killer.

“Don’t let anyone else in,” Jeremy said. “If anyone wants to go out, let them out. Act the way you always do. No funny business. We’ll just stand here and chat as if nothing’s happening. Have you got that?”

The bank guard nodded.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the bank manager said to Anson. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m carrying a gun,” Anson whispered, “and I know how to use it. Get up from that desk and walk back to the vault with me. If anyone looks at you curiously, smile back at them. When we get to the vault, you’ll open the door, and we’ll go in together. If you so much as look crooked at anybody, you’re a dead man. You understand?”

“I... understand,” the manager said. He estimated the distance between his foot and the alarm buzzer set in the floor under his desk, and then he estimated the distance between his heart and the gun the redheaded, mustached man held in his pocket. “I... I’ll do what you say,” he murmured, and he rose from the desk. Anson walked with him to the locked door. The manager signaled to the teller nearest the door, and the teller pushed a button and the door clicked open. The manager and Anson walked back to the vault door. One of the tellers turned to look at the manager, but he smiled and nodded, and the teller went back to his work.

“Open it,” Anson whispered.

The manager nodded weakly and began twisting the dials in the face of the huge steel door.

At 3:05, he swung back the door, and he and Anson stepped into the vault. The bank guard, the only other member of the bank’s staff who knew that the bank was being held up, watched the manager and the redheaded man enter the vault, and he sighed deeply, and then smiled as he let a customer out of the bank.

Carl sat at the wheel of the car and glanced at his watch.

3:06.

He looked up at the light on the corner of Main and West Davis, and then he watched the sweep hand of his watch as it swung through sixty seconds. At 3:07, the light changed to green and Carl turned the corner and headed for the bank driveway at the end of the street. In four minutes, Anson would be coming out of that door with $500,000 worth of cabbage. In six minutes, Jeremy would be leaving the front of the bank. They’d be gone before anybody inside had sense enough to know what had hit them.