Donald Westlake - Cops and Robbers

As he was fidgeting now. They’d been sitting in this one spot in stalled traffic for almost five minutes, and now Joe was craning his head this way and that, trying to stare past the cars in front of him to see what was causing the tie-up. But there wasn’t anything special to see; just three lanes of nobody moving. Finally, out of anger and frustration, he leaned on the horn.

The sound went through Tom’s head like a blunt nail. “Don’t,” he said, waving one hand. “Forget it, Joe.” He was too weary to be bugged by stalled traffic.

“Bastards,” Joe said, and looked to his right. Over there, past Tom, he saw the car in the next lane; a pale blue brand new Cadillac Eldorado. The windows were all rolled up, and the driver was sitting in there in his air-conditioned comfort as neat and unruffled as a banker turning down a second mortgage. “Look at that son of a bitch,” Joe said, and pointed with his jaw at the Caddy and the man in it.

Tom glanced over. “Yeah, I know,” he said.

They both looked at him for a few seconds, envying him. He looked to be in his forties, very neatly dressed, and he faced front looking calm and untroubled; he didn’t care if there was a traffic jam or not. And the way his one finger was tapping lightly on the steering wheel, he had a radio in there that worked. Probably even his dashboard clock worked.

Joe rested his left forearm on the steering wheel and glared at his watch. He said, “If we stay here without moving another sixty seconds by my watch, I’m going over there and study that Caddy and find a violation and give that son of a bitch a ticket.”

Tom grinned. “Sure, sure,” he said.

Joe kept frowning at his watch, but gradually his expression changed and he started to grin instead, remembering something he still couldn’t get over. Still looking at the watch, but not really counting anymore, he said, “Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“You remember that liquor store a couple of weeks ago, the guy that held it up disguised as a cop?”

“Sure.”

Joe turned his head and looked at Tom. He was grinning very broadly now. “That was me,” he said.

Tom laughed. “Sure it was,” he said.

Joe moved his arm down from the steering wheel. He’d forgotten all about his watch. “No, I mean it,” he said. “I had to tell somebody, you know? And who else but you?”

Tom didn’t know whether he was supposed to believe it or not. Squinting at Joe as though that would help him see better, he said, “You putting me on?”

“I swear to God.” Joe shrugged. “You know Grace lost her job.”

“Sure.”

“And Jackie’s supposed to have swimming lessons this summer. Dinero, you know?” He rubbed his thumb and finger together, in the gesture that means money.

Tom was beginning to think it might be the truth. “Yeah?” he said. “So?”

“So I was thinking about it. The whole thing, the payments and the problems and the whole mess, and I just walked in and did it.”

Meaning it as a question, but phrasing it like a statement, Tom said, “On the level.”

“On a stack of Bibles. I got two hundred thirty-three bucks.”

Tom started to grin. “You really did it,” he said.

“Damn right.”

A horn honked behind them. Joe looked front, and the traffic had moved maybe three car lengths. He shifted into drive, caught up, and shifted back into park.

Tom said, in a bemused kind of way, “Two hundred thirty-three dollars.”

“That’s right.” Joe was feeling great, having the chance to talk about it. He said, “And you know what really amazed me?”

“No.”

“Well, two things. That I’d even do it at all. The whole time, I couldn’t believe it. I’m pointing a gun at this guy, I just can’t believe it.”

Tom nodded, encouraging him. “Yeah, yeah...”

“But the thing that really got me is how easy it was. You know? No resistance, no trouble, no sweat. Walk in, take it, walk out.”

Tom said, “What about the guy in the store?”

Joe shrugged. “He works there. I’m pointing a gun at him. He’s gonna get a medal saving the boss’s dough?”

Tom shook his head. He was grinning from ear to ear, as though he’d just been told his daughter was head of her class. “I can’t get over it,” he said. “You really did it, you just walked in and did it.”

“It was so easy ,” Joe said. “You know? To this day I can’t believe how easy it was.”

The traffic moved a little again. They were both quiet for a minute, but they were still both thinking about Joe’s robbery. Finally Tom looked over at him, his expression serious, and said, “Joe? What do you do now?”

Joe frowned at him, not understanding the question. “What?”

Tom shrugged, not knowing any other way to say it. “What do you do? I mean, is that it?”

Joe made a barking kind of laugh. “I’m not giving it back, if that’s what you mean. I spent it.”

“No, I don’t mean...” Tom shook his head, trying to find what he meant. Then he said, “Will you do it again?”

Joe started to shake his head, but then stopped and frowned, thinking it over. “Christ alone knows,” he said.

My first squeal of the day was a robbery with assault, in an apartment over on Central Park West. Actually it was my partner, Ed Dantino, that took the call. Ed is a couple inches shorter than me and maybe ten pounds heavier, but he still has all his hair. Maybe he started using his wife’s shower cap earlier than I did.

Finishing the call, Ed hung up the phone and said, “Okay, Tom. We’re going for a ride.”

“In this heat?” I was feeling a little queasy today, from the beer last night. Usually a feeling like that goes away toward midmorning, but the heat and the humidity were keeping me from shaking it today. I’d been looking forward to a couple hours of relaxation in the squadroom until I felt better.

The squadroom isn’t all that great. It’s a big square room with plaster walls painted a really sickening green, and big globe lights hanging down from the ceiling. The room is full of desks, all of them old, no two of them alike, and a general smell of old cigars and used socks. But it’s up on the second floor of the precinct house, and there’s a big fan in the corner near the windows, and on hot humid days there’s a little breath of air that passes through from time to time, giving a promise that life may be possible after all, if we just hang in there.

But Ed said, “It’s on Central Park West, Tom.”

“Oh,” I said. With rich people, we make house calls. So I got to my feet and followed Ed downstairs. When we got to our car, an unmarked green Ford, he volunteered to drive and I didn’t argue with him.

Going across town, I started thinking again about what Joe had told me this morning in the car. I still thought sometimes he was pulling my leg, but then I’d remember the way he’d talked about it, and I’d know for sure he’d been telling the truth.

What a crazy thing to do! Thinking of it was the only thing to make me forget my stomach. I’d be sitting there, trying to burp and not being able to, and the first thing you know I’d be grinning instead, thinking about Joe and the liquor store.

I almost told Ed, in the car, while we drove over, but finally decided not to. Actually it hadn’t been very smart of Joe even to tell me , and God knows I wasn’t going to turn him in. But the more people that know a thing, the more chance that the wrong people can find it out. Like, if I told Ed, I could be sure he wouldn’t report it, but he just might tell somebody else. Who would tell somebody else, who would tell somebody else, and who knew where it would end?