Макс Коллинз - Spree

“How’s it going?” Nolan asked.

Fisher glanced over his shoulder. “Just need to defeat this tear-gas gimmick before our friend here blows their safe.”

Nolan turned to Winch. “What are you up against?”

Winch shrugged. “Standard J. J. Taylor. Built into the wall. Jam shot. It’ll make some noise.”

“Nobody here to hear it but us crooks,” Nolan said. “Did you hit the luggage shop like I said?”

“Yeah,” Winch said. He nodded behind the counter he leaned against. “I got a nice big Samsonite over there, which I intend to fill to hell and back with sparkly stuff.”

“Do that,” Nolan said.

Fisher had the metal facing plate off the wall alarm and was again scraping insulation from wire with his pocket knife.

“Nolan,” Winch asked, “any word on your girl?”

Nolan shook his head no. “Your concern’s appreciated, but don’t mention it again. You never know when there’s a Comfort in the woodpile.”

“Or a Leech,” Fisher said.

Winch nodded, winked, pointed a forefinger fleetingly at Nolan, in an affirmative gesture.

Nolan turned to go, then stopped and said, “Hit the bank last, remember.”

“No problem,” Winch said.

It was shortly after three when the explosion jolted Jon in his seat, and rattled the building and truck trailer behind him, causing him to say, “Holy shit!” For a second he didn’t know what it was, then he remembered: the jewelry store safe. This would be the first but hardly the last of such shocks to his nervous system tonight (this morning), what with another jewelry store to go, and the bank’s money machine and several night deposit safes.

The thought then occurred to him — for the first time — that he stood to get rich from tonight’s haul. As much as he’d wanted to leave this life behind, he was caught up in a heist that should make all involved a bundle. Those that lived through it, that is. Small detail.

He poured himself some more hot chocolate — he’d brought along two Thermoses — but with a shaky hand. The explosion had rocked his nerves a little. He sipped the warm liquid. He stared out at the snowy parking lot with its handful of vehicles belonging to those at work inside.

Pretty soon he finished the cup, pondering whether he could get away with turning on the truck’s radio for a while and listening to some music. But that might keep him from being able to follow the nonadventures of the Davenport cops and company on the scanner; and he had strict orders from Nolan to keep monitoring that, so to hell with it. Besides, he had to pee.

He put his coat on and climbed out of the cab and went back near the loading dock and had just unzipped his pants and exposed his member to the shriveling night cold when he realized he could hear voices, just inside.

Father and son voices.

Cole and Lyle Comfort.

They were talking as they stood in there, by the mouth of the trailer, which was still in the process of being loaded up. Though the truck was backed fairly flush up against the loading dock, the voices squeezed through.

“You lost it?”

“I’m sorry, Pa.”

“Well, get another one from one of the Leech boys.”

“I will. Pa, I looked all over for it.”

“Is that why you were so late?”

“Well, she gave me a little trouble. That’s how I lost it.”

“But you did do your job?”

“Sure, Pa.”

There was a pause; Jon stood there, dick in hand, bladder about to burst, and listened.

“You did good, son,” Comfort said, the anger out of his voice.

“I hate to lose my birthday gun,” Lyle said, woefully.

“It’s all right, son. I’ll buy you a new one. Too damn bad there ain’t a gun shop in this fucker, or we’d just steal you one.”

“Thanks, Pa.”

“Here comes the Leeches. Better pitch in some.”

Jon, feeling shell-shocked, moved away from the loading-dock area, and stood facing the back wall of the mall and when his urine hit it, steam rose.

Nolan did his share of loading, but mostly he supervised, making sure the right things were being taken.

For example, he put Dooley in charge of the collectibles shop. He knew the locksmith would have the right touch to handle the Hummels and the collector’s plates and other valuable knickknacks; those on display had to be put in their boxes — original-boxed goods were always easier to fence, and with collectibles like these that was especially true.

In the camera shop, he directed two of the Leeches, each lugging a couple of footlockers they’d found at Penney’s, to take nothing under a hundred dollars, and later gave them exactly the same advice in the Singer outlet, where they loaded their hand trucks with sewing machines in cartons.

In the department stores, he had various of the players strip items off wheeled clothing racks to make room for some selective shopping, loading up on designer clothes. I. Magnin, though, had whole racks of designer duds just waiting to be wheeled out, and easily matched the Haus of Leather where furs were concerned — also, several display cases of jewelry (no vault there) were broken into and emptied into waiting luggage, some of it imported leather pieces from Magnin itself.

Nolan by no means lost himself in the work, however: he kept an eye on Comfort and Lyle, both of whom kept their distance from him. He had been thinking over what Jon had told him of the conversation between Lyle and his pa. Behind his cool supervisory demeanor, a storm brewed.

It was just after four when Nolan cornered Comfort in Magnin’s, where the coveralled, white-haired bandit was walking down the aisle with a suitcase in either hand, crammed with who knew what, thimbles and Snicker bars maybe, heading through ladies’ wear toward the double doors that would lead into the storeroom and the final loading dock.

Nolan smiled. “Satisfied with your shopping spree so far, Cole?”

Comfort stopped in the aisle, did not put down the bags; smiled back, rather nervously, Nolan thought. “I surely am. You and me, we’ve had our differences. But you come through for me on this. And I ain’t gonna forget it.”

“Good. That’s quite a wallop your boy seems to have taken.”

“He fell on the ice.”

“Looks like he got hit with something.”

“He fell on the ice. Excuse me, these is heavy.”

“I keep my promises, Cole. Remember that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah — look. We’ll shoot the fuckin’ breeze some other time. Time is money, Nolan! We’re running out of time, here.”

“Yes we are,” Nolan said.

At four-fifteen, two jewelry stores under his belt, a tired but self-satisfied Roger Winch walked into the First National branch bank, duffel bag in hand; he looked like a bum, in his old clothes, but that just went with the territory: you had to be able to discard your clothes, after a job, as the telltale dust from a safe blowing clung to clothes, making prime evidence for the prosecution. Roger had never done time and had no intention, at this late date, of ever doing so.

A few lights were on, behind the row of teller cages, which were decked with holly and some twinkling Christmas lights. The big NCR safe, olive-colored, stucco-surfaced, was at his left as he entered, on a pedestal; this was to help facilitate its use as a card-activated cash machine, outside. A fully trimmed Christmas tree, under which were bogus gifts, stood next to it.

This automated teller machine — which was called Presto-Change-O, the sort of cutesy name these bank cash machines always seemed to have — was open twenty-four hours. That was one of the reasons Nolan had suggested doing the bank safes last — later at night, the less likely many (if any) customers would be hitting up Presto-Change-O for cash.