Макс Коллинз - Spree

The computer within the safe would probably shut down, once Roger blew the door; but ATMs going on the blink was nothing new — though an answering service would automatically be called by Presto-Change-O in the machine’s last breaths before doing its disappearing act, no one would service the thing till tomorrow. And any stray, late-night/early-morning customers encountering the uncooperative machine would dismiss it with a “goddamn.”

The face of Presto-Change-O was actually the ass of the safe, extending out of the bank’s brick outer wall to greet the public in such a way that even if some customer did come along at four- fifteen this morning, he or she wouldn’t see Roger Winch in the process of performing what was known in the trade as a jam shot.

Normally Roger would have laid out all of his tools and equipment on the top of the safe; but, due to the pedestal it was on, the NCR was too tall for that. So Roger pulled a desk around and removed items from his duffel bag, arranging his things carefully, in order, on the desktop, like a chef assembling his ingredients. These included: soap, Fels Naphtha brand, which was malleable and just the right consistency to keep the grease (nitro) from draining through; the grease, a couple of ounces in a medicine bottle, cushioned by twice as much water; a folded strip of cellophane, eight inches long, half an inch wide; a box of wooden kitchen matches, four of which he removed and set out; a knocker — a small metal cap with fulmonite of mercury in it (a lot of guys these days used electric detonators, but the art of this game, Roger felt, was knowing how to properly use a fuse-type knocker) with five inches of fuse crimped in the knocker’s open end; a razor blade; a flashlight; a crowbar; and some rubber gloves, which he now put on.

Whistling “Strangers in the Night,” Roger inserted the strip of cellophane lengthwise into the space between the safe’s door and door frame. Then he took the soap, which he’d already limbered up at the motel before coming, and sculpted a funnel-shaped cup around the cellophane strip. He made it fit nice and snug; mustn’t allow any grease to trickle down the front of the door. Then he gently withdrew the cellophane, which left a narrow passage through the soap where the grease could flow.

He placed the knocker carefully in the cup, so as not to jar it, the fuse dangling about three and a half inches over the lip of the cup, about five seconds’ worth. With the razor blade he split the end of the fuse, spreading it like a flower till its central vein of black powder showed.

He reached for the medicine bottle of grease. He began to pour it slowly into the soap cup — smiling to himself as he did; here was where Roger shined — here was what separated the pete-men from the boys: you had to have timing better than Bob Hope, to judge if the safe was drinking the grease right. And Roger had that sense of timing. The ability to make sure the knocker went off just as the last of the nitro was draining from the cup into the safe door.

Quickly, he lit three kitchen matches at once, producing a prodigious flame, which he touched to the fuse, and took cover twenty feet away, behind a desk.

He sat on the indoor-outdoor carpeting, his back to desk drawers, and covered his ears with pressed fingers; but he enjoyed the ka-WHOOM of the safe blowing.

He stood. He walked through the smoke to the safe. Its doors were swinging on its hinges. He smiled. Perfect. He wouldn’t be needing the crowbar.

He glanced inside at the two bins of cash, tens and twenties, amid computer circuitry. The money could be gathered later. Right now he had two more safes to blow, the little night deposit safes which Nolan said would probably hold more money than Presto-Change-O, given the Christmas shopping season.

He put his tools back in the duffel bag and moved to the next safe and began again.

The explosion, the third of the night, was the loudest yet, and jarred Jon, who was out of hot chocolate and a little drowsy in the cab of the Leech Bros, truck. He decided there was no getting used to occasional explosions. No way not to jump in his seat.

A face appeared in the window next to him and he jumped in his seat again. It wasn’t an explosion, but it sure was surprising.

It was also Cindy Lou.

Her big blue eyes were red and puffy, apparently from crying, and she seemed about to cry again. Then she disappeared, hopped back down to earth, or anyway the pavement of the mall parking lot.

Jon rolled down the window and cold rushed in as he looked out, looked down at her. “What are you doing here?”

She was in the denim jacket again, which against this cold snap was no defense, and her hands were buried in its pockets, and her teeth were chattering.

“We gotta talk,” she said, looking up at him.

“Get in on the other side,” he said, and rolled the window back up.

He reached over and opened the door for her and she climbed aboard.

“It’s warm in here,” she said.

“But it’s a cold world, Cindy Lou,” he said. “How did you get here?”

“Walked.”

“From where? The Holiday Inn?”

She nodded curtly. Added, “It’s not far.”

“Why did you do that? Why are you here?”

She looked at him and her lower lip was trembling. The cold had nothing to do with it.

She said, “I’m afraid... I’m confused... I been up all night... thinking...”

He touched her nearer arm. “Cindy Lou — what is it?”

She gave him a look that was part innocence and all yearning. “Did you buy that bus ticket like you said? Or were you shinin’ me on?”

“I bought the ticket. One-way to L.A.”

She pouted. “I probably missed the bus. I already missed the boat.”

“It’s an open ticket. It’s waiting at the window for you. You can take the first available bus out.”

Firmly, now, she said, “I’m gonna use that ticket.”

“Good for you.”

She looked at her lap. “My daddy’s a terrible man. It’s a hard thing to know, but I know it. Part of me still loves him, and maybe that’s why I’m scared to stick around with him. Maybe... maybe I’d like it, if he did it to me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t either. Ah, shit, I don’t know what I think. I just know I gotta leave.”

“What’s going on, Cindy Lou?”

She squinched her face up. “Way after midnight, Lyle come back to the motel room. He was bleeding. He had me help him wash up some.”

“He looks pretty bad, even so.”

“He was all bloody on his face.”

“Cindy Lou. Did he kill her?”

She paused. Then she nodded.

“Shit,” Jon said. Tears came, at once; he fought them.

“I asked him what happened to the girl,” she said, a whimper in her voice, “and he said she was dead. I asked him if he killed her and he tried at first to make out like it was an accident. But then he owned up to it.”

“Jesus fuck.”

She raised her hands — they made tiny fists and she pummeled the air. “I started to hit him and hit him and he got all confused. He didn’t understand why I was so mad at him. Then he said he was afraid Daddy was going to be mad, too.”

“Yeah. Lyle lost his birthday gun.”

That startled her. “How did you know?”

Jon just shook his head. He wiped the wetness from his eyes.

“He said he’d tell me the truth,” she said, “if I didn’t tell Daddy.”

“What’s the truth?”

“He was supposed to kill the girl, but she ran away. She put up a struggle, and he lost his gun. But he finally caught up with her. He left her body at the bottom of a well.”

“Goddamn!” Jon said, and smashed a fist heel-first into the dashboard.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Cindy Lou said, pitifully. “I didn’t do it.”