Max Collins: Hard Cash

Later, moments, minutes — a lifetime later — he looked up at Julie. He was still clinging to the cold porcelain of the stool. His ears rang from the sound of an explosion he hadn’t really heard. He said, “I’m sorry, baby... I’m... I’m sorry... sorry...”

“She never felt a thing,” Julie said.

“I... don’t know if I can go any... further with this.”

She kneeled beside him. She kissed his cheek. She dried his eyes and cheeks with Kleenex.

“We’re going to have to get going, honey,” she said. “You’re going to have to pull yourself together. Jon and Logan’ll be here soon.”

“How... how can I wait in the house here with... her?”

“Wait outside. Go outside and wait for them. Cold air do you good.”

“I... I hate this.”

“The worst is over.”

“Is... it? What about the others?”

“My responsibility. Just lead them to me.”

“Like a... like a... Judas sheep.”

“They’re nothing but thieves, George. Killers and thieves.”

“That... that Jon is just a kid. A boy.”

“The two of them are criminals, George. They’d do the same to us, if they had to.”

“They... they haven’t. They could have, and they haven’t.”

“Why should they, honey? They’re in this for the money.”

“We forced them.”

“No. They’re in this for the money. That’s the truth. Now get hold of yourself. You all right?”

“All... right. I’m all right.”

“Can you compose yourself? At the bank?”

“I’ll be all right.”

“All right. I’ll go get your coat. Stay put.”

She left the bathroom.

He got to his feet.

And walked through the study.

Walked down the hall.

Looked into the bedroom.

At the blue wallpaper. The open-beam wood ceiling. The nightstand with their wedding picture on top. The nightstand drawer was pulled out, to reveal the .32 amidst the jewelry boxes. Julie had thought to open the drawer. The nightmare didn’t touch her, did it? She was. cool, efficient, even in crisis. The girl had a good head on her shoulders.

Which was more than could be said for Cora.

He shuddered.

And looked away.

Then he looked back, and emotion had drained out of him somehow.

Cora wasn’t there. Not really. There was this headless thing in the queen-size bed, a dressmaker’s dummy in a red-spattered cream-color nightgown. And some strange, surrealistic stain of colors — red again was dominant — splashed on the blue-papered wall behind the bed. An abstract painting. Not Cora.

“Don’t,” Julie said.

She was standing behind him again, as she had earlier. She had the shotgun again. She’d be taking it with her. It was part of the plan. To kill Cora and, later, Nolan and Jon, with the same shotgun.

“Don’t look at her,” Julie said.

“Look at who?” he said.

“George. Get out of this room, George.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” His voice sounded remote to him, as though he was speaking down a well and his voice was mingling with its echo. “That’s not her.”

“Come on. Get into your coat and wait outside. They’ll be here soon.”

“Wait with me.”

“George! Snap out of it!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him out into the hall. “Snap out of it. I’ll be here. Inside. But those two can’t see me, George. I’m not supposed to be here! George? We’ve gone over this a thousand times, George. Goddammit!”

“I’ll wait outside.”

She sighed. And smiled. A tight-lipped little smile. “I’ll help you with your coat. Here. Now. They should be along in fifteen minutes or so. Stand out there and relax.”

Julie would wait till Nolan and Jon had picked Rigley up in the van, and then she would leave, out the back way, and walk on foot to where she had left her car.

Rigley went outside and stood in the chill air. The cold felt good. He wished it were even colder. He wished it would freeze him.

The gun was empty. Some more rinse was needed. He deposited two more quarters, then squeezed the trigger on the water rifle. Red gurgled down the drain, leaving whiteness behind.

Nolan and Jon were getting out of the back of the van. Both wore the hunting jackets. Nolan wore tan trousers and a dark blue woolen turtleneck sweater. Jon wore the T-shirt with the cartoon figure of a pinheaded man on it, and blue jeans. Nolan had a green garbage bag; inside the bag were the Santa Claus suits.

“You about done?” Nolan asked Rigley. Nolan was tying a knot in the neck of the big plastic bag.

“Yes,” Rigley said.

The van was white now. It had been painted with a water-base paint, and stencils had been placed on the sides while it was being painted so that the “TOYS FOR TIKES” lettering had been formed from the natural white beneath.

Nolan opened the garage-type door and peeked out into the alley.

“All clear,” he said.

He put the green garbage bag with the costumes in it next to some similar bags set out for trash pickup by the filling station management.

Rigley got back in the back of the van. Nolan shut the doors on him. Darkness swallowed him up again.

Then they were moving. Out of the car wash, out of town. To Rigley’s cottage. Where Julie and the shotgun waited

She unfolded the plastic sheet. It had come off a roll and had been folded up like a huge tablecloth. She’d bought it months ago, at a paint store, with today’s purpose in mind. She began spreading the sheet across the floor, and when she was done, it covered nearly half the room — from the doorway, past the couch, on to the edge of the fireplace. She smoothed it, as though making a bed. Then she moved to the other side of the room and sat at the picnic-style table over near the bar. The windows in the cottage were shuttered, and none of the lights were turned on; there was nothing to catch the plastic surface and reflect. They wouldn’t notice the sheet of plastic when they came in, not until they’d stepped on it, heard it crinkle underfoot, and they wouldn’t begin to have time to realize that the plastic was there to catch the bloody mess they’d make, dying. Because they’d be dead already. The moment they stepped in the door.

She got herself a drink.

Her hand was steady, or as steady as could be expected, anyway. She would admit to butterflies in her stomach, but she wasn’t what you’d call nervous, not really; not any worse than waiting to go on stage in one of those beauty pageants she’d been in years before. Anyway, the Scotch and soda felt good going down. Warm, despite the ice. It settled her, calmed her.

She glanced at her watch: 7:55. The robbery itself should be over by now. They’d be getting in the van soon (if they weren’t already) and driving down the alley and into the car wash. They could be here in fifteen minutes. Twenty, at most. At the very most.

The hairy part was she liked them. The young one, especially. Jon. George was right: Jon really was just a boy, a decent kid who’d somehow gotten mixed up with the older guy, the man she knew as Logan. If she could have thought of a way to spare the boy, she would have. And she’d take no pleasure in killing Nolan, either. She felt a sort of kinship with the man, though she didn’t really understand why. She felt she had something in common with him, that they were somehow alike.

But she wasn’t about to let any soft feelings about those two make it hard for her; killing them was an unpleasant but necessary part of what she and George set out to do. So it would be done.

And it would sure as hell be easier than this morning, she thought, sipping her Scotch, shaking her head.

She hadn’t planned to be there with George, in the beginning. Ideally, George should have been able to carry out that end of it himself. But the more she’d thought about it, the more she knew he wouldn’t be up to it without her beside him, supporting him, putting the gun in his hands. All but pulling the damn trigger for him.