Max Collins: Hard Cash

“Before we begin, I think I should explain something,” Rigley said, sipping his drink, a Manhattan. “I have everything worked out. I know just how we can bring this off... simply, efficiently, safely and, most importantly, profitably. Extremely profitably. All you will have to do is follow my instructions explicitly, and everything will...”

Nolan stood.

He walked to the fireplace, leaned against it, made Rigley turn to look at him. Looking down on Rigley, he said, “Make all the suggestions you want. But no instructions.”

“Mr. Logan, I...”

“You’re a banker. You know everything there is to know about banks. Except one thing. How to rob them. That’s my department.”

“You don’t understand — you see, I have everything worked out...”

“You’re the one who doesn’t understand. Either I’m in charge, or I’m out.”

Rigley thought that over for a moment, then shrugged his acceptance of Nolan’s terms. “You’re right. I came to you because you have expertise in this particular area of endeavor. I wanted a professional on the team... otherwise I could have just as well settled for some lowlife out of a riverfront dive. So I must agree. You are the one most qualified to make the decisions in our forthcoming venture.” He made a toasting gesture, drained the remains of his Manhattan, and rose and fixed himself another.

But when he came back from the bar, he had more with him than a fresh drink: he was carrying a manila folder, which he handed to Nolan, saying, “I think you’ll find this of interest.”

Nolan emptied his beer in two long swigs, set the empty can on the hearth, took the folder. He was getting more and more irritated with Rigley’s constant barrage of bullshit, and was wondering if the guy was a little drunk or was just naturally a pompous ass. With a bank president, it was hard to tell. He looked in the folder.

It contained photographs of Nolan and Jon, separately and together, taken at the Pier, outside the antique shop, and elsewhere around Iowa City. There was also the newspaper clipping that included the composite drawings of both Nolan and Jon (neither very good, but a resemblance could be seen, if you tried hard enough) and a Xerox copy of a signed statement by Rigley in which he stated his belief that “Logan” and Jon were two of the three men who had robbed the Port City bank two years ago.

“My lawyer has a duplicate folder,” Rigley said. “Sealed, of course. He won’t open it unless anything should happen to me, in which case... well, I’m sure you can guess where the contents of the folder would go.”

Nolan said, “I don’t like blackmailers.”

“I don’t mean it to be blackmail. This is simply a matter of business. If it was blackmail, I wouldn’t be offering you money, would I? And there is a great deal of money to be made here for you and that young friend of yours. There were four of you involved when you took three quarters of a million dollars from my bank two years ago. This time, there would be only a three-way split, a third for me, a third each for you and your young friend. The purpose of the folder is one of leverage — to convince you to help me, join me in this undertaking. And to remind you that while I may, in the execution of said undertaking, choose to defer my position of leadership to you, I am still , in reality, in the overview, in charge.”

Nolan folded the folder lengthwise several times and walked over to Rigley and swatted him in the face with it a few times.

“You,” Nolan said, “are in charge of shit.”

And he hit him a few more times with the folded folder.

“Stop it, stop it!” Nolan had stopped slapping him with the folder, but Rigley was cowering anyway, holding his hands in front of his face like a man trying to keep out the sun.

Nolan grabbed a handful of Rigley’s expensive suit coat and lifted him off the couch and shook him a little. “Listen to me, asshole. You’re in so far over your fucking head, you can’t even tell you’re drowning.”

“Don’t... don’t hurt me.”

“Don’t hurt you?” He thrust him back against the couch, and Rigley bounced limply, like someone already dead. “I’m probably going to kill you, you stupid, smug son of a bitch! Can’t you even see that?”

“You’re not... going to kill me,” Rigley said. It was assertion, question, and plea all at once, but mostly the latter; he had seen the gun in the holster swinging under Nolan’s shoulder.

“That remains to be seen,” Nolan said, pacing, deciding.

“You don’t really think I’d be fool enough to bring you out here to a... remote spot like this without having... having someone to back me up, do you, Logan?”

“I think you’re a fool — period.”

“We’re not alone, Logan. I’m warning you. Don’t try anything. We’re not alone; I can have you at my mercy at the drop of a hat.”

Nolan laughed, and the laugh sounded harsh even in his own ears. “It’s too bad you don’t have a hat, then, Rigley. At your mercy, Jesus.”

“Julie,” Rigley called. “Julie, get in here, quick!”

Nolan shook his head and said, “Well, you’re right about one thing, Rigley. We aren’t alone. Come on in, Jon.”

Jon came in through the doorway opposite the fireplace, with Rigley’s partner in tow. He flicked on a standing lamp by the couch, where he deposited his pretty P.O.W., from whom he’d taken a double-barreled shotgun, which was cradled over his left arm, making the snubnose .38 in his hand look like a toy. Meanwhile, the girl was angrily removing the slash of white tape Jon had forced over her mouth a few minutes earlier.

“I hope you don’t mind Jon coming in the back way, Rigley,” Nolan said.

Rigley said nothing. He sat motionless, except for that facial tic that had started up again.

But the beautiful young woman in her mid to late twenties sitting next to Rigley didn’t seem the least bit shaken. Pissed off, yes; shaken, no. She was tall, probably five-ten or more, with dark brown hair that curved around her face in a way that reminded Nolan of the way women wore their hair in the forties, the what was it? — page boy. She had big eyes, huge damn eyes, as brown as her hair and as beautiful; all of her features were beautiful in an exaggerated way. Her mouth was overly large, but nicely so — a sensual mouth that seemed to Nolan designed for any number of erotic pastimes — and her nose was nearly too small and put together so perfectly, it seemed unlikely God could have done it without help. She was full-breasted, small-waisted, lavishly hipped. She wore a matching sweater and pants outfit the color of the rusty brick fireplace; the shadows from the fire were licking her, and he didn’t blame them.

Nolan went over and took the shotgun from Jon, and it was in his arms as he looked at Rigley and said, “There are two alternatives for dealing with blackmailers. Go along with them. Or kill them. I can’t see going along with you, Rigley. For one thing, I don’t think I can stomach your pompous fucking bank president attitude. And I don’t think my temper will last long around stupid goddamn stunts like that folder full of threats you shoved under my nose, or having your busty girl friend cover me with a shotgun from the next room while we talk. I just cannot see getting involved in a heist with irrational, incompetent amateurs the likes of you two. And so I’m left with that other, unpleasant alternative.”

Rigley was pale and looked almost dazed, but the girl, Julie, said, “He’s bluffing, honey. Don’t pay any attention to him.”

Nolan went on, still talking over the twin barrels of the shotgun. “I’m willing to offer you a third alternative, Rigley. I’m willing to let this end right here. Quietly. Without violence. I’ll forget about you, your embezzling, your pipe-dream robbery. And you do likewise where I’m concerned.”