Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

For the one cheque — the one cashed by the manager — he had done all right. There was only a hundred dollars involved, and the manager had no reason to suspect the signature. But it would be a different story tomorrow when he began hitting the banks. Then, he would be cashing them with people whose business it was to be suspicious. His forgeries would have to be perfect, or else.

So he practised and continued to practise, pausing occasionally to massage his hand or to exchange a word with the girl. When, finally, he achieved perfection, he started to work on the cheques. Babe stopped him, immediately wary and alarmed.

‘Why are you doing that? Aren’t they supposed to be countersigned where they’re cashed?’

Mitch shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. I can write my name in front of the person who does the cashing. Just establish, you know, that my signature is the same as the one on the cheques.’

‘Yes, but why—’

‘To save time, dammit! This is a forgery job, remember? We hold all the cards, but it is forgery. Which means we have to hit and get — cash in and disappear. Because sooner or later, there’s going to be a rumble. Now, if you’re afraid I’m going to lam out with these things—’

‘Oh, now, of course I’m not, honey.’ But she stuck right with him until he had finished countersigning the cheques. She was quite prepared, in fact, to spend the rest of the night. Mitch didn’t want that. He shoved the cheques back into the briefcase, locked it and thrust it into her hands.

‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘Put it under your pillow. And now get out of here so I can get some sleep.’

He began to undress. The girl looked at him, poutingly.

‘But, honey. I thought we were going to... uh—’

‘We’re both worn out,’ Mitch pointed out, ‘and there’s another night coming.’

He climbed into bed and turned on his side. Babe left, reluctantly. She took the briefcase with her, and she locked the connecting door on her side of the bathroom.

Mitch rolled over on his back. Wide-eyed, staring into the darkness, he pondered the problem of giving Babe a well-deserved rooking. It was simple enough. After — and if he successfully cashed the cheques tomorrow, he had only to catch her off guard and put her on ice for the night. Bind and gag her, and lock her up in one of the clothes closets. From that point on, however, he wasn’t sure what to do. Or, rather, he knew what to do, but he didn’t know how the hell he was going to do it.

He couldn’t scram in the Cad. A wagon like that would leave a trail a blind man could follow. For similar reasons, he couldn’t zoom away in a taxi — if, that is, it was possible to get taxi service this far from the city.

How was he going to do it, then? Equally important, where would he hide out if he was able to do it? For he would sure as hell have to hide out fast after this caper. Babe would squawk bloody murder. It wouldn’t make her anything, but she’d sure squawk. Her body was soft and lush but one look at that cast-iron mug of hers, and you knew she would.

So...?

Mitch scowled in the darkness. Now Bette, his wife, had a nondescript car. She could get him away from here, and she could — but it was preposterous to think that she would. Not after that last stunt he’d pulled on her.

Yes, he’d planned on pleading for forgiveness before his meeting with Martin and Babe Lonsdale. But the situation had been different then. There wasn’t any fifty grand at stake. There wasn’t the risk of a long prison stretch. If he appealed to Bette, he’d have to give her the full pitch on this deal. Which meant, naturally, that he’d be completely at her mercy. And if she wasn’t feeling merciful, if he couldn’t fast-talk her into giving him a break, well, that would be the end of the sleigh ride.

Enter the cops. Exit Mitch Allison and fifty grand.

I’m going to have to stop crooking everyone , Mitch thought. From now on I’m going to be honest, with at least one person.

He fell asleep on this pious thought. Almost immediately, it seemed, it was morning and Babe was shaking him awake.

They headed into Los Angeles, stopping at a roadside diner for breakfast. As they ate, Mitch consulted the classified telephone directory, organising an itinerary for the day’s operations. Because of the time factor, his targets — the banks — had to be separated by a discreet distance, lest he be spotted in going from one to another. Needless to say, it was also essential that he tackle only independent banks. The branch banks, with their central refer system, would nail a paper-pusher on his second try.

Babe watched Mitch work, admiration in her eyes — and increasing caution. Here was one sharp cookie, she thought. As sharp as she was tough. A lot sharper than she’d ever be. Being the kind of dame she was, she’d contemplated throwing a curve to win. Now she knew that wouldn’t do it: she’d have to put the blocks to him before he could do it to her.

She was lingering in the background when he approached the teller’s cage at the first bank. She was never more than a few feet away from him throughout the day, one of the most nerve-racking in Mitch Allison’s career.

He began by pushing ten of the traveller’s cheques, a thousand bucks at a time. A lead-pipe cinch with his appearance and identification. Usually a teller would do it on his own, or, if not, an executive’s okay was a mere formality. Unfortunately, as Mitch soon realised, these thousand-dollar strikes couldn’t get the job done. He was too short on time. He’d run out of banks before he ran out of cheques. So he upped the ante to two grand, and finally to three, and things really tightened up.

Tellers automatically referred him to executives. The executives passed him up the line to their superiors. He was questioned, quizzed, studied narrowly. Again and again, his credentials were examined — the description on them checked off, item by item, with his own appearance. By ten minutes of three, when he disposed of the last cheque, his nerves were in knots.

He and Babe drove to a nearby bar where he tossed down a few quick ones. Considerably calmer, then, he headed the car towards El Ciudad.

‘Look, honey,’ Babe turned suddenly in the seat and faced him. ‘Why are we going to that joint, anyway? We’ve got the dough. Why not just dump this car for a price and beat it?’

‘Just go off and leave our baggage? Start a lot of enquiries?’ Mitch shook his head firmly.

‘Well, no, I guess that wouldn’t be so good, would it? But you said we ought to disappear fast. When are we going to do it?’

Mitch slanted a glance at her, deliberating over his reply. ‘I can get a guy here in LA to shoot me a come-quick telegram. It’ll give us a legitimate excuse for pulling out tomorrow morning.’

Babe nodded dubiously. She suggested that Mitch phone his friend now, instead of calling through El Ciudad’s switchboard. Mitch said that he couldn’t.

‘The guy works late, see? He wouldn’t be home yet. I’ll call him from that phone booth out on the golf course. That’ll keep anyone from listening in.’

‘I see,’ Babe repeated. ‘You think of everything, don’t you, darling?’

They had dinner at a highway drive-in. Around dusk, Mitch brought the car to a stop on El Ciudad’s parking lot. Babe reached hesitantly for the briefcase. Mitch told her to go right ahead and take it with her.

‘Just don’t forget, sweetheart. I can see both entrances to the joint, and I’ve got the keys to this buggy.’

‘Now, don’t you worry one bit,’ Babe smiled at him brightly. ‘I’ll be right inside waiting for you.’

She headed for the hotel, waving to him gaily as she passed through the entrance. Mitch sauntered out to the phone booth and placed a call to Bette. Rather, since she hung up on him the first two times, he placed three calls.