Peter Abrahams - Lights Out

“What about swimming?”

“Swimming’s not a life, Eddie. I wanted to get started.”

“Started at what?”

“Making money. Besides, the practices were endless and I wasn’t getting any better. Up and down those lanes for hours-it’s pretty dumb when you think about it.”

“The point is not to think about it.”

“Ah,” said Jack with a little smile, “the Zen approach. That’s not me.”

Eddie liked that smile. It almost distracted him. “And now Raleigh’s taken a fall for you.”

“More or less.”

“What deal did he make?”

“That’s a moot point now. He’s not going to be happy. That’s about the only satisfaction I’ll be able to salvage from this.”

“How much did you offer him?”

“A hundred grand.”

“Did he really do a year?”

“We didn’t expect anything like that. Three months at most, maybe even a suspended sentence.”

“I’d have been rich at the same rate.”

“A million five? That’s not rich.”

“What’s rich, Jack?”

“We’ve been through that.”

“You want to be rich, don’t you?”

“Who doesn’t?”

Eddie had never thought much about money. Was there any mention of money in “The Mariner”? No.

Jack rose from the couch. It took some effort. He fastened his pants, buckled his belt, went to the window. Eddie was reminded of Karen steeling herself before the visit to the Mount Olive Extended Care Residence and Spa. Jack held up his finger and thumb, spaced about an inch apart. “I came this close. That’s what kills. It’s not failure, it’s getting so close you can smell it and taste it. That’s what kills.” Rain ran in sheets down the window. “Did you have much rain… down there?” Jack asked.

“The weather wasn’t a factor.”

Jack nodded. He looked at the phone. “What’s the best way of doing this?”

“Doing what?” Eddie said. This was the first time Jack had ever asked him for advice, with the exception of play conversation in their pirate games.

“Surrendering to the inevitable. What do you think-call my lawyer, call Karen, call the SEC?”

“Are we at that stage?”

“Thanks for that we,” Jack said. “Christ, I can’t get used to you with no hair.”

“I’m growing it down to the ground.”

A smile crossed Jack’s face, almost too quickly to see. He stubbed out his cigarette hard, against the window. “Yeah, we’re at that stage. Where are we going to find two hundred and thirty grand?”

“Funny thing,” Eddie said.

“Funny thing?”

Eddie didn’t reply at first. It was justice, in a logical sort of way. He had done penance for a crime he hadn’t committed. Punishment without crime left a void, waiting to be filled. And if that was just a debating trick, then he could always say that what he was about to propose wasn’t criminal at all, that the money belonged to no one. And if that too was tricky in some way, he could call it reparation, the way the Japanese had been compensated for their internment, and the Jews for the Holocaust. The idea took hold of him. It was right.

Jack was staring at him. “What funny thing?” he said.

Eddie smiled. “We’re going to shoot the albatross,” he said.

Monday.

Jack dressed for the occasion. He came out of the bedroom wearing a black turtleneck, black Patagonia jacket, black jeans, black high-tops. He was carrying a black gym bag.

“What’s in there?” Eddie said.

Jack unzipped the bag, showed him the contents: two handguns, clips of ammunition. “One for you, one for me,” Jack said.

“You’re a gun owner?”

“Lots of gun owners on Wall Street,” Jack said. “You’d be surprised.”

Eddie shook his head. “No guns.”

“No guns?”

Eddie had heard hundreds of robbery stories, most of them robberies gone wrong. Guns didn’t help. They made people overconfident and careless. That was the opinion of Jonathan C. McBright, former cellmate and a pro. “It’s not that kind of thing,” Eddie said. “No one’s even going to see us.” The sign of a good job, Jonathan C. McBright liked to say, was when no one knew he was being jobbed.

Jack returned the gym bag to the bedroom, came out rubbing his hands together. “Jesus,” he said, “this is exciting.”

Eddie didn’t like that. Excitement was one of the common elements of robberies gone wrong. “Let’s go,” he said.

Jack’s car was waiting in front of the hotel. All the new equipment, paid for in cash, was in place. The two mountain bikes were locked onto the rear carrier, the large capacity, lightweight EMS backpacks lay on the backseat, the ax was in the trunk. Jack took the wheel. They drove out of the city. The rain stopped and the setting sun poked through a hole in the clouds, casting a coppery glow on the river, on the bridges, on every puddle, windshield, pane of glass.

“Sun at last,” Jack said. “I was giving up hope.”

A few minutes later it went down, sucking away the coppery glow and all other color. Jack turned up the heat.

“Nice car,” Eddie said.

“Never use it,” Jack replied. “It just sits in the garage.”

“What’s it worth?”

“It’s leased, Eddie. Not really mine, so I couldn’t get anything for it, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He stopped at a toll booth, took a ticket from the dispenser, drove south on the turnpike. “There’s a bottle of something in the glove compartment,” he said.

Eddie shook his head. Alcohol was another factor in robberies gone wrong.

“You’ll never guess what I’m thinking,” Jack said.

“Plundering the Spanish Main,” Eddie replied.

Jack took his eyes off the road for a moment, looked at Eddie. He reached over, squeezed Eddie’s knee. “You know me, bro,” he said. “Don’t take offense. Just an expression. You’re my brother. It’s something special, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. It meant you had the same mother and father. After that, it was what you made it. He left the thought unspoken; this wasn’t the time for introducing complications.

“Know something?” Jack said. “You’re a smart guy. I deal with smart guys all the time and you’re a smart guy. In a little different way maybe, but you really could have been-” Jack stopped himself. A mile or two went by. “Still, everything’s going to change now, isn’t it?”

“In what way?”

“In what way. Shit. In a material way. What are you going to do with all that money?”

Eddie hadn’t thought about that, had no desire to. “Take the next exit,” he said.

Jack took the next exit, drove west on a two-lane state road. For a while they had it to themselves. Then taillights appeared in the distance. Jack was driving fast. The taillights grew bigger and brighter. Then Eddie saw a beer can rolling beside the road.

“Slow down,” he said.

“Slow down?”

“That’s them.”

Jack took his foot off the gas. The taillights dimmed and shrank, finally disappearing. Jack turned down the heat. He was sweating; Eddie could smell it.

There was a long silence. Then Jack said, “What are they like?”

“It doesn’t matter what they’re like,” Eddie said. “They’re not going to see us.”

“Right. That’s key, isn’t it?”

“If we want to live,” Eddie said.

Jack laughed, high and tight.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Eddie asked.

There was a buzzing sound.

“What’s that?” Eddie said.

“The phone.”

Jack reached into the console between them. “Hello?” he said. His voice was low, as if someone nearby might overhear.