Bill Pronzini: Snowbound

The former Greenfront employee had supplied a detailed map of the office as part of his finder’s package, and the three of them went over it several times to be sure they knew exactly what to expect once they were inside. The rear entrance, through which the armored car guards were admitted to the building, opened on a set of stairs. At the top was a second door, also kept locked, and beyond there was the office: windowed cubicle occupied by the store manager, six desks manned by the general staff. One door leading down into the store proper, to the far left as you entered from the rear. Safe in the same wall as that door, vault type, to which both the manager and the chief accountant had the combination. Thick plate-glass window beginning waist-high in the fronting wall, which looked down on the aisles and departments and check-out counters on the main floor. Seven employees, plus two armed uniformed security officers-one of those the one who came downstairs to admit the armored car personnel. Two other guns in the building, one each to two additional security cops stationed on the main floor. No alarm system of any kind.

There was no problem in any of that, no problem at all once they got inside. The only sweat was the dummy armored car. They would have to drive it to Greenfront, leave it in plain sight in front of the door for the estimated fifteen minutes it would take them to complete the job, and then drive it away again afterward; but that couldn’t be helped, and the score was plenty large enough to warrant the risk.

With Greenfront being open twelve full hours on both Saturday and Sunday and with the armored car coming only once a week, they figured that between a hundred and a hundred and twenty thousand would be awaiting transfer on this Monday afternoon. There might have been more money in the safe the following Monday, Christmas Eve, but it wouldn’t be a great deal more; and on Christmas Eve there was always a traffic problem-last-minute shoppers, the big rush-which meant increased police patrols. And according to the finder’s package, Greenfront sometimes put on extra security guards just before Christmas. This Monday, then, was the best time for the hit.

Brodie found a garage for rent on a short-term lease, in an industrial area four blocks from Greenfront, and that minimized somewhat the risk with the dummy car; he wore one of the theatrical disguises while visiting the realtor and paid the deposit in cash. Also, as a final precaution, Loxner arranged for a safe place to ground, in an isolated section of the Sierra called Hidden Valley. It was there they figured to make the split and to spend a week or so letting things cool down before they separated.

The week before, Kubion and Brodie had driven up to this Hidden Valley and established residence-two San Francisco businessmen on a combination vacation and work conference, they said-so that they would not be complete strangers when they came back after the job; and when they came back, Loxner would keep out of sight: still two men, not three, to ensure further that none of the locals would tie them in with Greenfront. Brodie and Kubion returned to Sacramento on Friday, and the mechanic delivered the dummy car inside a storage van late Saturday night, directly to the rented garage. There had been nothing to do then but wait for Monday afternoon…

They left the garage at two twenty-five, with Brodie driving and Kubion beside him and Loxner in back. Each of them wore one of the disguises: false mustaches and sideburns and eyebrows, putty noses, cotton wadding to fatten cheeks and distort the shape of the mouth. They saw no police units in the four blocks to Greenfront. Fifty yards beyond the office entrance at the rear was the loading dock, with a couple of semis drawn up to it and warehousemen pushing dollies back and forth on the ramp; none of the men glanced at the armored car as it pulled up and parked.

Brodie went around and opened the rear doors, and Loxner came out with the empty money sacks. The two of them stepped up to the door, while Kubion stood watching by the right rear fender. Loxner pressed the bell, one long and two short and one long, and they stood there under the dark afternoon sky, waiting for the security cop to come down.

It took him two minutes, twenty or thirty seconds longer than usual because they weren’t expecting the armored car for another half hour. He opened the peephole in the door and stared out through the thick glass covering it and saw the car and the three uniformed men-everything exactly as it was supposed to be. Satisfied, he worked the locks and swung the door open and said, “You guys are pretty early, aren’t you?”

“There’s a fire over on Kingridge,” Brodie told him. “Big warehouse right across the street from Saddleman’s. They’ve got the streets blocked off, hoses and pumpers everywhere, and we can’t get in. So the company told us we might as well go ahead with our other rounds.”

“Fires in the middle of December,” the guard said, and shook his head. “Well, everything’s just about ready upstairs, but you might have to wait five or ten minutes.”

“Sure, we expected that.”

The guard stepped aside to let Brodie and Loxner enter. When they were past him, he turned and started to close the door-and Brodie’s left hand slapped across his mouth, jerking his head back; the swiftly drawn revolver jabbed him sharply in the small of the back. Softly, Brodie said, “You make a funny move or say anything above a whisper when I take my hand away, and I’ll kill you first thing. Believe it. ”

The guard stood motionless, his eyes wide and abruptly terrified; he had a wife and three kids, and he was no hero.

Kubion glanced out at the loading dock and saw that no one on the ramp was looking in his direction. The area was otherwise deserted. He drew his own gun and shut the door, leaving it unlocked. “All right,” he said to the guard, “who opens the door up there? You or the other guy in the office?”

Brodie took his hand away, increasing the pressure of the Colt. The guard’s throat worked three times before he found words, thickly hushed. “My partner. I tell him it’s okay and he opens up.”

“That better be right,” Kubion said. “If it isn’t, you’re a dead man.”

“It’s right.”

“Fine. Now when we go into the office, you keep your mouth shut. Don’t do or say anything. We’ll take it from there.”

Convulsively, the guard nodded. Kubion pushed him over to the stairs, and they went up single file. At the top, the guard called out, “Okay, Ben,” and there was the scrape of a key in the lock. The heavy steel-ribbed door opened, and the other security cop stood before them with his hands in plain sight. Kubion shoved the first one into the office, moving to one side so that Brodie and Loxner could enter, covering the startled second guard.

“Everybody just sit tight,” Kubion said sharply. “No panic, no screams, no heroics.”

“It’s a holdup, my God!” somebody said, and one of the two women employees gasped-but the two guards just stood there staring at Kubion’s gun. Brodie fanned immediately to the left and watched the rigid office staff sitting at their desks; none of them made further sounds. Loxner was at the open door to the manager’s cubicle, eyes and gun on the fat, white-faced man who had gotten to his feet within.

For a long moment the office was a fixed tableau fashioned of fear and disbelief. Then Kubion-smiling, thinking that they were going to get it done well within their allotted fifteen minutes-gestured to the manager and said, “Come out here and open the safe. Quick, no arguments.” Obediently, woodenly, the fat man stepped out of his cubicle and started across the office.

And that was when the whole thing went suddenly and completely sour…