Lawrence Block - The Specialists

“Soon as Ben gets his car—”

“Not what I mean. I don’t want to go inside. Her lunch hour’s over at one thirty, and we don’t hit the goddamned bank until two. I don’t see how she’ll miss making me.”

“You got the moustache, which we’re supposed to show inside the bank. Also I’m the wrong color as far as the earlier job was concerned.”

“That’s minor compared to her spotting me.”

“Why? She doesn’t know your name, does she?”

“No.”

“Well, then what’s the problem? Ben’s starting her up. Anything on the right? No, ma’am, nothing at all, and off he goes just like that. Very nice.”

“There were some more bowlers two lanes to the right. Drove up while you were talking. Maroon Ford.”

“I didn’t even notice. Let’s have a look.”

Simmons drove around to the second lane on the right. He slowed down beside the car. Giordano had a hand on the door handle, then straightened up. “Keep going,” he said. “The one just came out of the door. She forgot something.”

Simmons moved on down the line, eased the brown truck into a parking space. A woman in a magenta blouse and a pleated black skirt returned to the Ford, picked up a black calf purse, and headed toward the alleys again.

“Son of a bitch,” Giordano said. “And here we almost struck it rich. Bet there was eighteen, maybe as much as twenty dollars in that purse.”

“And the car keys, man.”

“That’s a point. You get spoiled using car keys. And every once in a while a key’ll break in the ignition, and then where are you? Whereas who in hell ever heard of a jumper wire breaking in the ignition?”

“Very true. Lou?”

“Yeah?”

“You bugged about the teller?”

“A little.”

“You call at a quarter to two. Call the bank. You’re a doctor at some hospital and her mother had a heart attack and she’s dying, so your girl should get her ass over to the hospital.”

“Howard, you’re a beautiful man.”

“Gets her out of the way. I do believe we can swing the dime for the call.”

“I repeat, you’re a beautiful man. Excuse me, I have to steal a car.”

The Dodge station wagon wasn’t precisely the sort of car Murdock would have picked for himself. The engine and transmission seemed sound enough and the car steered easily, but somehow the car felt like a toy. He decided it might be the color, a pale blue, or the dirty Kleenex and miscellaneous kids’ crap that littered the rear deck.

Not that it too much mattered whether he liked it or not, he thought. The odds were that he’d never drive it. There was a good chance, as far as that went, that none of them would be driving the Dodge. It was a principle of the colonel’s that you never went into a place before you set yourself up to get back out again. You gave yourself more room than you needed and as much as you possibly could. If you were going to have to switch cars — if there was even the slimmest damn possibility that you might want to switch cars, even then you borrowed a couple of cars in advance and stashed them in likely places. If you needed them, they were there for you. If it turned out that you never needed them, then sooner or later the local police would turn them up and send them back to their owners. It might make pedestrians out of the owners for a couple of days, but that was just part of the game.

Murdock drove to the corner of Alder and Summerwood. It was in the middle of a tract of new houses about three miles east of the Commercial Bank of New Cornwall. He parked at the curb in front of a vacant house with a FOR SALE sign on the lawn. He left the jumper wire attached to one of the ignition terminals. He slipped on a pair of sheer canvas driving gloves and went over the surfaces of the car that he might have touched. Whether they used that car or not, there was no point in leaving his fingerprints around. The government had accumulated enough of Ben Murdock’s fingerprints over the years. They surely didn’t require any more of them.

He unzipped his windbreaker, reached inside the waistband of his slacks. The .38 fit snugly in his hand. He checked the load for the third time, put the gun back where it belonged, and, fingers nimble despite the gloves, zipped up the jacket again.

He walked a block from the car. He turned, and nobody had taken any interest in it, so he turned again and pointed himself toward the bank. He had close to two hours to walk three miles, and that was a pretty slow pace if you were climbing mountains. In the middle of a damn city it was the pace a kid might walk if he was worried he might be early for school. Sort of two steps forward and one step back.

Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t hold his pace down that slow. When he reached the bank building, he looked at his watch and it read 1:37. “Thirteen hundred thirty-seven hours,” he said aloud, pleased with the cadence of the phrase. But he wasn’t pleased with the time. He could enter the bank and fool around with a deposit slip at 1352 hours and not before. Which gave him fifteen minutes to kill.

He walked along Broad Street, gazing thoughtfully into store windows.

At 1:48, Giordano dropped a dime in a drugstore telephone booth and dialed the bank. When a girl’s voice answered, he said, “This is Dr. Perlin at Sisters of Mercy Hospital. You employ a Patricia Novak?”

“Yes, we do—”

“Have her come to the emergency ward immediately, please. That’s Sisters of Mercy Hospital. Her father was injured in an auto accident and he’s not expected to live.”

“Oh, God.”

“You’ll see that’s she’s informed at once.”

“Oh, God, yes. Sisters of Mercy. And you’re Dr.—”

“Dr. Fellman.”

“Dr. Feldon. Yes, I’ll tell her immediately.”

At 1:52 Murdock entered the bank via the Broad Street door. He almost collided with a frenetic, wide-eyed young woman who was struggling into her spring coat and rushing out the door at the same time. He clucked to himself and walked on through to the customers’ desk, where he selected a deposit slip and a ballpoint pen. The pen was attached to the countertop by a length of chain. A hell of a thing, Murdock thought. All the money they had in a place like this and they like to worry over someone walking off with one of their ball pens.

He wanted very much to laugh. But he hunched over the deposit slip and penned meaningless figures into the little boxes.

At 1:53 Giordano entered the bank through the Revere Avenue door. He stood in line in front of the third teller’s cage. There were four people ahead of him in line. If the line moved too quickly, he would invent some business that would make him head back to the stand-up desk — to endorse some nonexistent check or other. But the line was going to be properly slow. It would have been shorter if Pat was on duty, but now two tellers had to do the work of three and that slowed things down.

Also at 1:53 Simmons pulled the brown truck into the bank’s parking lot on Revere Avenue. Now he, like Murdock, like Giordano, was wearing gloves. He took out one of the guns he had purchased in Newark, checked its load, and set it on the seat beside him.

He thought, Esther , and for a crazy instant she was there with him so that he might have spoken to her. Then she was gone. He had spoken to her the night before. With luck he would speak to her again in a couple of hours, and she wouldn’t know that anything had happened, but there would be something in his voice that hadn’t been there the night before.

Or would there? Because there was still Eddie Manso in that big stone house.

He lit a cigarette and waited.

At 1:55 Dehn stepped through the electric eye beam. The vault guard appeared instantaneously. “Ah, Mr. Moorehead,” he said. “Now you’re a regular customer, aren’t you, though?”