Джеймс Кейн - The Enchanted Isle

“How many of them were there?”

“Ah, eight.”

But he kind of hesitated and Bud caught it, turning into a wolf. “Goddam it, how many?” he screamed. You’d never have thought they were friends — if they were, which I’m not so sure of now.

“I told you, didn’t I? Eight?”

“You did but you don’t seem sure!”

“I’m sure. There were eight.”

“You counted them?”

“Of course I did! What was I there for?”

“I’d damn well like to know.”

I asked, “Mr. Pal, where do I go?”

“Frederick Road, then I’ll show you.”

Where Pal showed me was to a Holiday Inn, but we no sooner were brought to a table than he took Rick downstairs, to run his finger down his throat, or at lease so I supposed, and what he did do I don’t know, but when he came back he looked better. Then we all had buns and coffee, except Rick didn’t eat anything, just sipped along on his coffee. But while they were gone Bud was growling. “You heard what he said, didn’t you, Beautiful? About the girl? Shacking up with her boss at a motel, like that was a hot bit for us? So if that’s what they’re rapping about, they don’t have their mind on us, and no stakeout is there. So OK, the deep stuff is in, we got it covered complete! But the one thing I have to know, which is how many of them pigeons there are, he can’t be bothered about. He’s so goddam busy with this other, the chick shacking up in the motel, that he forgets to count. Listen, I got to know and I don’t! He said eight, but, Christ, he wasn’t sure!” It cleared up a point that baffled the cops, as I’ll explain in due course, when I get to it later on, but right now one thing at a time.

Pal left a tip and paid the cashier, and then we were driving again, headed for the bank. At 9:29 sharp, I pulled up in front and set the brake. Pal said, “OK, this is it.”

“I don’t want to.”

Rick kind of whined it, but Pal reached back and shook his knee. Very cold, he said, “Chuck, you got to.”

“I don’t want to. I want out.”

“Chuck, you’re in.”

“...OK.”

He just whispered it. Bud got out and went in the bank. Pal got out. Rick got out, then reached in and picked up the basket. Pal told me, “Beautiful, set the doors so they open quick but aren’t hanging wide for some cop to get sore about.”

“I’ll set them right, don’t worry.”

He and Rick went in, Rick carrying the basket, and I had a look at the street to see what was moving on it, but nothing was. No cars were coming toward me, and none were backed up behind, waiting for the light. At the end of the block a girl was walking along in the direction of the bank but not paying attention to me. I slid over, pushing my bag on the seat, to set the doors, pulling both of them in, so they looked to be closed but weren’t. The door catches weren’t caught, and they’d open at any pull. I slid back of the wheel again, pulling the bag beside me, and checked my motor to make sure that I still had it. It was humming along nice. The girl was still the only thing moving, that I could see, in the block, and by now she had reached the bank. She went in and my heart skipped a beat. But then I remembered: the way they were going to work it, she was under control. She would be made to lie down and wouldn’t cause any louse-up. From behind, after crossing with the light, a man came along and went in. But except for him, there was still no traffic at all, going or coming on Wilkens, or, that I could see, on the side street.

Then from inside the bank came a shot.

It sounded faint, and what with the motor running and me being inside the car, I wasn’t quite sure what it was. But then came another, and then two or three more, so there couldn’t be any mistake. For the first time my stomach felt queer. I was afraid, and my toe wanted the gas, to slam that car out of there. However, I made myself hold. Behind me, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the light turn red, but still no cars were there. There may have been more shots, I can’t be sure, but then all of a sudden out of the bank came Rick, staggering under the weight of the basket, which seemed to be full. But he was carrying it funny, by one hand, reaching back over his shoulder so it was on his back in a hunched-up, clumsy way. I opened the door, the front door, and he fell in, the basket on top of him and his legs hanging out the door. Then he pulled them in and as he did, said to me, “Mandy! Out of here! Quick! Step on it!”

“But where are Pal and Bud?”

“They’re dead, they’re shot. Who the hell cares where they are? Mandy, will you get going? Will you get us the hell out of here?”

I started, then saw that the door was still open. I said, “Rick! Will you close the door? Will you pull it shut? Will you slam it?”

He tried to but was wedged in on the floor, the basket on top of him, his legs sticking up in the air, so he couldn’t move. And money, packs of ones and fives and tens and twenties, done up in rubber bands, in paper tape, and loops of string, were all over the floor, fouling my gas and clutch and brake. But somehow, at last, I got to the corner and turned right to get out of sight, when, thank God, the door swung shut though it didn’t slam, and when I looked, the back door was closed though not slammed shut. As I turned the light was still red, but still no cars were there. A guy ran out of the bank, but I pulled ahead and out of his sight. At the next corner I turned right again, to double back in the direction we’d been in. Rick was still on the floor, but he felt what I was doing and started to wail. I said, “It’s OK, if anything’s on our tail, it’s the last thing they’d expect.”

I ran two blocks with no cars showing behind, then caught open country, or vacant lots anyhow, on both sides of the road, with no one in sight. I stopped, jumped out, ran around, and yanked open both doors. I grabbed the basket, and it was almost too much for me, too heavy for me to lift. But I wrapped both arms around it and pushed it in back, on the floor in front of the seat, the way it had been in the first place, as far over as I could slide it. Then I pulled him out by the feet. I told him, “Get in there! Get in back, quick!” I wanted him in with the money, and at lease he did what I said. I slammed both doors, ran around again and got in, then started up. I ran a block or two, then cut back and got on Wilkens. I was near the Colypte plant but ran past it to the bank, and soon as the light turned, past it. A squad car was out front, an officer standing beside it, talking into a mike, with people gathered around, maybe fifteen or twenty. One or two of the men, who had on gray cotton jackets, looked to be from the bank. As I passed, no one paid any attention to me, and Rick kept whispering, “What do you know about that? What do you know about that?”

“Now, at last we can talk! What happened?”

“What didn’t happen! My God!”

I realized he still couldn’t talk and didn’t press him too hard, then turned left, to head for Frederick — Frederick Road I’m talking about. But then I suddenly realized I didn’t quite know where I was and went in to ask at the next filling station I came to. I almost died when the guy reached for my door handle to throw off the lock on the hood, because that stuff was still lying around, the money, on the floor, where it had fallen out of the basket and I’d kicked it away from my pedals. I slapped my hand over the door and said, “Oil’s OK, thanks. Fill her up — it’ll take six, I think.” So he turned from the door to the hose, and as he opened the tank a TV started to talk, from the other side of the car, inside the filling station: “...All three men were dead on arrival at University of Maryland Hospital, both of the bandits and Lester Bond, the guard, whom one of the bandits shot after being shot himself, taking aim from the floor...” I asked for Frederick Road, after paying for my gas, and when I had straight where I was, I drove on. I said, “Rick, did you hear him? That announcer on TV? Not only Pal and Bud, but the bank guard, he’s dead too.”