A Stranger Lies There (2 page)

This was in the student union bar near the end of last semester, right after Duncan's campaign speech in the university gymnasium. Ellen had been flushed and glowing, excited by Duncan's growing support, and the place was wall-to-wall people all talking about the address. We were in the back near the pool tables. A neon Hamm's beer sign lit Ellen's face, coloring her pale blond hair softly. She'd just convinced us to help out on the campaign, and bought us all a round in honor of our pledge. She raised her drink, a sparkle in her eyes, and said, “To victory,” as we clinked glasses.

“A better world,” Greg offered.

Rory was drunk. “To splitting the curl.”

I'd hesitated. “To victory,” I finally said.

I remembered the crack of the cue balls then, turning to see them scatter on the green felt of one of the tables. When I turned back, someone else had joined our group.

I'd never seen him before, though he stood out pretty well. A few years older than us, late twenties or so. He wore a white button-down shirt and pressed black jeans, shined patent leather boots. Medium height. Hair long on top and short on the sides, long sideburns almost reaching his jawline. Quick, intelligent eyes behind John Lennon glasses, and a forceful, confident way of speaking that made you want to listen.

He'd started by asking Ellen if she wanted a drink, correctly assuming her leadership role, then launched into a debate with her and Greg about the politics of the counterculture, whether we'd ever be accepted by the mainstream establishment. Turret thought then, and still did, that our methods were all wrong. That we should try sneaking in through the back door, right under their noses. Ellen, challenged by his viewpoints, took to him immediately and welcomed him into our circle.

Then Turret disappeared for a few weeks. Time to “check us out,” he said. Later on, I wondered why we hadn't done the same for him. But we started meeting a few times a week, and continued through the summer. Always at Ellen's place, which had also been checked out. Turret was real careful, agents and listening devices everywhere. The get-togethers had to be spur of the moment. Ellen would get the word from Turret and track each of us down in person.

A few weeks ago, he'd told us his idea. Each meeting since then had been on the same subject.

Tonight would be no exception. Down below, the bonfire had been abandoned, the flames starting to die down. I heard someone coming up the steps, then stop halfway.

“That stuff is so good, it oughtta be illegal,” Rory drawled in a cracked, mellow voice to his new friends in 1A. “Next one's on me.” Then he appeared in the doorway, held on to the jamb to steady himself before veering toward the last spot on the couch, between Greg and Turret. He sat down heavily, bouncing the cushions.

Turret scowled and got up. Went into the kitchen and put his empty bottle on the sink.

“So what's going on?” Rory asked casually. He was a lanky surfer with sun-bleached hair that was always tangled and a permanent grin on his face. Rory knew Ellen from the beach boardwalk where she went to sketch sometimes. Laid-back and relaxed, he had offbeat political views and no visible means of support.

Turret came back with a kitchen chair, put it next to the couch and sat down. Leaned forward with his hands folded. “You guys thought any more about what I said?” he asked. I wondered if Turret had planned to bring this up tonight, or whether he was taking advantage of the situation outside. Fan the flames while they were hot.

Nobody said anything for a moment, then Greg spoke up.

“You're talking about a bank robbery. I thought we were committed to nonviolent protest. Peace, man. People could end up dead this way.”

Turret put his head down, shook his head before speaking. Since meeting us, he'd let his hair get longer and shaggier, and right now it was wet and hanging in his face. “A lot of our friends have already died, fighting in a war nobody wants. How many will it take before we wake up?” He looked at each of us in turn. “And look what our peaceful protests got us today. Cops coming in and instigating, making us look bad. It's us versus them right now, and they got the power. But if we try and beat them at their own game…”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” Greg asked. “How does robbing a bank get us anywhere?”

“I told you. We don't keep the money. It goes directly, in small chunks, to Duncan's campaign. Give him a leg up, buy TV time, legitimize his candidacy. That's what it takes nowadays.”

“You think a little cash is gonna solve everything?” Greg asked. “I seriously doubt it.”

The rest of us kept quiet, watching Turret and Greg go back and forth.

“Maybe not right away,” Turret answered. “But it's a process. Duncan probably won't win this time, but the more familiar he is to people, the better chance he'll have in four years. Right now, the only time anybody sees him is when those stuffed shirts on TV choose to cover him. And when is that? When there's a bunch of hippies chanting his name and burning flags. They already won't let him on the debates. But if he can get out there on his own terms, buying ads … that's a whole different ballgame.”

“I don't know, man,” Rory said. He coughed loudly, hit his chest a few times to clear it. “A Dillinger? Sounds pretty radical to me.”

“Look,” Turret responded, “our generation has tried a lot of different things, without much effect. Protests and marches don't do it. Blowing up draft board offices and recruiting centers just turns people against us. We wanna make real changes, we gotta do it from the inside. By getting the good guys into office, into power. Like it or not, that takes money. A lot of money. This is one way to do it.”

Turret stood up, on a roll now. He paced back and forth, enumerating his points with his hands. “Think about it you guys. The bank I'm talking about finances the Rand Corporation, one of the biggest war machines in the country. Who do you think is electing the politicians, so they can continue selling guns to the very people they're putting into office? Not you and me, brother. It's companies like Rand and the bankers that finance them who are in bed with those fuckers in Washington. It's blood money, man. It deserves to be taken, to get someone like Duncan elected so he can fight for the causes we believe in.”

“What about all the people who've put their savings in that bank? What do we say to them when their money is gone?” Greg asked.

“It's all insured Greg, you know that,” Ellen answered. “They won't lose a dime, the government will pay it all back.” She smiled and turned to Turret. “Far as I'm concerned, that's another plus to this idea. We'll be sticking our hands in big government's pockets.”

Turret agreed. “That's right. This is win-win all the way. We hit the warmongers where it hurts, help get a few of our comrades into office, and make the government pay for it all at the same time! It couldn't be more perfect! All we gotta do is have the balls to get it done, to fight for what we believe in.” He paused for emphasis. “You guys have what it takes? Or you gonna let others do your fighting for you?”

Things got quiet. Turret sat back down, letting us chew on everything he'd said. On TV the riot continued unabated. We watched an armored vehicle clip a protester, who, luckily, was able to get up and limp away. The newscaster said the school had made an announcement barring all future protests or campaign speeches on campus, and that all classes through the end of the semester had been canceled, as a girl on-screen was beaten bloody by a cop. The baton didn't stop even after she fell to the ground.

“Looks like Kent State all over again,” Ellen said, shaking her head, then turned to Turret. “I'm in,” she promised, and the admiration in her eyes when she looked at him nearly broke my heart.

“Dude,” Rory said, addressing Greg. “We talk the talk, we should walk the walk.” Then, to Turret: “Count me in.”

Greg shook his head slowly, trying to convince himself.

“We get a free pass here in college,” Ellen said to him. “You feel good about that?”

Tense silence, before Greg stood up. “I can't do it, guys. Not this way.” He started for the door.

“Hey Greg,” Turret said sternly. “You wouldn't sell out your friends, would you?”

“They know I wouldn't do that,” Greg replied, making clear where Turret stood with him. He left without looking back, closed the door quietly.

Turret wasn't happy. “Can we trust him?” Frustration wrinkled his forehead.

“Of course,” Ellen answered. “Greg's stand-up.”

“He still live in the same place?” Turret asked.

“I'll talk to him, Glenn. Don't worry,” Ellen said.

Turret held her gaze without blinking, went over and looked out the window. Then he turned to me and spoke, hands on his hips, voice tight. “That leaves you.”

I wanted to get up and follow Greg out the door. I wished I had his courage. Ellen regarded me with a doubtful expression, like she expected me to disappoint her. The fact that she wasn't trying to convince me said a lot.

“When do we do it?” I asked, and Ellen's warm smile almost erased the doubts in my mind.

Turret came over to shake my hand. “You're doing the right thing,” he said. Then he sat down next to Rory and laid out the plan.

We'd do it on Friday. The bank would have lots of cash on hand for payroll checks. Three of us would go into the bank armed, the other would wait in the car with the motor running. Pretty standard, it seemed. Except we couldn't decide who got to stay outside. We finally settled on passing a joint around and the one who killed it would do the driving.

It went around twice and got back to me. The joint was hot and short in my fingers, the smoke sweet and dense in my mouth before filling up my lungs.

Then the final burning ember fell onto my shirtfront and winked out.

“Hope you can drive fast,” Turret told me with a grin.

*   *   *

Friday, early afternoon in downtown San Francisco. Fog just starting to lift from the city, white clouds lit by the hazy sun drifting lazily up above. The air was cool and moist, though I was sweating behind the wheel of the car, watching the entrance of the bank across the street in my rearview mirror. I looked at my watch: only a few minutes had gone by but I was starting to get nervous.

Suddenly, the pedestrians on the sidewalk in front of the bank froze, jerking their heads toward the entrance. Then they scattered in all directions, hunched over in fear, and I wasn't sure if I'd heard the muffled report of gunfire.

Moments later Turret burst through the front doors brandishing his weapon. He dashed across the street toward me, eyes blazing with adrenaline, and that's when I knew everything had gone wrong.

That morning we'd gathered once again at Ellen's place to prepare for the robbery. Everyone had a gun except me, deadly-looking automatics that Turret had acquired a little too easily from an unknown source. His ready access to them made me wonder about the type of people he was associated with. We'd never learned much about Turret's background; he'd suddenly just appeared in our lives, confident he could convince us to take such an enormous risk for a cause he professed to be loyal to. Now, far too late to say anything about it, I got a funny feeling about him.

As he went over the final details, I glanced at Ellen. Grim-faced and serious, giving Turret her full attention. Rory looked more bleary-eyed than usual, constantly rubbing his forehead and lifting his hands to his temples as if he were in pain.

Turret noticed it too and interrupted himself. “What's the matter, Rory? You didn't smoke too much last night did you? I told you we had to be on for this today. Focused. No drugs.” He didn't seem happy.

Rory defended himself. “Nah man, just a little headache. I'll be fine.”

“What happened?” I asked, trying to lighten the moment with levity I didn't feel. “You get smacked in the head with your board or something?”

Nobody laughed. To my surprise Rory confirmed it, shaking his head at the memory. “Wiped out pretty good this morning. But that wave was worth it. You shoulda seen it.”

“You went surfing?” Turret asked, miffed. “This morning?”

Rory nodded. “Crack of dawn. Same as every morning. Something wrong with that?”

Turret opened his mouth, seemed to change his mind and closed it. Then started over. “Take a fucking aspirin or something. We gotta concentrate on this.”

Ellen raised an eyebrow at Turret's sudden attitude. Rory got up without a word, went into the bathroom and came back with a bottle of aspirin. Popped two of them dry and sat back down.

Turret finished up a few minutes later, tried to be reassuring. “I got it timed out perfect, everybody. Do your jobs right and everything will be fine.”

Now he was rushing toward the car alone, finger still on the trigger. He clambered in and tossed the gun in the back, kept the large canvas bag in his lap.

“Fucking go!” he yelled frantically as he slammed the door.

“What about the others?”

“They're not coming. Now step on it!”

I peeled out on the slick pavement, screeching around the corner toward a parking garage a few miles away, where we'd stashed my car—Turret had wanted to ditch the getaway car, a junker with stolen plates, as soon as possible.

“What the hell happened?” I yelled, seized with panic.

“Not right now,” Turret barked, looking behind us. “And slow down for Chrissake. We're in the clear.”

I eased up on the gas and glanced at Turret, feeling sick. He was still breathing hard, flush with excitement, and didn't seem too broken up that my friends weren't with us.

“What the fuck happened back there, goddamnit!” I persisted.

He wouldn't meet my eyes, evading the question. “It doesn't matter now. Just drive.”

I did as I was told. A few minutes later we pulled into the parking garage, a five-story structure that Turret had picked out carefully. The entrances were served by automatic ticket machines with an all-day flat rate, and the exits were unmanned, perfect for our purposes. It never filled up, according to Turret, and the top two floors were invariably empty. As a precaution, my car was on the fifth floor, away from the elevator to avoid company when we returned.