How to Rob an Armored Car (11 page)

“Dude, you need a new suit.”

“Fuck it. What’re you, like James Bond or something?”

“I’m more James Bond than you.”

“You look like . . .” Doug searched for a derisive comparison and found nothing.

“Good comeback,” Mitch said.

“Yeah, uh, eat me.”

“Good comeback again. You’re like Oscar Wilde with this shit.”

Before the conversation could deteriorate into abuse and cursing there was a knock on the door. It was Kevin. It was Ferrari time.

THE PLAN REQUIRED that Kevin park the pickup out of sight of the restaurant and, as soon as Doug and Mitch were in the Ferrari, pull out onto the gravel road and lead them to the drop-off point. Kevin couldn’t park his pickup in the parking lot because one of the valets might think it looked suspicious and take down his license number. So the pickup was parked about a hundred yards away, on a small gravel access road that led to a now defunct quarry. The minute a Ferrari pulled into the lot, Doug and Mitch were to call Kevin and he would drive back out to the road. Doug and Mitch were to stride over to the Ferrari and, bold and unobtrusive in their business suits, drive it out of the parking lot to the road, where Kevin would be waiting.

What the plan hadn’t taken into account was the fact that to get to their stakeout point from the pickup, Doug and Mitch had already had to walk through a forest in their business suits, meaning their dress shoes were caked with freezing mud. They had also neglected to consider that business suits were not very warm. So while Kevin, fully dressed for the weather in a heavy down jacket and blue jeans, was waiting in the truck for a cell phone call alerting him that a Ferrari was present, Doug and Mitch were standing behind a tree, freezing, with ice forming on their feet.

“Dude, this sucks,” said Doug.

Mitch had taken to the work. There was a lot to be said for working outdoors. He had been enjoying the adventure of it, the concealment, which gave the mission an air of great importance. Who concealed themselves if their work was unimportant? Then Doug had ruined the moment by complaining.

“It’s cold,” Mitch agreed. He had brought with him a cheap pair of opera glasses, which had been in the apartment when they had moved in. He put them up to his eyes and examined the parking lot, which was perfectly visible with the naked eye.

“Dude, do you really need those?”

“It’ll give us more time. To call Kevin. With these, I can see a Ferrari the minute it comes up the drive.”

“Whatever. I can’t feel my feet.”

“Why don’t you go wait in the truck with Kevin?”

Doug was quiet for a second. “No. Then you’ll talk shit about me, about how I didn’t help.”

“These things are cool,” said Mitch, ignoring him and holding up the opera glasses. “You can see the hostess through the window. She’s hot.”

“I don’t care,” said Doug.

“Dude, if you’re gonna be a bitch, seriously, why don’t you go wait in the truck?”

They froze and ducked as they heard the noise of an approaching car. Mitch put the opera glasses up to his face, but they had fogged over. He polished them with his wrist as a car came into the parking lot and pulled up beside the little valet hut. It was a BMW. Mitch looked at it through the glasses and said, “BMW.”

“Dude,” Doug said, shivering. “I can see that from here.”

They watched as the valet parked it about three spaces from the door. Somebody was apparently paying a valet to walk eight feet. Even if it had been a Ferrari, it was parked so close to the valet booth that the valet would notice anyone who approached it, and he would be sure to notice two half-frozen, wet creatures with their feet caked in mud emerge from the woods and get into it.

“Dude, this ain’t gonna work,” said Doug.

Mitch was surveying the situation like an embattled paratroop commander, his breath frosting in the air as he swung the opera glasses back and forth across the parking lot. Doug asked idly what the fuck he was looking at. He had to admit, Doug had a point. “It’s not gonna work unless the parking lot is full,” he said.

“These business suits were a bad idea,” Doug said.

Yes, Mitch had to admit, they were. The deception of wearing business suits was all well and good but after you had been crouching in a wintry, outdoor environment for several hours, a business suit just made you look more conspicuous. All soiled and muddy and coming out of the woods in suits, they would look more like survivors of a plane crash than jaunty guests heading into the Eden Inn. And besides, they were freezing.

They knocked on the window of the pickup. The truck was idling and Kevin was sitting in the warm cab reading the paper, a steaming thermos of cocoa in his hand.

“You comfortable enough?” asked Mitch as Kevin rolled the window down. “Need, like, a foot rub or something?”

“What’s up, jerkoff?”

“We’re scrapping the plan,” said Mitch. “This business suit bullshit is ridiculous. If I’m waiting in a bush all night, I need to be dressed for the weather.”

“Y-Y-Yeah,” shivered Doug.

“We’re going for speed not deception,” said Mitch, his paratroop commander persona returning. “There’re two ways we can do this. One, deception, where we get in the door by looking like we belong there, or two, speed. Just spring out of the forest and take the goddamned Ferrari while the valets are busy. What’re they gonna do? Leap in front of it to save the car? Then we speed off.”

“We decided this,” said Doug.

“Besides, look at him,” said Mitch, pointing at Doug, who was shivering and wet, his soaked long hair clinging to his cheeks. “He looks even creepier than usual.”

Kevin looked at Doug. “All right,” he said with a nod. Doug’s appearance was enough to win the argument. These two were never going to pass for business people, or even people who had any business in the parking lot of the Eden Inn. He leaned over and opened the passenger door and they got in.

“We’re going commando,” said Mitch. “Comfortable, warm clothes we can move fast in.”

“Doesn’t that mean you’re not wearing underwear?” asked Doug.

“What?”

“Going commando.”

“No, it means quick and well prepared. And dressed for the damned weather.”

“I think it means no underwear,” said Kevin.

“Bullshit. I never heard that.”

“I’m going to wear underwear,” said Doug.

Kevin pulled out onto the road for the long drive back to Wilton, the snow starting to fall silently on the tree-lined roads, his two friends bickering in the seat beside him, and thought: This is so much better than a PTA meeting.

7

CHAPTER

D
OUG WAS FLIPPING through the classifieds and found himself drawn to a particular ad promising wealth for the writing of children’s books. According to the ad, there was a virtually bottomless market for children’s books and no real skills were required to write one. Doug allowed himself a moment of reverie as he imagined being an admired children’s book author and realized it was a fantasy he had had before.

Two years earlier, while working at the restaurant, Doug had found himself staring at the lobsters in the tank and imagining writing the story of one that escaped. He had wanted the story to be happy and have the lobster make it home to Maine, where he would be reunited with his family. Standing over the hot grill, sweat dripping into his eyes, he had been suddenly thrilled at the idea of being a writer of children’s books and the next day he had sat down to write one.

At first, everything went well. The stage was set, the lobster escaped, and he went off on his happy way to Maine. Annalisa had said she loved it and waited eagerly for the next installment. But as the story developed, the lobster began to change perceptibly, from a happy escapee to a morose and violent drifter. At his best the lobster was aimless; at his worst he was hell-bent on revenge. Despite Annalisa’s admonishments to keep the story light, Doug continually had the lobster running into trouble. By the time the lobster had been arrested for selling nitrous hits at a Phish show and had stabbed a lizard at a truck stop following an argument about leftover fast food, Annalisa had finally persuaded him to give up the story for good.

“You’re weird,” she had said, but her voice had lacked the saucy delight that had been present when she had made the same observation at the beginning of their relationship. It had been the final weeks and now Doug wondered, as he sat and read the classifieds, if he hadn’t thought of the lobster story as a device to keep her attracted to him, an attraction he knew was waning. He stared blankly at the ads, not reading them, wondering what Annalisa was doing now. Right now at that very moment. Waiting tables at some other corporate restaurant, telling all her tables about moving to France, and getting an advanced degree in poetry writing probably. And maybe banging one of the cooks. She liked cooks. Banging other waiters was just so
jejune.
Or
passé.
Or
coup
d’etat.
Or something. He was shredding the edges of the newspaper with his fingers.

On the kitchen table was his final paycheck, which had arrived in the mail that day. One hundred ninety-eight dollars. That was it. That was all he had going for him. He had just lost his job and his car and most likely his license, and he had slept with his friend’s wife, and all he had to show for his life was a check for $198. And a handful of little white pills that Mitch had given him. He took another one.

The phone rang. It was Linda, the call he had been dreading. He had so many things he wanted to say to her, serious things about right and wrong and betrayal and friendship, things that had been circling madly in his mind for the past few days. He wasn’t used to keeping secrets and he hated the feeling that he might make an errant comment to Mitch or Kevin. Skills of deceit were not in his DNA.

“How are you?” she asked. Her tone was cheerful, which he wasn’t expecting. He had imagined their next conversation would be a somber rehashing of events, full of admissions of shame and phrases like “never again.” Instead she sounded happy, energetic, and friendly, which made Doug nervous.

“I’m good,” he said, wondering how to play this. Maybe she just didn’t want to share her angst on the phone.

“I was just wondered how your day was going,” she said pleasantly, not sounding at all angst-ridden. “I miss you. We haven’t talked in a couple of days.”

Doug wanted to point out that prior to two weeks ago they had never talked at all. Accidentally having an affair with his friend’s wife was one thing, but having her call up and pretend it had never happened was not only insulting, it was confusing. What was this about? Should he join her in the pretense that they were just friends? Yeah. He should. Maybe that was the answer and Linda had figured it out. If they both pretended they had never had sex, maybe the whole thing would just go away.

“Yeah,” Doug said. He could hardly say he missed her too, because that was some weird schmaltzy shit you said to your girlfriend, not to your friend’s wife while your roommate was watching TV ten feet away, wondering who you were talking to on the phone. He tried to think of something mundane to say, some insignificant detail of his day which he might offhandedly mention to a friend but nothing occurred to him except, “I’ve been thinking of writing a children’s book.”

“Really?” Linda sounded genuinely enthusiastic and Doug realized how nice it was to make new friends, because they weren’t sick of you yet. To new friends, an announcement of your new life plans was a novelty. It wasn’t put into the context of a dozen previous announcements which might not have come to fruition. New friends accepted your announcements with the excitement that you had when you made them, and they understood that when you announced your life plans, you were deadly serious and totally committed, at least for the duration of the announcement. “What’s it gonna be about?”

For want of a new idea, Doug told her about the lobster, and while he was telling her he began to relive the enthusiasm that he had felt upon his first venture. Perhaps writing children’s books was his real calling after all. This was the second time he’d had this idea. Maybe that was it. You had to wait to get your calling twice. He told Linda the whole lobster story the way he had imagined it originally, with a joyful escape and a happy reunion. She was charmed.

“Write it!” she said and Doug was so happy to hear the support in her voice that he forgot he had just slept with her, and all the anxiety that went along with it. “I’ll read it to Ellie. We’ll make her your focus group.”

Doug was about to respond when Mitch, dressed in a camouflage jacket and his baggie pants, walked into the kitchen. “Dude,” he said, “let’s go. It’s Ferrari time.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. “Who you talking to?”

“A dude from work,” Doug said and instinctively put his head in his hands. Mitch stared at him.

“Hey Kevin, man, you want a beer?” Mitch called out into the living room, alerting Doug to the fact that Kevin was in the apartment while he was talking to Linda on the phone.

“Nah, man, I’m driving.” Kevin came into the kitchen. “Wassup, Doug? Get your coat. We gotta get going. We got a Ferrari to steal.”

“Is that Kevin?” Doug heard Linda ask.

“Later, man,” Doug said into the phone and hung up, praying that the phone had been tightly pressed against his ear and that her voice had not echoed around the kitchen, giving clues to her identity, or even to her sex. To the phone lying inert in its cradle, he said, “Talk to you later, dude,” with an emphasis on the last word, clarifying once and for all that he had, in fact, been talking to a man.

Doug and Mitch went out into the snow, dressed warmly this time, and as they were waiting on the steps for Kevin to finish using the bathroom, Doug turned to Mitch and said, “Dude, do you ever think that no matter how much you try to make your life simple, it just keeps getting more complicated?”

Mitch lit a cigarette. “Yeah. I guess. Maybe. Why?”

“I don’t know, man. I just hate when shit is complicated.”

“What’s complicated?” Mitch looked at him. “Who was that on the phone?”

Doug was desperate for a change of direction in the conversation, even though he himself had just started it. “I’ve decided I’m going to write children’s books,” he announced.

“Didn’t you do that once before? About a lobster or some shit? And the lobster turned into, like, a hardened criminal or something.”

“He was just a petty criminal,” said Doug. “And this time it’ll be different.”

Kevin came outside and they got into the truck, which was warm and smelled of cocoa. “Linda thinks I’m walking dogs,” said Kevin, “and she made me some cocoa. I brought it along for you guys.”

Linda knows you’re not walking dogs, Doug thought. Another thing that was his fault.

“Cool,” said Mitch as they pulled out of the driveway. “Doug’s gonna write children’s books.”

“Didn’t you do that once before?” Kevin asked. “About a suicidal junkie lobster?”

“He wasn’t suicidal, man. He just had some problems. And he wasn’t a junkie. He just sold nitrous hits. And this time it’ll be different.” You couldn’t discuss anything with these guys because they were always bringing up the past. Shit, how would they like it if Doug kept bringing up the fact that Kevin got arrested and sent to prison or that Mitch had been fired from a shitty job?

Kevin shrugged. “Ready to go steal a Ferrari?”

“Ready,” said Mitch.

“You ready, dude?” Kevin asked, looking at Doug.

Doug stared moodily out the window, so Kevin asked him again. And again. Finally, Doug responded that he was ready and Kevin pulled a fat joint out of his pocket and said, in a long, slow drawl, “Awwwwwright.”

• • •

THE NEXT DAY, Kevin really was walking dogs, and he was thinking about the fact that there weren’t as many Ferraris on the road as there used to be. But he was also thinking about Linda. Linda had said something to him about Ferraris when he had gotten home late the previous night. It had been their fourth fruitless night of staking out the Eden Inn parking lot and as he headed toward the bathroom, Linda had mumbled something about Ferraris in her sleep.

“Wozzis about Ferraris?” she’d mumbled as he tiptoed through the darkened bedroom.

Kevin took it as a sign. Linda had said the magic word. Maybe she was some kind of good luck charm. He stopped in the bathroom doorway and looked at her, half asleep, or completely asleep, and dreaming about Ferraris.

“Ferraris,” Kevin said, wanting to hear more and to determine her state of consciousness.

“Yuhferrarizzz,” she mumbled and dozed off again. Damn! It was definitely a sign that next time they went there would be a Ferrari. A beautiful red Ferrari just waiting for them, the doors unlocked and the keys under the mat. Now if only he could convince the other guys, who were getting pissed with the whole plan and had started to doubt if anyone in the whole county even had one of the damned things anymore.

Maybe he was just thinking about Linda that morning because he could smell her. Today he had taken her car, rather than his truck, because her smaller Toyota was easier on gas and the car, he noticed, had a strong odor of her perfume. He pulled into Scotch Parker’s driveway and shut off the engine.

Scotch Parker was a Scottish Terrier who was kept in the garage of a million-dollar house because Mrs. Parker had supposedly developed an allergy to him. Kevin didn’t believe it. He got the feeling that the dog really belonged to Mr. Parker and her shoving Scotch in the garage was just the type of passive-aggressive shit that unhappy married couples did to each other. Antagonism-by-pet-treatment, Kevin knew, was a phenomenon far more common than nondogwalkers would ever imagine.

He opened the garage door and immediately noticed that Scotch was lying dead on the floor.

“Shit,” he groaned. He went over and looked at the dog’s little mouth and saw a green puddle by his inert, partly open jaws. Antifreeze. He could even smell it. He looked around the garage and noticed it all over the floor. They must have had a leak, and the dog had lapped it up. Then Kevin remembered that as long as he had been coming there, over a year now, he had never seen a car in the garage. This wasn’t a leak; someone had intentionally poisoned the dog.

Enraged, he dialed 911 and waited in the driveway for the cop car, chain-smoking. He knew that what he should be doing was calling the owner, Mrs. Parker, who was at work, but he had the distinct feeling that she was the one who had done it. Little Scotch did bark a lot, so it could have been a neighbor or just a local vandal, as the garage door was always unlocked, but Kevin was secretly hoping the cop might find some clue that implicated Mrs. Parker right off. Mr. Parker, who loved the dog, had been on a business trip for weeks.

The cop car pulled into the driveway and Kevin was disappointed to see the cop was young and innocent looking. Not the kind to immediately notice clues. He had been hoping for someone brimming with confidence and competence, like the CSI team from television, toting bags of sophisticated electronics and weird machines and sprays. This was just a kid with a clipboard. Kevin pointed out the dead dog and watched as the kid walked aimlessly around the garage.

“You think the dog ate some antifreeze?” he asked after a few seconds.

Drank, Kevin thought. You drink antifreeze. It’s a liquid, you idiot. “Yeah.”

“Hmmmph,” the cop said. His eyes darted around, and from his expression, Kevin guessed there would be no CSI team. This guy was trying to figure out the best way to get back to his cup of hot coffee without getting stuck with hours of paperwork. “Are you the owner?”

Kevin explained that he was the dog walker, hoping that this information would not be the legal paperwork loophole that nullified the whole case. The kid was transfixed by his clipboard, trying to think up an exit strategy.

Finally, he jotted down a few notes and asked, “What is it you want me to do?”

“Investigate,” Kevin said, as if the answer was obvious. “The lady who lives here, she did it.” He knew better than to let his voice show too much emotion, or he would be in the back of the cop car himself in no time. Make a fuss and the cop would run
his
info through the system and find out he had a record, and then he’d have to get Linda to pick him up from the police station. So, with extreme calm, he added, “You know, check out the neighbors, examine the scene, ask questions.”

“If I ask anyone if they did this, they’ll just deny it,” the cop said.

Kevin was trying to keep himself from getting visibly annoyed. “You know,” he said evenly, “I’ve seen a lot of cop shows. And I’ve never seen anyone on
Law and Order
say, ‘Hey guys, if we investigate this murder, the people who did it will just deny it.’”