Smoke (31 page)

“Yeah. So?” Donny digs one hand deep into his jeans pocket, trying to keep up. He rocks back on the crate. “What does our pocketing candy and magazines have to do with you robbing the bank?”

“I'm
not
robbing the bank. Aren't you listening? I have a better idea.” He grins like a drunk on the steps of the Royal Hotel. “Remember how we felt before
we
pinched stuff? We'd be jumping out of our jeans with fear but that didn't stop us. The bandit's the same. He knows he might be caught; I mean he knows there's got to be a good chance he will, especially on a day that's crawling with people.
That's
the thrill, Don. Think about it: he held up that poor sucker at the dairy bar while a bunch of scouts rode through town. He went after Mrs. Bozek's jewellery while she was home. The Robertsons were eating breakfast when he broke in to their place. Those are daring heists, and they were well planned, but they're small peanuts compared with robbing the Bank of Commerce on the day of the sesquicentennial. Mr. Claxton installed new locks last year. You'd have to be a real fingersmith to get inside without anyone seeing.”

“Let's suppose you're right. What? You just wave your gun in his face and he'll turn tail and run?”

“Worked with Ivan, didn't it.”

Donny folds his arms. “I guess
you
don't remember that chump from Langton.”

“McAuliffe. Yeah, I remember. He made off with twenty thousand.”

“Got hanged too. Right in the Simcoe jailhouse. No thanks Buster.”

“You've got it all wrong. See we wouldn't be stealing the money, we'd be getting it back. Think about it: for years to come people would talk about who it was that robbed the bank and who it was that saved the day. We'll be heroes.
The two of us
. A team again.” There it is, all his cards out on the table. “The way I figure it, we'll be legends in our own time like Raymond Bernstein.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Look. I'm offering you the chance of a lifetime. This fella's probably been through a half-dozen rinky-dink towns in the region that we don't even know about. He's still around; I'm sure of it. And if he is he's thinking about the bank. I'm sick of folks gawking at me sideways. Let's nab him.”

“You
are
off your rocker. That could be dangerous.” Buster's plan is more like a fever, a bubbling, boiling determination that causes him to buzz like a beehive.

“You're a real square. I knew I shouldn't have asked you.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have.” A moment ago Donny was flattered thinking that Buster had come crawling back to him and now the possibility that he is Buster's second or even third choice dawns on him like an overcast sky. “Does anyone else know about this?”

“No. And they better not find out either. Blab and you'll be sorry.”

“Don't blow a gasket.” Donny takes another drag off his cigarette. “Ever since the accident you've been acting queer.”

“You're just worried what your mommy will say.”

“That's it. See you around.” Donny stands and heads for the trap door. Then he turns with a stern expression on his face. “My mother left. You've got some nerve bringing that up.”

“She did? I didn't know. I swear.”

“She'll be back though.”

“Yeah sure. Course …”

“Yeah.”

“So what do you say?”

“I say you need to get your head checked.”

“Listen. Herbert McAuliffe only got hanged because he shot two people. We won't hurt anybody. If it works we'll be helping. The town's posted a reward. Five hundred dollars.”

Donny taps the toe of his boot, drops his cigarette and extinguishes it with his heel. He is standing where he'd been on that night when he and Ivan taunted Buster into drinking too much. “I can't think when I'm down here. It's hot and it stinks. Let's go up.”

“Yes or no?”

Donny rubs his forehead. He wants to be a sport; he owes it to Buster, and with his dad on the sauce again they could really use some extra money. “Ivan might want in.”

“This is
my
plan! Leave that yo-yo out of it.”

“Okay, okay. Let's say for a minute I go along with this hare-brained idea. Then what?”

“Then we've got time to plan. We'll set up a lookout, just like we did in the old tree fort. We'll watch and wait and if we're lucky we'll catch him.” Buster winks, which looks more like a strained facial tick. “So, do we have a deal?”

“Fifty-fifty?”

“Seventy-thirty.”

“Find yourself another dupe.”

“Okay, we split it even-steven.”

Donny looks Buster in the eye and there behind two determined green peepers he finds a flicker of reason, a flicker of the friend he used to know. He extends his hand.

“All right. For old times' sake.”

Two weeks later school has let out and Donny's Bel Air is parked in the McFiddie driveway. He smoothes his palm across the warm hood. “I want her to have straight pipes,” he says.

Buster nods. “Without a muffler she'd be really loud and fierce sounding.” He removes his fedora and pokes his head inside the driver's-side window, examines the two-tone interior and steering column. “I'm thinking I'll get an old Merc.” He tilts his head towards the house to make sure no one's listening. “Once we collect the you-know-what.”

Donny opens the driver's-side door. “I'll probably send some of my cut off to my mom and sister.” He slides onto the seat. “Like to get the heads milled down though, maybe get a trick valve job. More horsepower. It'll cost a pretty penny, almost as much as I paid for her. C'mon, hop in.”

Buster opens the passenger door. “Start by drilling the jets out. That'll let more gas into the carburetor.”

“Good idea.” Donny starts the engine and Buster fiddles with the radio until he finds Perry Como singing “Round and Round.”

“Why didn't you go with your mom when she left?”

“I couldn't.” Donny shifts into reverse, backs them out of the driveway. “Dad's worse than he used to be. What if he falls and hits his head? I empty bottles down the drain every morning and he doesn't notice. Someone had to stay.”

“That's rough, Don.”

“Yeah.” Donny shifts into drive, pushes on the gas pedal and lays a strip. “But not right now. Right now we're free!”

They fly through Springford with Buster hanging halfway out of the car, hooting and hollering to no one in particular. He waves with his hat in his hand, wondering if the bandit can see him, and lets the noonday sun beat down on his face. They turn north onto Highway 19 and Donny floors it until they reach Ingersoll. There, he takes them across to Highway 59 and then south to Norwich, where he squeals to a stop in the empty school parking lot. The school that once looked so ominous to Buster is now a gentle giant. “This is the life,” he says, fixing his hat on his head. “Go anywhere you want, do whatever you want.” He lets himself out of the car and walks around to sit on its hood.

“Watch you don't scratch her,” says Donny. He joins Buster and they stretch their legs out and stare up into the cloudless summer sky.

“School's never looked so good,” says Buster.

“Yeah,” Donny laughs.

“I don't expect I'll be coming back to it.”

“Why not? No one talks about you any more.”

“They don't?”

“Naah. You're old hat.” Donny glances at the fedora. “I mean—”

“Don't worry about it. Here,” Buster removes his hat, passes it to Donny who flips it over, reads the label. He twirls it on his pointer finger. “You know what today is?”

“Saturday.”

“My birthday, you dope. I'm sixteen today.” Buster runs his hand through his wind-swept hair. “My mom's making a chocolate cake. Come for supper if you want. Last year I was in bed recovering. Don't even remember it. But no matter, as of midnight last night I can officially get my licence.”

O
N THEIR WAY BACK
through Smoke they notice Walter standing outside the hardware store in his overalls, examining the building. “Slow down,” says Buster, searching for Jelly Bean through the store window. “Pull over.”

“Hello boys.” Walter approaches the car. “I was thinking I'd fix the place up a bit, for the sesquicentennial. What do you think?”

“Can't hurt,” Buster says, stepping out of the car. “What did you have in mind?”

Walter points to the facade. “See all the peeling?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It's been five years since I last painted.”

“A new coat would clean it right up.”

“Judy says to go with white again. What do you think?” “Sounds good. Is she around?”

“She's running errands. Banking and such.” Walter faces the boy. “Buster, I don't suppose you'd be willing to give me a hand with the painting? If you're not needed elsewhere, that is.”

“Right now? Uh, I guess I'm not. Let me just talk to Don.” He walks over to the car, leans in Donny's window and speaks over the music. “Mr. Johnson needs us to help paint.”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

“Just for a couple of hours. He's a friend of my dad's. C'mon.”

“No way. You go ahead if you want. I'm on vacation.” Donny shifts the Bel Air into reverse and Buster steps away from it. “I'll swing by later, see if you're still here.” Donny sounds the horn and waves as he drives off.

“Well I don't like it one bit, Walter,” whispers Hazel moments later when she notices Buster outside, mixing a can of primer with a stick. “I don't care if it is a help. Haven't you heard a word I've said?”

“It'd be hard not to, dear.” Walter rifles under the counter for his paint gloves.

“He could be the bandit. He could be the very one we're after and now you've got him out front for the whole world to see.”

“That's right. I do.” Walter grabs his gloves, stuffs them into the pocket of his overalls, lifts the ladder and slips out the door with it. “All set, Buster.” He leans the ladder up against the wall. “You've already got a screwdriver to pry up the lids. Your brushes are right there, small one's for trim. I found you a pair of my gloves. Might be a bit big. If you need more paint just let me know, but two gallons of each should more than do it. Try and keep a path clear for customers. Whatever you don't get done, not to worry. I'll finish tomorrow. You've painted outdoors before, I take it?”

“Yes sir.”

“All right then. Let's show this village what an industrious young man you are.”

“
D
ON'T FALL.”
Jelly Bean looks up at Buster on the top rung of the ladder with a gallon of primer in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. He sets the brush across the rim of the paint can and takes a careful step down.

“Here I am, at your service.” He tips his hat, smudging white paint on it, and she smiles broadly.

“Nice job so far.” She walks around the ladder and leans up against a part of the wall that hasn't been painted.

“Your dad said you were at the bank. Does that mean you're carrying a knife today?”

She flashes him the knife. The sun catches the metal and blinds him momentarily.

“Cool.”

“Mind if I hang out awhile?”

“It's your store.” Buster steps up, lifts the brush and makes a long, fluid vertical stroke.

“You should really be painting the other way.” Jelly Bean shows him what she means with a sweeping gesture. “Go with the panels.”

“This isn't a masterpiece.”

“I know.” She moves to the end of the porch, where she sees people crossing the street. Gladys Peacock passes before the store with a large bag of groceries.

“Well what's this I see?” She stops. “Hello Jelly Bean. Hello Buster.”

“Hi Mrs. Peacock,” they double.

“Buster, it does my heart good to see community improvements like this.”

“Mr. Johnson just needed a hand and—”

“Never mind false modesty.” She shifts the weight of her grocery bag onto the other hip. “Lovely job. Bye now.”

Jelly Bean giggles and then sees her mother standing in the doorway wiping her brow on the back of her arm.

“Judy, are you distracting Buster from his work?”

“Mrs. Peacock was by, that's all.”

Hazel bustles around to have a better look at the facade. “That is much better already, Buster.” She waves her hand. “All right, Jelly Bean. Inside with you.”

A
FTER THE HARDWARE STORE
has been given a new face, after it closes and Donny has driven Buster home, the bandit crouches in the dark behind the bank. He cannot be seen from either Main Street or from the apartment above. He works fast surveying the property, measuring the window with his eyes and examining the rear door handle. He could jimmy it but that would make too much noise. He crawls between the red brick wall and the bushes and dirties his clothes. He doesn't care. His only concern is for what lies inside—stacks of crisp bills, coins to weigh in his pockets like freedom. His mouth waters and he stands. A light comes on in the window upstairs and he immediately flattens against the wall, the windowsill digging into his kidneys. He holds his breath. After a moment the room above goes dark again, and Mr. Claxton, the banker, moves off and the stranger slips away. He'll wait for another day when the stakes are high and he can really test his mettle. He will wait for the sesquicentennial.