The Score: A Parker Novel (10 page)

P
aulus sat on the floor in the back of the truck, and fidgeted. It was pitch black in the truck, nothing to see, nothing to do. Paulus liked to be able to observe what was going on, to see symmetry in the motion around him, and to see whether or not things were going right. Sitting here in the truck, in darkness, while actions important to him were going on outside, was torture.

From time to time, Wycza's walkie-talkie spoke out in Parker's voice, saying where they were, what they'd done. That they'd ruined the equipment in the radio station. A little later, that they'd captured the guard on the west gate. Just the bare facts, unadorned.

It wasn't enough. Paulus wanted to be able to
see.
He wanted to look at the radio station equipment and
know
it was no longer workable. He wanted to see the guard, find out his name, watch his reactions, gauge the possible danger he
might be in during the course of the night. He wanted to know precisely the situation at the telephone company, the firehouse, the police station. He wanted to see exactly where Salsa was stationed near the town line. He wanted to have a clipboard, and a list, and a pencil with which to check off completed items satisfactorily handled. He wanted to see symmetry and balance and precision.

A match flared; Wycza lighting a stub of cigar. In the small light, Paulus again saw the plank floor and metal side of the truck, saw Wycza and Wiss and Elkins sitting, like himself, on the floor, saw his own sturdy suitcase full of tools and the weatherbeaten black bag—like a doctor's bag—in which Wiss kept his equipment. He looked at his watch, but he wasn't fast enough; Wycza blew out the match.

He shook his head in annoyance. It was important to know the time, know whether or not they were keeping to the schedule. He reached for his own matches.

But a clinging self-consciousness wouldn't let him light a match just to see his watch; he didn't want the others to know he felt that strongly about knowing the time. So he got out his cigarettes, too, though he didn't particularly want a cigarette. He struck the match, lit the cigarette, and kept the match aflame till he'd read his watch.

Twelve thirty-five.

Not too bad. He'd be in at the bank vault well before one. He shook the match out, and sat holding the cigarette, not smoking it.

The walkie-talkie spoke again: “Got the east gate. Going into the main office now. You can get started, W.”

They had to use the initials because of Grofield. He was at the telephone company, with one of the walkie-talkies, and the women there could hear everything it said. It was Paulus who'd suggested the initials.

Wycza was saying, “Okay. You gonna patrol now?”

“After we get the main office.”

“Check.”

Paulus clambered to his feet, felt around in the dark, and picked up his suitcase. He moved toward the rear of the truck, and before he got there Elkins pushed the door open and jumped down to the street. Elkins reached up and took the black bag from Wiss, and Wiss clambered down more carefully. Paulus waited for Wycza, and as Wycza passed said, “You go first, I'll hand you my suitcase.”

“Sure.”

Being the last out, Paulus was careful to close the truck doors again. He took the suitcase back from Wycza and stepped up on the sidewalk. Wiss and Elkins had already started across the street.

Directly ahead of Paulus was the Merchants' Bank building, with the offices of Nationwide Finance & Loan Corporation on the second floor. The building was modernistic, made mostly of glass and chrome. Even the doors were mainly glass.

Paulus set his suitcase down near the doors and waited for Wycza to let him in. Wycza got his revolver from its shoulder holster, and used the butt to break the door glass. There
were quieter, more scientific ways to do it, but they weren't worried about noise here, and the scientific ways were all slower. Wycza reached through, unlocked the doors from the inside, and pushed them open.

Paulus followed him inside. Wycza had put his revolver away now and taken out a flashlight. The narrow beam showed wood-paneled counters with marble tops, and cream composition flooring, and a free-form copper bas-relief sprawled out on one wall. The vault door was in plain sight on the rear wall, huge and round and complex, looking like an escape hatch on a spaceship or the entrance to a torpedo tube in a submarine.

After the front door, there were no more obstacles to the vault, no doors to unlock or gates to jimmy. They lifted a flap at the end of the counter, walked through the loan department, took a left around a railing, and there was the vault door in front of them. Desks and railings and countertops hid them almost completely from the street.

While Wycza held the flashlight, Paulus studied the vault door. He nodded in recognition of the type, walked back and forth to consider it from various angles, and rubbed the knuckles of his hands together as he thought it out. Drill four holes, load, blast. He pursed his lips, and nodded. Now he was absorbed, completely absorbed.

Wycza said, “Any problems?”

“I don't think so. Shine the light here a minute.”

He knelt and opened the suitcase, got the drill, selected a bit, changed his mind and selected another. He looked around and said, “Find me an outlet.”

“Over here.”

“Am I going to need the extension?”

“No,” Wycza laughed. “Handy, huh? The architect had you in mind.”

“Good of him.” Paulus carried the drill over to the vault, went down on one knee. “Hold the light steady, now.”

The drill began to whine.

H
e'd missed the curfew.

His name was Eddie Wheeler, he was nineteen years old, he worked at Brooks' Pharmacy, and he was now in the Campbell house, having been engaged in premarital intercourse with Betty Campbell, whose parents were visiting relatives all this week in Bismarck.

He'd fallen asleep, entwined in Betty's arms.

“It's one o'clock,” he whispered. There wasn't any need to whisper—he and Betty were the only ones in the house—but he whispered anyway. For the same lack of reason, they hadn't turned on any lights, but depended on the illumination coming faintly through the window from a streetlight outside.

“What are you going to do?” Betty was half sitting, half lying on the bed, holding a sheet up to her throat.

Eddie felt around on the floor for his other shoe. “What can I do? I've got to get home.”

“Stay here tonight.”

“And what do I tell my folks? Where do I say I spent all night?”

“But what if the police catch you?”

“What can they do to me?” He found the other shoe, put it on, tied the laces. “They'll just give me a warning, that's all.”

“It's my fault, Eddie, I shouldn't have gone to sleep.”

“We
both
went to sleep.” He got to his feet. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Wait, I'll walk you downstairs.”

“No, stay there, go back to sleep.”

“I've got to lock the door anyway.”

He was concentrating so hard on getting away, slipping across town to his own house without being caught by the police, that he barely paid attention to her when she got out of bed, slim and pale and naked as a nymph, and quickly shrugged into a bathrobe. Almost six months they'd been sleeping together now, and she still got into a robe anytime she got out of bed, still covered herself with a sheet before and after, still made him turn his back while she undressed and got into bed. It was silly, but there it was. And it was a small price to pay.

Six months, and this was the first time anything had distracted him from staring at any rare glimpse of her she offered. The goddam curfew.

They went down the carpeted stairs together, she barefoot, and over to the front door. His heart was pounding, he felt
like a desperado. He opened the door a little and peeked out, and saw no cars moving, no people at all. ‘Til call you tomorrow,’ he whispered.

“Kiss me good night, Eddie.”

“Oh. I forgot.”

She was soft and warm from bed, and he forgot his nervousness for a few seconds, caught up in the sense of her. But the breeze from the slightly open door was cool on the back of his neck, reminding him, and he was the first to break the kiss. He told her again he'd call her tomorrow. Her robe had parted, and her breasts were pale and full and soft, but he turned away and sidled out onto the porch. They whispered good night to each other, and she closed the door. He heard the snick of the lock.

Nothing moving. Orange Street was dark and silent. A block and a half away, Raymond Avenue was a bit brighter, but just as silent. It was after one o'clock in the morning.

Which would they patrol most, Raymond Avenue or the side streets? Raymond Avenue was so brightly lit, a curfew-breaker might tend to keep away from it; wouldn't the police think of that? They'd patrol the side streets most, wouldn't they? And just cross Raymond Avenue from time to time, going from one side of town to the other?

All right. So he'd go straight to Raymond Avenue, and down Raymond to Blake Street, and then over Blake Street the two blocks to his house. On Orange and Blake, he could duck into a driveway if he saw headlights. On Raymond, he could hide in a store doorway.

Reluctantly, he left the protection of the porch, went down to the sidewalk, and turned right. He walked along quickly, his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pants pockets. He kept looking back over his shoulder, but he didn't see any headlights.

Raymond Avenue. He turned left. He went half a block, and out of the corner of his eye he saw something wrong.

Broken glass.

The bank door was broken.

He stopped in his tracks, forgetting everything else, and stared at the broken glass of the bank door. Parked here was a big brown tractor trailer, but nobody in or near it. But in the bank …

He went over to the glass front and peered in. There was a light back there, he could just barely make it out. And a man standing there.

Bank robbers!

He took three quick steps, beyond the bank's glass front. Had they seen him? He didn't think so. No, they would have come after him. Bank robbers, and that must be their truck.

What in hell was he going to do? He stared around wildly, and two blocks farther down, at the corner of Whittier Street, he could see the telephone booth. There was a phone booth right on the corner there, he'd used it himself a few times. He could go there and phone police headquarters.

Where was the police car? A minute ago he'd been grateful for its absence, but now he felt indignant that it wasn't here. That was the police for you, never around when you
wanted them. If there weren't any bank robbers, the police car would be right here this second, the cops giving him a bad time for being out after curfew.

Did he dare phone in? He was still breaking the law himself.

Don't be silly. Giving the warning about a bank robbery would make up for being out late. They wouldn't even mention it.

He started off again, this time going at a trot, hurrying down the two blocks to Whittier Street, looking down the cross streets in hopes of seeing the headlights of the police car, but seeing nothing. At the phone booth, he paused to catch his breath and to find a dime, and then he stepped into the booth and closed the door. It was a glass-and-metal booth, mostly windows, and when he closed the door the light came on. Startled, he snapped the door open again, and the light went off. That was all he needed, the light on, so the robbers could see him making the call.

He did it the simplest way. Dropped the dime in, dialed Operator, and when the girl came on said, “Police headquarters, please. This is an emergency.”

“Yes, sir.”

It seemed like a pretty long pause, but finally he heard a ringing sound, and then a male voice said, “Police headquarters, Officer Nieman.”

“I …” He didn't know how to phrase it. He cleared his throat, and blurted it out: “There's a bank robbery going on! The Merchants' Bank.”

“What? Who are you?”

“Eddie Wheeler. They broke the door, and they're back by the vault.”

“What are you doing out at this time of night?”

“For Pete's sake, will you listen to me? There's a—”

It was like a crack of thunder, the sudden sound, not too far away. Eddie looked up, startled, knowing they'd blown open the vault door. “They just blew up the vault!”

A different voice answered him. “Where are you?”

“I'm in the phone booth at Raymond and Whittier.”

“Stay there, the prowl car will be right there.”

“All right.”

The connection was broken.

Even with the light off, Eddie felt exposed, in the glass phone booth. He stepped out, and went over to lean against the side of the nearest building, Komray's Department Store. He stared down toward the bank, waiting and watching, wondering what was keeping the police.

The prowl car, when it arrived, came without siren or flashing red light. It seemed to roll along leisurely, and then it stopped at the curb by the phone booth. Eddie stepped toward it, away from the wall, and saw the driver getting out. “They're down at the Merch—”

The driver was wearing a hood.

Eddie just stared at him. The driver came around the front of the car, and he was holding a pistol aimed right at Eddie's stomach. He said, “You ought to know better than to be out after curfew, Eddie.”

“You're one of them!”

“Walk down Whittier, Eddie. Ahead of me. Do like you're told and you won't get hurt.”

Eddie turned, and started walking. He didn't believe it, didn't believe that he wouldn't get hurt. He was going to be murdered, he knew it.

He thought of Betty's breasts, gleaming behind the robe. He thought of her asking him to stay the night. He thought of sex with her, thought of the glimpses of her body.

Why didn't I stay?

“Turn right, Eddie.”

It was the loading dock behind the department store. God, it was dark back there! Eddie hesitated, and the hooded man said, “I don't want to kill you, Eddie. I got nothing against you. I'm going to tie you and gag you, and early in the morning somebody'll find you here, safe and sound. But if you try anything cute, I'll have to cut you down.”

Eddie swallowed, painfully.

“Why you out after curfew anyway, Eddie?”

“I wish I knew.”

He walked into the darkness.