Two for the Money (13 page)

“That’s okay,” Nolan said. “It’ll most likely be a girlfriend of yours who spots the wig, right? Well, you just take her into your confidence and tell her that when you got your hair cut the guy did a bad job, really butchered it, so you decided to buy this wig and wear it till your hair grows out again.”

The girl nodded. “It’s good. It’s very good.”

“I heard you and my uncle talking,” Jon said, “about these appearance changes. Gross and I’ll be having them, too?”

“Right,” Nolan said. “In my case it’ll be powdering my hair and mustache whiter. After the robbery I’ll wash the powder out of my hair and shave off my mustache.”

“When are you going to have the time to be doing any shaving?” Grossman asked impatiently. “You’ve been talking about a quick getaway.”

“It’s simple,” Nolan said. “Standard operating procedure after a heist is usually one of two things. First, take off immediately and don’t stop running till you get where you’re going. Or second, hole up for a couple weeks some place nearby and wait till the heat’s off, then go. We’ll do neither. What we will do is get away from the bank as quick as possible and come here, taking an hour or so to make our changes. With our physical makeup different, and splitting up, we’ll have no trouble with roadblocks or cops. With an hour gone, some of that initial heat’ll be off. They’ll assume we’re either long gone or holed up.”

“That makes sense,” Grossman said, “but what’s all this ‘appearance change’ bullshit?”

“Now personally I don’t give a damn about anybody’s looks,” Nolan said. “This is only to help insure you get cash to spend, not time in jail.”

Jon broke the ice for Nolan. “I heard you saying something to Planner about hair.”

Grossman lurched forward. “Hair!”

“Hair,” Nolan said.

“Let’s get serious, old man.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“I suppose I’m to cut it off?”

“That’s right.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Grossman pounded the table with both fists. “This is the only goddamn robbery I ever heard of with a fucking dress code!”

“Settle down,” Nolan said. “I couldn’t care less about your hair, a pony tail or a butch, it’s all the same to me.”

Grossman was still upset. “I don’t get this. I don’t get this at all.”

“It’s part of the plan I’m working on,” Nolan said. “You cut it the night before the job.”

“What the fuck for?”

“We’ll get to that.”

Jon was working on his beer, which was getting warm, and trying to ignore Shelly’s leg, which was resting against his. He told himself she wasn’t doing it on purpose, and her cool features weren’t aimed his way, that was for sure; she was just sitting there innocently munching pretzels and listening. But when she did them, even listening and eating were sexy. Jon found himself almost wishing her leg was nestled against his because she wanted it there, but Nolan was talking again, and Jon had to make himself forget about that soft, warm thigh.

“Shelly,” Nolan was saying, “have the bank examiners come around since you started working at Port City Savings and Loan?”

“Hey, old man, what are you getting at?”

“Quiet, Grossman. Shelly?”

“Bank examiners? Yes, as a matter of fact, they’ve come twice. Once each month.”

“Once each month? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“This could completely wipe out all my preliminary plans. Shit. I don’t understand it, examiners usually make
the rounds
once
in a nine month period. Why so often, Shelly? Do you know why the examiners have come twice in two months?”

“I think it’s because of the changeover.”

“The what?”

“The changeover. I think it’s because of the changeover.”

“What changeover?”

Jon couldn’t believe it: Nolan was actually shook!

“The changeover,” Shelly said, “from state to federal bank.”

“Christ,” Nolan said.

“Christ good or Christ bad, Nolan?” Jon asked.

“What’s the hassle, old man?”

“Hassle?” Nolan said. He smiled.

Jon felt butterfly-stomached; he’d never seen Nolan smile like that, it was a strange smile that Jon didn’t know the meaning of.

“No hassle,” Nolan said. “More like miracle.”

Shelly was wide-eyed and wondering. “What’s going on, Nolan? What’s the big deal about changing over from state bank to federal?”

“Nothing,” Nolan said, “except it’s maybe our free pass to three quarters of a million dollars.”

“Good job, Irish,” Nolan said.

The small redheaded man leaned against the hood of the station wagon, a late-model Country Squire that looked strangely out of place in the midst of the jukebox-scattered cement floor. “He’s an artist, this friend of mine,” Irish said. “You’d never guess that wasn’t a factory paint job, would you, Nolan? It was brown and white before it was light and dark green.”

“It’s good. How much do I owe you?”

“One and a half,” Irish said.

Nolan reached in his pocket for a roll of bills and peeled off a pair of thousands. “Keep the extra for your trouble.”

“No, Nolan, that isn’t necessary . . .”

“Don’t argue with me, you wetback bastard.”

Irish grinned, ran a hand through his clump of red hair, put the money in his pocket. “Who’s arguing, gringo?”

They shook hands and Nolan climbed into the driver’s seat. Irish walked over and swung the triple-size garage door up and Nolan wheeled the car out into the alley. When Nolan had the station wagon outside the warehouse, waiting at the mouth of the alley to drive out onto the street, he rolled down the window next to him and yelled, “Irish! Thanks.”

Irish came over to the open window and said, “Whatever it is that is happening for you now, my friend, good luck and God speed.”

“You can have the God,” Nolan said. “I’ll settle for the luck.”

Nolan guided the station wagon out of the alley and up the street, going a block and a half and pulling into a hardware store parking lot where Jon was waiting in his Chevy II. Nolan got out and went over to the Chevy and joined him in the front seat.

“That didn’t take long,” Jon said.

“Couldn’t afford to let it take long,” Nolan said. “Guy that runs that place is a friend. He could get stepped on if certain parties knew he was helping me.”

“I thought this . . . what is it? Family? I thought this Family knew about what you’re doing?”

“No. Just two people in the Family know, nobody else. If some other joker in the organization should spot me and decide to take things into his own hands, he could really screw us up.”

“What would those other two guys in the Family think if something happened to you like that?”

“They wouldn’t lose sleep.”

“Oh.” Jon cleared his throat. “Well. That sure looks like a nice car.”

“Yeah. You’ll like it, kid. It’s got a secret compartment and everything. Just like in the comics.”

“The Batmobile.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. You going back to the farmhouse now, Nolan? Going to follow me there in the station wagon or what?”

“No, I think I’ll stay here in Davenport for a few hours and check up on our friend Grossman. See if our little talk last night sank in.”

“I really don’t think you need to, Nolan.”

“I really think I do. Can you lead me to that head shop you were telling me about?”

Jon shrugged. “Suppose so.”

Nolan returned to the Country Squire and followed Jon out of the lot. The little Chevy continued straight ahead on the same street, which a block later began a sudden angling upward, rapidly turning into a steep hill. Another four blocks up the hill, the Chevy II turned left and continued three more blocks, finally pulling into an open spot across the way from a one-story sagging building.

The building was covered in yellow pasteboard brick, and the front window had a stained-glass sign in it saying INNER LIGHTS. Painted on the window in black block letters were the words BOOKS, RECORDS, PARAPHERNALIA. The head shop was one of the lesser structures in what was obviously a low-income neighborhood, and the only commercial building in sight, though Nolan had noticed a grocery store and an upholstery shop the block before.

Nolan pulled in behind Jon and waited while the boy got out and came over to his window.

“That’s it, Nolan. But I don’t think you’ll find anybody there today, let alone Grossman.”

“Where’s his apartment?”

“Three doors down, on the right.”

“That white double-story with the busted porch swing?”

“That’s the one, the real crummy-looking one. Top floor, number two.”

“Okay. You go on back to the farmhouse and watch television or something. I’ll be back later tonight.”

“Okay.”

Nolan sat back and waited for Jon to drive away. He lit a cigarette.

Today was Sunday, but it hadn’t been much of a day of rest for Nolan and Jon, even though they had slept till noon. After a Sunday spread of frozen chicken dinners and Schlitz, Nolan had taken Jon out behind the farmhouse and let him take potshots at a tree with one of the Smith and Wesson .38s, to get him familiar with a handgun and create a few sounds to satisfy anybody who might wonder why the father and son duck-hunting team wasn’t making any noise. Then Nolan took Jon inside and made him study the map of townships that fell between the farmhouse and the Illinois half of the Quad Cities. Nolan had gotten the map at the Port City Farm Extension office the same day he’d gone to see the real estate agent about the farmhouse, and it included all the county and country roads in the area, which a regular roadmap would lack. Even each and every farm between there and the Quad Cities was marked, including the one they were on. When the boy appeared to have memorized the entire route Nolan had drawn on the map, Nolan took him out to the car and let him have a try at driving the newly memorized route, for practice. Besides, Nolan was due at Irish’s warehouse in Davenport at six to pick up the station wagon.

“Why are we going to the Quad Cities?” Jon had asked.

“To pick up the station wagon.”

“No, I mean, why are we going there after the robbery? I figure that’s what you’re going to have us do, if you want me to memorize a route there.”

“Once we’ve headed into Illinois, no one will expect us to cross back into Iowa, which is what we’ll do at the Quad
Cities. Nobody’ll be looking for us in Iowa. Not hard, anyway. You’ll drop me off at a place in Davenport, then you’ll take Interstate 80 home to Iowa City. Planner will help you with the money.”

On the trip up Nolan and Jon didn’t speak much, because Nolan was still very occupied with working out details and Jon was struggling with his memory to decipher the maze of country roads. Nolan knew Jon was wondering about the plan, which hadn’t been completely revealed to any of the three, a fact which had pissed off Grossman the night before. But then, what didn’t piss Grossman off?

As they entered the Cities, it had occurred to Nolan to ask Jon where exactly Grossman was staying in Davenport, and the answer surprised him.

“Up by the head shop,” Jon had told him.

“The what?”

“The head shop. It’s up on the hill, in sort of a black section. Couple of colleges are up there close by, and a lot of the college kids, the freaky ones especially, go over there and hang around.”

“You said head shop? Like in dope?”

“Yeah, they been busted a few times, but all that was before Gross moved in. The guys who run the place got picked up for possession, too, but the charges were dropped. This was months ago. It was in the papers.”

“Christ. What does that goddamn Grossman use for brains.”

“He won’t be hanging around there anymore, Nolan, not after the lecture you laid on him last night.”

Nolan got out of the station wagon and crossed the street, which was almost devoid of traffic, a mere two cars passing by during his five-minute think in the car. The neighborhood was nearly soundless, too, except for the squealings of a handful of little black kids playing with a beat-up three-wheeled red wagon on the sidewalk, and the muffled blaring of a TV set down the block a house or two.

Nolan walked behind the bookstore and found a storm door, locked, and behind its glass windows was a wood door with a “No Nukes” bumper sticker on it at a slant.

He knocked.

He knocked some more.

The wood door eased part-way open and half a face with one heavy-lidded eye stared through the glass at Nolan. “Who are you, man?” His voice coming from behind the glass had a sort of underwater sound.

“Friend of Gross.”

“You look a little straight for that.”

“Maybe I’m his parole officer.”

“Gross is kind of busy right now.”

“Let me in and I’ll wait. I’ll find something to do. I could buy a book or something.” Nolan got out a twenty and held it up for the guy to see.

“Well. Okay, man, I guess you can come in.”

“Thanks.”

“But you stay in the doorway, till I get Gross roused up so he can take a look at you and see if he knows you or not.”

The guy let Nolan in. He was no kid, thirty if a day, short, pock-marked, greasy shoulder-length hair thinning on top. His tee-shirt commemorated the 10th anniversary of Woodstock.

The room was dark. The air hung with the smell of pot. Nolan put the twenty back in his pocket; he unbuttoned his coat. Somebody pulled the string on the overhead hanging light and Nolan took in the whole room in a glance. Half a dozen young bodies were squeezed into the cubby hole, sitting, crouching, reclining on the blanket-spread floor. A couple of rock group posters peeked out from behind boxes lining the walls.

“You know this guy, Gross?” the aging, balding hippie asked.

Before an answer came from Grossman, who wasn’t yet in sight, Nolan opened his coat and let everybody look at
the .38 bolstered under his left arm.

There were no screams or outbursts, not even an “Oh, shit!” Mainly just a caught-with-their-pants-down-and-don’t-give-a-damn look on all the faces. Nolan couldn’t help but let out a short laugh: either they were so stoned they didn’t care about being busted, or they were just good and used to it.

The balding guy said, to the others in the room, “He didn’t have a warrant, so don’t sweat it.” To Nolan he said: “If this is a rip, you might as well know we got nothing harder than pot here, and not much of that.”