Going in Style (22 page)

“You look like one of them Arab sheiks,” said Joe. “A chintzy one, of course. The real biggies would be lyin’ next to a pile
of gold.”

Al winced as he shifted position. One side of his face seemed strangely slack. “The real biggies have girls in veils massaging
their tootsies. And they lay in pools of oil.”

“Well, maybe that’s next,” said Joe. “There’s no stoppin’ us now, you know. It’s like they say: Money comes to money. The
sky’s the limit.”

Al grunted. “Jesus, I feel like I’ve been beat up.”

Joe’s voice was dreamy. “You were great back there, Al. The best.”

“I had a good time. I was lucky, and I took advantage of it.”

“I betcha them guys never saw nobody roll like that before.”

Al forced a smile. “You weren’t doin’ too bad yourself, kid.”

“Ah, I did nothin’. The whole thing is how you throw the dice. That takes the talent, the rest is mechanical.”

“Never mind,” said Al. “Movin’ those chips around is what got us all that money. Mechanical, my ass. That takes smarts. I
could study that game for a million years and still not know the right way to play.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Joe. “On our next gamblin’ outing, you’ll do the betting and I’ll roll. Maybe we’ll try Monte
Carlo, or the French Riviera. Or—hey!—how do the Bahamas strike you?”

“I need sleep,” said Al.

Joe nodded. “Funny, it’s like we’ve lived two lives. One before the robbery and one after.”

Al’s eyes were closing. “I think I like the one after better.”

“Me, too.” Joe’s own lids were drooping. “Me, too.”

When Joe shook himself awake, it was dark outside. A blue light shone eerily into the bedroom. Al was still asleep next to
the pile of money. Joe padded slowly into the kitchen. Damn, he thought. I’m missing entire days and nights out of my life,
and not keeping track of where they’re going. He turned on the radio, put a teapot full of water on the stove, then went into
the bathroom to rinse his face. The splash of coldness refreshed him. He toweled himself off, then returned to the kitchen,
where the tea
pot was already whistling. He poured hot water into two cups and dunked a teabag in one until the liquid was a deep yellow-brown.
He was about to transfer the bag when he stopped. Nuts to that, he thought. That was what poor people did. He removed a fresh
teabag from the box and put it into the second cup.
That’s
how we live from now on, he thought.

A voice on the radio caught his attention. “Last Thursday’s senior citizen robbery of the Union Marine Bank still seems to
be capturing everyone’s interest,” said the announcer. “Although the FBI is maintaining its traditional silence, a spokesman
for the Police Department said today that new developments in the case would be breaking shortly, due to the abundance of
traceable clues left behind.”

“What?” Joe positioned himself directly opposite the radio. “What clues? You ain’t got no clues.”

“Inspector Edward McClusky,” the announcer went on, “has characterized the robbers as, quote, a careless group of amateurs,
unquote, and promised the investigation would quickly lead to indictments.”

“Indictments!” Joe shouted. “You don’t even know who the hell we are or where we went.” He turned the dial abruptly to a different
station. “Stupid asses,” he muttered.

He took the two cups of tea and carried them into Al’s bedroom. “Al,” he said firmly. “Wake up. Come on, kid, you been alseep
for ten hours now, that should be plenty.” He set one of the cups down on the night table and switched on the light. “Damn
FBI,” he continued. “I can’t believe it. After all we done, they still call us a bunch of amateurs.”

He sat down and sipped his tea, waiting for Al
to awaken. “I suppose you gotta knock off a bank every other week in order to get some respect from those jerks.” He shook
his head. “Hey, Al, come on.”

Al remained motionless. His mouth was agape, his body rigid.

“Al, your tea’s gonna get cold.”

A heaviness began to spread through Joe’s chest. “If you keep sleeping,” he said hesitantly, “your whole schedule will get
all turned around.” He forced himself to take another sip of tea. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

Joe rose, his jaws tightening until he thought the muscles would burst. “Al?” He approached the bed and reached out to touch
his friend’s shoulder. “Al, come on now.”

Still no movement.

“Come on now, wake up!
Wake up!
WAKE UP! YOU HEAR ME? WAKE UP!” Joe felt his throat constrict from the effort of his shouting. He bent and placed his ear
to Al’s chest. He could hear nothing. He probed without success for a pulse in Al’s wrist, then his temple. There was no sign
of respiration, no rise and fall of the rib cage.

Joe felt his own head become light; it seemed to detach itself and float away. He stumbled back to the chair and cradled his
forehead in one gnarled hand.

“It’s just not fair,” he said aloud. “I mean, what’s going on here? Everytime I turn my back, one of you guys is dropping
dead on me.”

He watched Al for a long time, perhaps as much as a half hour. Then he leaned forward and pulled the cover over his friend’s
head.

After two more cups of tea, Joe felt he’d regained sufficient composure. Life had to go on. No sense losing everything they’d
worked for. Besides, he had both Willie
and
Al looking down and watching him now. If he screwed up, there’d be hell to pay when it came time to join them.

Joe collected all the money from Al’s bed and put it in a paper shopping bag. Then he called Ryan’s Funeral Home and told
them about Al. Ryan was more expensive than Bender, but at least he’d spare you the crap about his father being buried in
cherrywood. A Mr. Longwood answered the phone, and explained that Ryan had gone home for the night.

“My friend is dead,” said Joe. “Does that mean I gotta wait for tomorrow before someone picks up the body?”

“No, no, not at all,” said Longwood. “Just give me the address, we’ll send a man over.”

Joe gave him the address.

“You’ll have the doctor there with the death certificate?” Longwood asked.

Joe was taken aback. “Uh, no, there is no… Well, I mean, a doctor hasn’t seen him.”

“You gotta have a doctor,” said Longwood.

“Well, we don’t use anyone steady,” said Joe. “And besides, who’s gonna come to the house?”

“I’ll arrange something,” said Longwood. “We have some medical people who work with us.”

An hour later, three men knocked on Joe’s door. Two of them were curly-haired and Italian-looking; the third was tiny, bald,
and abrupt. “Dr. Feigenbaum,” he said briskly, offering Joe a limp hand. “Where’s the deceased?”

“Inside,” said Joe.

They all walked into Al’s bedroom. Feigenbaum pulled a stethoscope from his black bag and checked various points on Al’s body.
After two minutes, he looked up. “This man is dead,” he declared crisply.

“I know that,” said Joe.

Feigenbaum withdrew a sheet of paper from his bag. “Happened about an hour ago, you say?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll put time of death at, mmm, nine-twenty-three,” said the doctor, peering at his watch before he wrote. “Cause could
be anything. Hard to tell. He have any immediate family?”

“Immediate? No,” said Joe.

Feigenbaum shrugged. “Then it doesn’t matter. We’ll put down heart failure.”

“His face was sort of saggin’ on one side before he fell asleep,” said Joe. “That mean somethin’?”

Feigenbaum shrugged. “Could be. Could be a stroke. Who knows? We’ll leave the heart failure, though. I don’t like to erase
or cross out.”

They returned to the kitchen, where Joe had to sign some papers authorizing the funeral home to remove the body. Then the
two curly-haired men brought in a stretcher and carried out Al’s remains.

“My condolences,” said Feigenbaum without feeling, at the door.

“Thanks,” said Joe. He waited five minutes after the men had left, then grabbed the shopping bag with the money and started
out.

Mrs. Flaum poked her head out the door of her apartment. “Something wrong?”

“Nope,” said Joe.

“I heard voices.”

“TV, maybe,” said Joe.

“Also footsteps.”

“Maybe someone’s following you,” said Joe.

“It wasn’t by me, the footsteps, it was by you.” She was in the hall now, an apparition in pink curlers and a shapeless housedress.
“Listen, late night visitors and wild parties are not the sort of thing we encourage here.” Her hands were on her hips.

Joe smiled sweetly. “Mrs. Flaum, go to hell!” He walked past her, ignoring her rantings and threats.

Outside, the night air was humid and absolutely still. Joe felt himself being bitten by innumerable mosquitoes as he plodded
along the darkened streets. Crazy, he thought. Absolutely crazy. Of the three, he was the oldest and the weakest, and here
they were dead, while he still kept going. God had played an elaborate joke, worked a fine irony at his expense. At age seventy-eight
he was finally rich, independent, able to grant himself any indulgence. Only what could he do? Youth was wasted on the young,
and money on the old.

When he came to the house, he hesitated a moment before the tiny, almost bare lawn, then walked down the patched concrete
path to the door. He knocked softly, and was surprised at how promptly the door was opened.

“Joe!” said Pete. “How you doin’? C’mon in.”

“Thanks.” Joe stepped inside, carrying the paper bag under one arm.

Colleen waved to him from the living room where she and Kevin were watching TV. “Hello, Joe!”

“Hiya, beautiful.” Joe turned to Pete. “Kinds late for the kids to be up, no?”

“Yeah, I suppose. But you know, it’s Kevin’s last free week before school starts, so we figured we’d give him a break. And
Colleen won’t go to sleep unless he does, so that’s that.”

“I guess kids deserve their fling like anyone else,” said Joe. “You can’t be a tyrant.”

“Well, we try to strike a balance,” said Pete. “I’m the easy one, Kath is the tough one.” He looked over Joe’s shoulder. “Al
didn’t come along?”

“No, he’s at home,” said Joe. “I just came over to talk to you about some stuff.”

“Sure, always glad to have you.” For a moment, Pete’s face tensed. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“No.”

Kathy looked in from the kitchen. “Joe… how are you?”

“Hi, Kathy. I’m fine, thanks. Yourself?”

“Oh, not bad. I’ve been trying to sew something on this old machine I have, and one of the wheels keeps falling off. My husband,
the mechanic, offered to fix it, but so far… nothing.” She grinned.

“I’ll get to it, I’ll get to it,” said Pete. “My one night off, I’ve gotta relax a little first.”

“Up to you,” said Kathy breezily. “It’s your pants I’m sewing, so if you don’t mind everyone admiring your undershorts, it’s
fine with me.”

“I don’t mind,” said Pete.

“Joe,” said Kathy, “you look kinda tired. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”

“No, thanks.” Joe changed his mind. “Yeah… on second thought, if you already got some made.”

“Kathy,
is
there any coffee made?” asked Pete.

“No, but it’ll just take a second.”

Joe nodded. “He’ll have,” said Pete.

“Fine.” Kathy returned to the kitchen.

“Is there somewhere we can go to talk alone?” Joe asked Pete.

“Sure. Come on.”

They walked down the steps to the basement, Joe holding the banister with one hand, the bag with the other.

“Years ago,” said Pete, “I was gonna put a bar down here, planned to build it myself.” He shrugged. “One of those things you
have in the back of your head, until you finally realize you’re never gonna do it.”

They sat down at a small bridge table. “Pete,” said Joe, “I want you to promise me that you’ll never say a word to anybody
about what I’m going to tell you.”

Pete grinned. “So serious, my God. What’d you do, murder somebody? Rob a bank?”

“I mean it, Pete. Nothing to nobody unless you check with me first. Unless you agree, we may as well go back upstairs.”

The grin vanished. “Yeah, okay. You have my word of honor, Joe.”

Joe leaned forward. “Just before, when you thought maybe I was kiddin’, you asked me two questions. The answer to the first—did
I murder somebody—is no.” He paused. “But the answer to the second—is yes.”

Pete’s face was uncomprehending. “You mean—”

“We robbed a bank. Me, Willie, and your uncle Al.”

Pete shook his head. “No. Hey, Joe, come on. What are you telling me here? This is crazy.”

“You heard in the news about the Union Marine Bank? How it was held up by three senior citizens?”

“Yeah, but—”

“We hired a gypsy cab in Corona. We bought disguises. We went back by subway. It couldn’t’ve gone more perfect if we’d spent
twenty years planning it instead of twenty minutes.”

Pete’s face was twisted in incredulity. “You mean—wait a minute. That was you three guys? Are you bullshitting me?”

“This is no bullshit,” said Joe.

Pete’s expression changed gradually to one of stunned acceptance. “I can’t believe it. I hear what you’re saying but—it’s
fantastic! Unreal!”