No Beast So Fierce (21 page)

Jerry eased me into the car and we drove away. On Sunset Boulevard, amid the exploding neon, passing the sidewalks filled with women in high skirts and men in expensive clothes, I cursed, “Cocksuckin' motherfuckin' punk bastards. We're fuckin' snakebit.”

“We'll get it together. Don't sweat it. This is just one of those things. Fuck it. Tomorrow we'll start working on something else.”

No sooner was I back in the motel than two ideas burst almost simultaneously into mind: The market Willy Darin had spoken of, and the pawn shop beside the Monticello cocktail lounge. The pawn shop would provide the arsenal and a few hundred dollars (L&L Red could sell the merchandise); the market would be worth the two thousand Jerry needed—and my end would get me an automobile, clothes, a month's rent.

I was already keyed up to commit a crime. I'd go tonight, alone, to take the pawn shop with a burglary. The trunk of Mary's car had a tire iron and a long screwdriver, all I needed to use on the wall. At 1:10 I was on my way to commit the burglary, stopping in Hollywood to buy rubber gloves at an all-night drugstore.

The parking space directly behind the barber shop's back door was empty when I pulled into the lot, lessening the distance I'd be exposed while carying the loot. I backed in, cut the motor, and finished the last of a cigar, meanwhile watching the rear entrance of the cocktail lounge. The night was quiet. Business was slow. Half-a-dozen automobiles were in the lot. Nobody came or went. Nothing stirred signals of warning.

Extinguishing the cigar butt with deliberation, I slipped on the gloves, hefted the tire iron and slipped through the shadows to the barber shop's door. A tinkle of glass—and ten seconds later I was inside, pausing motionless to see if there was any reaction to the breaking glass. All remained silent, unstirring.

It was precisely as it had looked during my earlier examination. The pawn shop's flank was soft and unprotected. I stabbed into the wall with the tire iron. The plaster was dry and soft; it fell away, pattering lightly to the floor. The sound would not escape the building. From outside came flashes of light and motor noise as automobiles went past. Every sense was keyed to anything erratic in the night's pulsations, the slightest variation, the crunch of footsteps, an automobile that sounded wrong, an unusual silence. Any of these would make me freeze and turn like a predatory animal caught in a beam of light.

I kept working. Plaster piled on the floor, scrunching underfoot. I used the screwdriver and tire iron together to snap the wooden slats behind the plaster. In fifteen minutes there was a hole large enough to crawl through. The pawn shop's storeroom was beyond and it was lighted enough to see without a flashlight. Valuables in pawn-filled bins along the wall and floor. They were gathered by item, guns together, typewriters together, and each was tagged with the name of the person who'd pawned it.

I widened the hole with my hands, breaking off sharp edges, and squeezed through head first, coming down on my hands and dropping into a crouch. Motionless, I listened for the space of a minute. The possibility always existed that there was an alarm I'd missed—or that someone (perhaps drunk) was sleeping inside.

Both the pawn shop and surrounding night remained undisturbed. My fear-stimulated heartbeat now throbbed with the pace of success. For a moment I felt misgivings, for into my thoughts came visions of the persons who owned these things. Perhaps a sentimental value was attached to something they'd been forced to pawn. It was the reason I'd never burglarized homes. Taking money, or what had monetary value alone, was impersonal, especially if it was from a source that could withstand the loss. To cause someone emotional pain was something else.

This pang quickly disappeared. The middle of a crime is no place for throbbing conscience or meditation.

My first move was to the back door, looking for hidden alarms. I found none, nor did I expect to; such things were expensive. Yet facing years of prison I could ill afford to take things for granted.

Now I unfastened the lock on the back door for an escape route, although I would remove what I was stealing through the hole in the wall. If I opened the door the alarm would ring—but if I needed to flee the ringing would make no difference. Using the hole foreclosed taking large articles, but all I really wanted was firearms. Whatever else I got would be frosting.

The light was from the pawn shop's front room, making it unnecessary to use a flashlight. I was grateful. Once I'd made entry through the roof of a liquor warehouse with the aid of a hand drill and keyhole saw. I used a flashlight and saw a twelve-foot drop into an office. I hung down and let go—and crashed through a glass roof over the office that I'd missed with the flashlight. Miraculously, only my hand was slashed, but it could just as easily have been my throat. Contrary to the advertising by the electric company, as a burglar I preferred that lights be left burning.

Now I moved to the side of the archway into the front room, kneeled beside the arch and peered around, keeping my head near the floor so no silhouette would be visible from outside the windows. Automobiles flashed by occasionally. A vintage safe stood near the front window under the light. It would have taken me thirty minutes to open it with a sledge hammer and chisels—even less with an acetylene torch. It was too heavy to move and I couldn't work in front of the window even if I had the tools. I felt like a cat staring at a canary protected by a cage.

The pistols were in the display case. I stepped back into the storeroom, dumped trash from a cardboard crate and filled it with cameras and small business machines that would fit through the hole. Half a dozen rifles and two shotguns stood together, each with a tag around the trigger guard. All the rifles were .22s, which didn't interest me except to sell—but one shotgun was a double-barrelled .12 gauge.

I pushed everything through the hole into the barber shop, then crawled through to put it in the car and return for what was in the front room. The most dangerous moment would be when I rushed out and began stripping the display case. By loading the car now I'd be able to leave immediately after the second trip—time enough to get away if someone saw me and made a telephone call.

Plaster crunched beneath my shoes. Shadows in the barber shop writhed as automobiles passed. A door slammed, followed by footsteps and the resonance of a woman's laughter. A couple was moving from the cocktail lounge to an automobile, passing me ten feet away. The man's hand stroked her rump suggestively. When they drove away, taillights blazing momentarily as they paused at the street, I slipped out through the door with an armload of rifles. In thirty seconds I was putting the box of cameras in the back seat.

Back in the barber shop's darkness, I waited to see if I'd aroused anyone. The night remained undisturbed.

Sweat dripped from my forehead and chin and I was breathing heavily as I wriggled through the hole. I'd been working hard and moving fast under pressure. Pausing to pick up the tire iron, I peered through the arch just long enough to make sure nobody was on the sidewalk in front. I moved quickly to the display case—it had a lock—and bashed in the glass, the sound exploding in the silence. In thirty seconds I'd scooped out four pistols, one a Browning .380 automatic, my favorite handgun. Pistols in hand, I remained kneeling behind the case. The front window had several musical instruments; they'd sell easily but would be too bulky, especially with the ungainly load I already had.

A row of pegs on a wall contained wristwatches, each with a tag. They were a bonus. I loaded my pockets.

Three minutes later I turned the old Plymouth through dark streets toward L&L Red's hilltop cabin. Behind me was the pillaged shop, a hole ripped in its side. Suddenly, I envisioned the pain and anger on the owner's face as he examined the crime; each moment would make him find something else missing. Remorse swelled through me—not exactly remorse but a hope that he was insured. Instantly, deliberately, I hardened myself against such feelings. I needed no justification for what I'd done, and even if I did it was easy to imagine him as a vile, penurious Shylock, a man lacking in both compassion and courage. I was able to make myself despise the man without ever seeing him. He was a squarejohn citizen, a believer in the death penalty, a coward, a dog. It was a blanket condemnation, irrational—the same as his kind had been giving me all my life.

Jerry Shue had a tool room and workshop. He locked the shotgun in a vise and sawed off both the barrel and stock, smoothed the former with a file and the latter with sandpaper. The shotgun now resembled an eighteenth-century handgun. Jerry wrapped the middle of the barrel with electrician's tape so it could be held from the top while being fired. He tacked a long thong in a loop from the handle so it could be hung from the shoulder inside a coat.

Leaving the guns behind, we drove to look at the market. Everything was like Willy said. I went up the stairs and walked into the manager's office. He looked up, startled, and I offered to sell him some shopping carts. He wasn't interested. I saw what I wanted to see: the safe was beside the door.

“How is it?” Jerry asked when I got back in the car.

“It's bear meat. If we brought the cannons we'd get him right now.”

“That good, huh?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

The getaway would be more difficult than the robbery itself. The market sat on an intersection. The street to its right side was one way, becoming a freeway on-ramp. The parking lot had wide access to this street and was the logical route. It would also be the first one covered when the alarm went out. A narrow driveway ran along the other side of the market toward the street in front, but if we went that way and turned left away from the market's face we'd be in a shopping mall two blocks away, a maze of one-way streets and streets where automobiles were not allowed. If we came down the driveway and turned right, we'd pass right before the market's front window—and we'd have to pause for a stop sign outside the main entrance; then we'd pass beneath the freeway to another stop sign. Yet just beyond the second stop was a residential street to the right (easier to turn into than a left turn, which was important on a getaway) and half a mile later we would turn onto Mary Gambesi's street a block from her driveway. We'd disappear down the driveway. We'd use Mary's car with stolen license plates taped over those that belonged to the car. Jerry's station wagon could be at the curb in front. We'd visit Mary, return her car, count the money, and stay out of sight until the noon rush.

We drove the route, pausing for both stop signs, obeying all traffic laws. It would take four minutes to be at our destination. With the manager bound and gagged we'd undoubtedly be drinking coffee in Mary's kitchen before the call went over the police radios.

“How's tomorrow?” Jerry asked.

“I'm ready.”

We were speeding back toward Los Angeles. We detoured to see L&L Red, but the cabin was unoccupied. He was probably off selling the pawn shop loot.

“Leave me at the motel,” I said.

“Don't worry about Carol. She digs you.”

“Naw, fuck it. Let's not rub salt in the wound. It's better if I keep away from her for a few days.”

“I'll pick you up about 9:00 tomorrow. It's better if we rip when the traffic's lightest.”

“Get some extra ammunition.”

“We can get it on the way out there.”

Sunday afternoon and evening were a blank canvas to be painted with whatever design attracted me. Every previous moment since leaping from Rosenthal's automobile—even those drinking with Red or in Abe's club—I'd been under a storm of pressure. Today the sea was calm, the eye of the storm. Until tomorrow morning there was nothing to do but wait. Staying alone in the motel was a distasteful prospect, and so was the idea of finding some criminals. They'd soothe my lone-liness, but I wanted something restful.

I drove to a gas station near Hollywood Boulevard and left the car for an oil change and checkup. It would never get us away in a chase, but I wanted to be sure it didn't conk out as we drove away from the parking lot.

For lack of anything else to do, I spent an hour roaming along the boulevard, watching the youths in their bizarre costumes—sandals and long hair and feathered hats and beads. Abe's club was a few blocks away, but I preferred to stroll in the yellow sunlight. When I reached the end of tall buildings and crowds, I hailed a taxi and went to the new art museum, a serene place to spend an autumn afternoon. I looked at the people as much as I looked at the paintings, deriving pleasure from their intense seriousness about culture. I was not cynical. My general feeling was benign, even tender. It was unusual for me to be compassionate, except to individuals close to me. My usual view is a search for their weakness, for prey, as enemies, though not necessarily hated enemies; the lion doesn't hate the gazelle; he is indifferent to him. Today I liked them because of their foibles, and my gentle mood was comfortable.

In late afternoon I took another taxi, this time to a Wilshire Boulevard restaurant in Beverly Hills. Frascati's is acclaimed for its Belgian cuisine, but that isn't why I selected it (after being raised in prison my qualifications as a gourmet are restricted to beans). This restaurant had a tree-shaded patio separated from the boulevard by a low wall, but one could sit and eat and look out. It was something I'd always enjoyed.

Next I went for a leisurely trek through the Beverly Hills business and shopping district. I would have liked to walk through the palatial residential streets, but pedestrians are unheard of in such environs, and they are routinely stopped and questioned by the police. All drifters, much less those with a criminal background, are summarily arrested and given thirty days for vagrancy.

On Wilshire and Beverly Drive, in the business section, I was at the hub of Southern California's jewelry business—good jewelry, I mean. The immediate area had several exclusive jeweler's: Van Cleef & Arpels, Tiffany & Co., Raymond & Co., among others. Raymond had been ripped, I remembered, for $250,000 in a daring robbery. I walked south from Wilshire on Beverly Drive, looking in the windows. They were empty, so were the display cases, but through the glass could be seen the plush carpets, the elegant cut-glass chandeliers, the cases with special locks, and the vault doors of shining steel.