Bank Shot (15 page)

‘We need light in here!' Dresner shouted. ‘Who's got a flashlight?'

‘Get them Venetian blinds up!' Morrison yelled.

‘I have a flashlight!' Garfield shouted, and a spot of white light showed, though the confusion it revealed wasn't much more informative than darkness. Then the light swooped down and away, and Garfield shouted, ‘I dropped the god-dam thing!' Mulligan watched its progression, the bouncing white light, and if there'd been words under it they could have sung along. It seemed to be headed his way, and he braced himself to make a grab for it, but before it got to him it suddenly disappeared. Went out, or something.

However, a few seconds later somebody at last got a venetian blind opened, and it was possible at last to see, in the illumination of streetlights whipping by outside. Intervals of darkness and light succeeded one another at great speed, like a flickering silent movie, but it gave light enough for Mulligan to crawl on all fours through the scattered furniture and sprawled guards and rolling nickels over to the tellers' counter. He crawled up that and thus reached his feet. Feet braced wide, both arms stretched out across the counter and fingers gripping the inner edge, he looked around at the shambles.

Down to his left, Fenton was also clinging to the counter, in the angle where it made a turn to go past the courtesy desk. Sitting on the floor with his back to the courtesy desk and his hands braced to both sides was Morrison, wincing at every bump. Across the way, clutching the neck-high windowsill where the venetian blind was up, hung Dresner, trying to make some sense out of the night scenes flashing past the window.

What about the other direction? Block and Garfield were in a tight embrace in the corner where the counter – with the safe past it – met the wall of the trailer; sitting there, locked together, half buried under furniture and debris since the general trend of everything loose was to head toward the rear of the trailer, they looked mostly like a high-school couple on a hayride.

And where was Fox? Fenton must have wondered the same thing, because he suddenly yelled, ‘Fox! Where'd you get to!'

‘I'm here!'

It was Fox's voice all right, but where was Fox? Mulligan gaped around, and so did everybody else.

And then Fox appeared. His head emerged above the counter, down by the safe. He was on the
other side
of the counter. Hanging there, he looked seasick. ‘Here I am,' he called.

Fenton saw him, too, since he yelled, ‘How in God's name did you get in
there
?'

‘I just don't know,' Fox said. ‘I just don't know.'

Block and Garfield were now coming back toward the middle space, both traveling on all fours. They looked like fathers who didn't yet realise their sons had grown bored with piggyback and gone away. Garfield paused in front of Fenton, hunkered back, looked up like the dog on the old Victrola record labels, and said, ‘Shall we try to break out the door?'

‘What, leave?' Fenton looked enraged, as though somebody had suggested they surrender the fort to the Indians. ‘They may have the bank,' he said, ‘but they don't have the money!' He let go with one arm to gesture dramatically at the safe. Unfortunately, the bank made a right turn at the same instant and Fenton suddenly ran across the floor and tackled Dresner, over at the window. The two of them went crashing, and Block and Garfield rolled into them.

Turning his head to the left, Mulligan, who had retained his grip on the counter, saw Morrison still sitting on the floor against the courtesy desk and still wincing. Turning his head to the right, he saw that Fox's head was no longer on top of the counter, nor anywhere else in view. He nodded, having expected as much.

From the scramble across the way, Fenton's voice rose: ‘Get off me, you men! Get off me, I say! That's a direct order!'

Mulligan, his chest against the counter, looked over his shoulder at the rest.

An awful lot of legs were flailing over there, and they still hadn't sorted themselves out when suddenly the flickering light stopped, and they were in darkness again.

‘Now what?' Fenton wailed, his voice muffled as though somebody possibly had their elbow in his mouth.

‘We're not in the city any more,' Morrison shouted. ‘We're in the country. No streetlights.'

‘Get
off
me!'

For some reason it all seemed quieter in the dark, though just as bouncy and chaotic. Mulligan clung to the counter like Ishmael, and in the darkness they eventually sorted themselves out across the way. Finally Fenton, panting, said, ‘All right. Everybody present?' He then called the role, and each of the six pantingly answered to his name – even Fox, though faintly.

‘All right,' Fenton said again. ‘Sooner or later they're going to have to stop. They're going to want to get in here. Now, they may shoot the place up first, so what we have to do is all of us get in back of that counter. Try to keep a desk or some other piece of furniture between you and any outside wall. They have the bank, but they don't have the money, and as long as we're on the job they aren't going to get the money!'

It might have been an inspiring speech if it hadn't been slowed down by all the panting Fenton was doing, and if the rest of them hadn't had to hold onto the walls and one another for dear life while listening to it. Still, it did recall them all to their duties, and Mulligan heard them now crawling toward the counter, panting and bumping into things, but making progress.

Mulligan had to go by his memory of the place, since he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. Or wouldn't have been able to if it was there and not clutching the counter. As he remembered the layout, the nearest entrance through the counter was down to his right, toward the safe. He moved that way, sidling along, keeping both hands firmly on the counter edge.

He too was panting, which he could surely understand, given the exertion required simply to keep on his feet, but why should he be so sleepy? He'd been working a night shift for years; he hadn't gotten out of bed yesterday until four in the afternoon. It was ridiculous to feel sleepy. Nevertheless, it would feel very good to sit down, once he got around behind this counter. Wedge himself in next to a filing cabinet or something, relax a little. Not actually close his eyes, of course – just relax.

19

‘Calling all cars, calling all cars. Be on the lookout for a stolen bank, approximately eleven feet tall, blue and white …'

20

Dortmunder, Kelp and Murch were the only gang members present at the actual theft of the bank. Kelp, earlier that evening, had picked up a tractor-trailer cab without its trailer near the piers in the West Village section of Manhattan and had met Dortmunder and Murch with it on Queens Boulevard in Long Island City, just across the 59th Street bridge from Manhattan, shortly after midnight. Murch had done the driving after that, with Kelp sitting in the middle and Dortmunder on the right, resting his elbow on the open windowsill. Below his elbow read a company name: Elmore Trucking. The cab had North Dakota plates. Stuffed inside with them, amid their feet as they headed east out Long Island, were a twenty-five-foot coil of black rubber garden hose, several lengths of thick heavy chain and a carpenter's tool kit.

They arrived at the bank at one-fifteen and had to move a car parked in the way. They pushed it down in front of a fire hydrant and took its place and waited silently with the lights and engine off until they saw the patrol car – car nine – drive by just after one-thirty. Very quietly then they backed the cab up to the trailer and left its engine idling but lights off while they hooked the two parts together.

Which was a little complicated. The tractor cab was of the sort that fits under the front of a cargo-carrying trailer equipped only with rear wheels; that is, the cab's rear wheels normally served as the front wheels of any trailer it towed, with the front section of the trailer resting on the low flat rear section of the cab. But this particular trailer, the bank, being a mobile home instead of a cargo transporter, wasn't set up for that kind of rig, having instead a kind of modified V hitch in front, which was supposed to lock onto a ball at the rear of the towing vehicle. So Dortmunder and Kelp and Murch had to attach the two together with the loops of chain, shushing each other at every rattle and clank, squeezing links shut with the pliers from the tool kit in order to complete the loops and attach trailer to cab with four heavy circles of chain.

One end of the garden hose was then stuck into the cab's tailpipe, and while Kelp wrapped lots of black tape around the hose and that end of the pipe Dortmunder stood on the rear of the cab and shoved the other end through an air vent high in the trailer wall, so the cab exhaust would now go into the bank. More tape was used to fasten that end of the hose in place, and to keep the length of it flat against the front of the trailer all the way down, and to attach the extra coils of hose to the rear superstructure of the cab.

All of which had taken only three or four minutes. Murch and Kelp got back into the cab, Kelp carrying the tool kit, and Dortmunder made one last check before trotting around and swinging up into the cab on the right side. ‘Set,' he said.

‘I'm not gonna start slow,' Murch said. ‘We're gonna have to jerk it loose and then go like hell. So hold on.'

‘Any time,' Kelp said.

‘Now,' Murch said, threw it in first, and jumped on the accelerator with both feet.

The cab lunged forward like a dog that had backed into a hot stove. There was a grinding noise that none of them heard over the engine roar, and the bank snapped its moorings – these being the water pipe in and the sewage pipe out of the bathroom. As water spurted up from the broken city water pipe like Old Faithful geyser, the bank slid away leftward over its concrete wall, like a name card being slipped out of a slot in a door. Murch, not wanting to turn before the bank's rear wheels had cleared the concrete blocks, tore straight ahead across the side street, began to spin the steering wheel only as his front tires thumped up over the curb on the other side, and as Kelp and Dortmunder both yelled and waved their arms he angled the cab leftward so it just missed the bakery windows on the corner, drove catty-corner across the sidewalk at the intersection, thumped down off the curb again on the other side, shot out across the main street at a long angle, straightened out at last on the wrong side of the street, and took off.

Behind them, the left rear wheel of the bank had just nicked the edge of the concrete block wall, but aside from an extra bounce it caused no obvious damage, though it did loosen a couple of the screws holding the rear wheels to the bottom of the trailer. The bank followed the cab, thumping and bumping up and down over curbs, missing the bakery windows by even less than the cab because it was so much wider, and shuddered and rocked from side to side as it swept on away down the street in the cab's wake. An automatic cutoff valve had already shut down the water from the main line into this spur, and the geyser had stopped.

Murch had planned his route with the greatest care. He knew which secondary streets were wide enough to allow the bank passage, which major streets could be traveled for brief periods without the likelihood of running into traffic. He made left turns and right turns with minimum use of brakes or lower gears, and behind him the bank rocked and reeled and occasionally took corners on two wheels but never did go over. The greatest weight in the thing was the safe, which was at the back, which gave it more stability the faster Murch drove.

Kelp and Dortmunder and the tool kit, meanwhile, were all over each other. Dortmunder surfaced at last to shout, ‘
Are they on our trail?
'

Murch gave a quick look to the outside mirror. ‘Nobody back there at all,' he said, and took a left turn so hard it popped the glove-compartment door open and a package of No-Doz dropped into Kelp's lap. Kelp picked it up in trembling fingers and said, ‘Never did I need you less.'

‘
Then slow down!
' Dortmunder yelled.

‘Nothing to worry about,' Murch said. His headlights showed a pair of cars parked up ahead, opposite each other, both too far out from the curb, leaving a space that was under the circumstances very small. ‘Everything under control,' Murch said, jiggled the wheel as he went through, and simply amputated the outside mirror from the car in the right.

‘Uh,' said Kelp. He dropped the No-Doz on the floor and shut the glove compartment.

Dortmunder looked past Kelp at Murch's profile, saw how absorbed it was, and understood there was no way right now to attract Murch's attention without actually setting up a roadblock ahead of him. And that might not do it, either. ‘I trust you,' Dortmunder said, since he had no choice, and sat back in the corner to brace himself and to watch the night thunder at their windshield.

They drove for twenty minutes, mostly heading north, sometimes heading east. Generally speaking, the south shore of Long Island, which faces the Atlantic Ocean, is less prestigious than the north shore, which faces Long Island Sound, a mostly enclosed body of water protected by the island on one side and Connecticut on the other. In taking the bank from the south-shore community it had serviced so well, and in heading north with it, Murch and Dortmunder and Kelp were moving by gradual stages from smaller older houses on narrow plots of land to larger newer houses on broader plots of land. Similarly, westward, toward New York City, the houses were poorer and closer together, but eastward they were richer and farther apart. In going both east and north, Murch was giving this branch of the C. & I. Trust a literal kind of upward mobility.

They were also moving into an area where there was still undeveloped land between the towns, rather than the undifferentiated sweep of suburb that characterised the section where they'd started. After twenty minutes, they had crossed a county line and were on a deserted bit of cracked and bumpy two-lane road, with a farmer's field on the right and a stand of trees on the left. ‘This is close enough,' Murch said, and began tapping the brake. ‘God damn it,' he said.