the Onion Field (1973) (14 page)

"No, well, yes, no, not really, Greg. You see, you got me fooled. You look so different, but I can't exactly figure why you look so different. If you could maybe give me a little hint I could sure as hell tell you why you look so different."

"It's this," said Greg triumphantly, pointing to his ear. "I put a mole on my earlobe, and I stuck three little hairs on it. You see, Jim, people facing a gun will remember outstanding characteristics about the guy, and they'll all remember my mole. But after the job it'll be gone."

"That's slick, Greg," said Jimmy whistling, and holding up his glass in a toast. "I gotta hand it to you. That's slicker'n snot."

"And that's not all. You notice what else?"

"Else?"

"Well, goddamn, Jim, my appearance is completely different and you can't even see how I've done it!"

"Well, it's just the job you done, Greg. Honest. And my eyes are real poor. I should wear glasses but ..."

"The eyebrows."

"Eyebrows?"

"They're darkened and made larger. The witness'll say the guy had bushy eyebrows and a mole on his earlobe. And I got a thin pencil-line moustache here. See it?"

"Oh yeah, yeah, now I see it."

"Well those're the things they'll notice."

"Oh yeah. I get it. Right. Righteous. I get it!"

"Just one more thing, Jim," said Greg going back in the bedroom. He returned wearing a trenchcoat, a Marlboro dangling from his lips.

"I ain't lyin," Jimmy was to say later. "A trenchcoat! So now he looks like Bogart, he figures, and he's ready to go to work. You couldn't tell him though, and I didn't try neither. And I still coulda cut them loose, coulda made some excuse, even coulda weaseled out, pleadin sheer lack of guts. But I didn't. I thought, shoot, one good score could give me the stake I need. Just one job with this crazy sucker."

"Get behind the wheel, Jimmy," Greg said, and Jimmy watched him kissing Max goodbye. "We'll cruise around for a while until you get the hang of it. Billy, you sit next to Jimmy."

Then Greg sat on the far side and Jimmy started up the tired old station wagon. He hadn't driven a car in years and the clutch slipped so badly it was impossible to do more than crawl from the curb.

"I had the clutch fixed that way on purpose, Jim," Greg said turning up the collar of his trenchcoat.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, it keeps someone from speeding away from the scene of a job and drawing the heat."

"Oh yeah," Jimmy said, "that makes sense." But he later said, "It really didn't make no sense at all. To have a slippery clutch, you know what I mean? Like, he was the only guy to drive the Ford, you know? Small didn't drive, period. And since he was the only guy to drive his car he could control his own speed, you know? I figured he just didn't want me to think he had a car with a bum clutch."

"Runs pretty good when you get her in high," Small said as Jimmy pulled out onto the Harbor Freeway and kicked it up to seventy with ease.

"She's a good car," said Greg. "I picked her out with care."

"Oh yeah," said Jimmy.

After what seemed like aimless driving on the freeways and surface streets, Greg directed Jimmy to the first job of the evening.

"This is the store, Jim. I've cased this one and it's ripe." But when they pulled up in front of the large market they found it closed.

"Well, I cased it, Jim, but you know, it's after nine. All that time we wasted at the house with Billy, that's why we're late. Market probably closes at nine. In fact, I'm sure the market closes at nine. Well, that's Billy's fault. Let's just hit a liquor store. There's plenty around here. Make a U-turn, Jim."

It was 9:30 p. M. when Jimmy pulled around the corner from a small liquor store near Washington and Leo Streets, turned out his lights, and parked in the shadows.

"Now listen, Billy," said Greg. "The fifty bucks is our main concern here. That's what you probably stole from me, you know. Now we're gonna hit this place together and maybe that'll prove to me that you didn't take the money from the bedroom."

Jimmy Smith said later, "I couldn't understand his logic in forcin Small to pull a job to prove he didn't take the money from the bedroom. You couldn't tell him though, and I didn't try neither. The only thing that made sense to me about the whole deal was that durin their past robberies Greg had did all the gun handlin and that's the way it should be. But Small nodded at Greg, so I thought, what the fuck, it made sense to him. But when we got there Greg changed his mind and went in alone."

"Okay, Jimmy," said Greg, "don't panic when I come back. Just start nice and smooth and don't try to make a quick getaway."

"Okay," Jimmy said as Greg walked toward the store. Jimmy felt the sweat rolling down his body and he and Small did not talk as they waited. Now you're in, Jimmy baby, he said to himself. Now you're in.

"Give me a bottle of Schenley's," Greg said to the proprietor.

"What kind do you want? Schenley is a distributor."

"Then give me a bottle of Seagram's Seven. Half a pint."

The proprietor got the bottle and returned facing Greg's gun. Greg cocked it.

"Open up and give me your money," he said, motioning toward the register. And to a man who was shopping in the store and didn't notice the holdup, "You, get around to the back."

The customer threw up his hands instinctively and Greg glanced toward the windows and said, "Get those hands down or I'll blow your brains out."

Minutes later Greg was in the wagon, and Jimmy was in gear, panicked, ready to snap the clutch.

Suddenly he heard terrifying explosions! "The guy's shooting at us!" Jimmy howled, and the wagon crawled out into the traffic lane and Jimmy forgot the clutch, forgot the money, forgot everything except getting the car going, trying to drive the gas pedal through the floor.

The engine was racing and the clutch was whining and the car was going so slow the liquor store proprietor could have outrun it. But he didn't.

"Bum couldn't hit the side of a barn." Greg laughed excitedly. "Firing blind at us with his hand around the corner."

"Are we hit, Greg?" asked Jimmy.

"Are we hit? What the hell, Jimmy. You'd feel it if you were hit."

My first robbery, Jimmy thought when they'd gotten two blocks away. A^d there's shootin. That's a sign, that's a fuckin sign to cut this guy loose. But then he thought of the money. Greg felt Small owed him fifty and he'd probably take that first. But how much was left? He wondered if he'd split the remainder three ways. But the take turned out to be only forty dollars.

When Greg saw the amount he got angry again. "Bastard," he said. "Taking pot shots at us for a lousy forty bucks. Probably wasn't even his store either. Some brave boy protecting the owner's money. I should go back there and blow the bastard's brains out to teach him a lesson."

Jimmy and Small did not reply, but both were relieved when Greg jammed the paper sack full of money into the glove compartment.

"Billy," Greg said thoughtfully, "what do you think about that place over on Western Avenue where you get your hair fixed?"

"The process parlor?"

"Yeah, think they got plenty of money in there? I believe they're open at night."

"Maybe," said Small, who looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here at the moment.

They left the freeway at Santa Barbara Avenue and got caught in the Sports Arena traffic. Horns, headlights, streets jammed from a basketball game, traffic backed up a quarter of a mile in all directions. Jimmy made two turns and got out of it but now they were going in the opposite direction from the process parlor.

"Uh, Greg, we're goin the wrong way," said Small.

"Don't worry about it, we'll hit a liquor store down the street here. I think there's one."

Jumpin fuckin Jesus! thought Jimmy Smith. We're goin the wrong way so what the fuck we just hit a place this way, and if we come up on a "no left turn" sign, we just turn right and look for another store. This is how they case a job? These're professionals? Jumpin fuckin Jesus.

They parked in the lot next to the first liquor store they came upon.

"Okay, Billy," said Greg. "Here's your chance to prove that you didn't do what you did."

Jimmy later said, "I was gettin scared again and mad too. I didn't understand what he just said to Billy. I didn't know if I was stupid or just scared, but it burned my ass that Billy understood the things Greg said and I couldn't."

"Just simulate a gun," Greg said. "Pretend you got one in your jacket."

"I can handle it," Small said in a drunken slur and staggered across the street toward the liquor store.

"Greg, you think you oughtta let him go in?" asked Jimmy. "He's pretty drunk."

"He knows what he's doing," said Greg.

Then Greg got impatient waiting and stepped out of the car and started walking across the street. Then he turned and came back.

"I'm not giving Small any more breaks, Jimmy," Greg said as they waited. "If he can't knock off the little liquor store he ain't much of a robber anyway."

Minutes passed. Greg was getting impatient, Jimmy frantic. Then Small appeared.

Jimmy knew he hadn't done it by the way he walked slowly across the street with a bag in his hand. There was only whiskey in the bag. And soda pop.

"No dice, Greg. There was three clerks in there and one guy who knew me from a long time ago."

"You sure?" asked Greg coldly.

"Sure. Sure as rain. Even Jimmy's been knowin this cat. From down on Fifth Street. He used to have a record store down there." And Small looked toward Jimmy, who saw the fear on him.

"Don't get tight jawed, Greg," Jimmy said before Greg had a chance to speak. "I can go check that story."

"Do it," said Greg with the same voice he used on Small at the house, and Jimmy leaped from the car and jogged across the street. He went in the store, saw only two clerks, total strangers, bought a pack of Chesterfields, and ran back to the car saying, "He's right, Greg. It's that guy all right. Same guy. Owned a little meat market on Fifth and Towne."

"I thought you said a record store, Billy," said Greg.

"That's what I say, Greg," Jimmy babbled. "A record store."

"I thought you said a meat market," said Greg.

"He said a record store," said Small.

"Oh fuck it," said Greg. "Let's get the hell outta here."

So they went to their next job, this one on Jefferson. "This time you get the piece," said Greg, handing Small the four-inch Colt revolver. "Put it in your belt. This is a ripe one. Don't muff it, Billy."

Small got out of the car and reeled drunkenly for a few steps, righted himself, and with the instincts of an alcoholic, proceeded on a reasonably straight course to the door. Greg followed and stood on the sidewalk outside. This time Billy Small came out fast, almost running.

Jimmy slid behind the wheel, jammed it in low gear and once again crawled from the curb, engine racing, clutch slipping. As the gears finally caught up with the racing engine, Small reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled bills. Then he reached into his other pocket and did the same. Then he threw the whole pile into Greg's lap.

"When I tell you I'm gonna do somethin I'm gonna do some- thin," Small announced. But he didn't give the gun back to Greg. Instead he reached for the whiskey and took a drink.

"Looks like a few hundred, partner." Greg grinned. "You handled that like a real pro. Was there a safe?"

"He was in the fuckin safe when I got the drop on him." Small giggled.

They rode silently, Small drinking, Greg counting the money, and Jimmy unable to take his eyes from the green in Greg's lap.

"This is the last job I pull with you along, Jimmy," Small suddenly blurted.

"What?" said Jimmy.

"You tryin to break up the partnership I got with Greg. Greg and me is partners and you can't come between us with your jiveass ways."

"Listen, you bastard," Jimmy said, careful to see that Small's hands were not near his waistband, "I ain't gonna take that from you. Jist cause you pulled your first job and you got a gun in your belt and a gut full of whiskey. I don't need to get your okay to be friends with Greg, damn you."

"Take it easy. Easy." Greg laughed, looking strangely elated. "Don't fight over me, boys. Let's not go off half cocked. Look, we've done enough for the night. I think we got maybe six hundred here, and that barber shop's closed by now."

That was what Jimmy was waiting for. He made a right turn, hit the freeway, and headed for the hotel and his cut of the money.

"We could knock off four more places," said Small, full of bravado now.

"No, it's been hectic tonight," said Greg. "And Jim's a little nervous. After all, we only took him out tonight to get him broke in.

It was midnight when they reached the hotel and Greg handed Jimmy a ten-dollar bill. Jimmy was stunned. Ten scoots! Ten lousy scoots! Of course he didn't expect a full share. But if they'd been busted he'd have been busted too. And for what? For this he drove that miserable car with that miserable slithery clutch? For ten stin- kin bucks? But he saw Greg grinning again, and he thought of how he'd grinned at Small just before he pulled down on him, and he remembered those eyes, how they'd changed. Cold. Blue. Staring. So he said nothing, and put the ten dollars in his pocket.