Swag (13 page)

Stick's turn came and the checkout girl began ringing up his groceries, a few things they needed anyway.

She said, “You like these buckwheat flakes?” pausing to study the box.

“I sure do,” Stick said. “They're honey-flavored.”

“I'll have to try them,” the checkout girl said. She tore off the tape and gave him the total. Four oh nine.

Stick opened his poplin jacket and showed her the Smith sticking out of his pants. Like a dirty old man in front of a little kid.

“You see it?”

“Oh my,” the checkout girl said. She was in her forties and seemed like a friendly, easygoing person. “I've never been held up before. Lord, this is the first time.”

Stick was pretty sure she wouldn't do anything dumb. “Something to tell your friends about,” he said.

“I sure will.” She tensed up then. “I mean I won't if you don't want me to.”

“No, it's okay. Put the money in a bag. Just the bills.” He got his own bag from the end of the counter and put the groceries in it while the checkout girl emptied the cash register. “Then get those other ones down there,” Stick said, “the other cash registers.”

The checkout girl at the next counter was busy with a Jewish-looking lady who was unloading a cart piled with groceries and telling the girl how a hundred dollars a week used to take care of everything, her hair and her cleaning woman, and now it barely covered food the way prices were, but she wasn't going to cut down or skimp because her husband insisted on only prime sirloin, filets or standing rib and also liked his snacks and that's where the money went, on meat like it was from sacred cows and the snacks, pastries, ice cream, he loved peanut brittle, something sweet to snack on watching TV.

The checkout girl was concentrating on ringing up the items, then would pause and lay on a buzzer for a few seconds to get a carry-out boy who never appeared. She probably didn't hear anything the woman said. That was fine, she was busy and had things on her mind.

“I'll tell you what,” Stick said to his checkout girl. “On the other cash registers, take out the tray inside—you can carry four—and take them over to the cashier's place.” He picked up his groceries and the shopping bag with the money in it. “I'll be right behind you.”

If the Jewish lady ever finished and left, he'd come back for that cash register. He hoped he wouldn't get involved with her and have to tell her to lie down on the floor or something. The woman looked like she'd scream. The last thing he wanted was a screamer. That's why he liked his checkout girl—following her along the front of the counters as she stepped into each one and collected the cash register tray—she was excited and naturally scared, but she was probably already thinking how she was going to tell it after, the biggest thing that ever happened to her.

Stick noticed the guy at the magazine rack, half turned away from it. He wondered if the guy had looked down, just then, at his magazine.

Frank opened the door to the cashier's enclosure. Stick and the checkout girl stepped inside with her trays.

“Come on in,” Frank said. “Mr. Miller here's having a little trouble with the safe.”

The manager was down on his knees, fooling with the dial of the safe built into the counter. The big girl with the beehive was watching him, biting her lower lip.

Stick handed the checkout girl the bag of currency. “Put everything in here, will you? Except checks and silver.” He touched Frank on the arm then and nodded toward the magazine rack.

“I saw him,” Frank said.

The big girl glanced over.

“Honey, get down there by Mr. Miller, will you, please? Tell him he doesn't open the safe right now, I'm going to cause him pain and suffering.”

“The guy just looked over,” Stick said.

Frank's head rose. He studied the guy, not saying anything.

“He knows something's going on,” Stick said. “Five people in here having a convention.”

“Take it easy,” Frank said.

Take it easy? Stick looked at him. He was taking it easy, his voice was calm, what the fuck was he talking about, take it easy.

Frank was stooped over the manager again, touching the big Python gently to the man's head.

“I'm going to count to three, Mr. Miller.”

“I can't help it,” the manager said, “I'm trying. I can't see the numbers with these glasses, they're my old pair. My regular glasses that I use, the frames broke—”

“Okay,” Frank said.

“—and they're in being repaired. I was supposed to have them the next day, but they didn't have the frames—”

“Hey,” Frank said, “I believe you, no shit, I really do. Just get out of the way.” He glanced at the big girl's name tag. “Let Annette get in there. Give her the numbers.”

Stick watched the guy close the magazine and put it under his arm. The guy hesitated but didn't look over. He got himself ready and started for the side entrance.

“Hey—” Stick said.

Frank looked up. The guy was going through the door, hurrying now as he moved through the breezeway to the outer door.

“He saw us,” Stick said.

“Mr. Miller,” Frank said to the manager, “a guy just walked out with a magazine without paying for it—the cheap son of a bitch.”

“We better move,” Stick said.

Frank looked at him. “Take it easy, okay?”

It got to him again, hooked him. Stick waited, making sure his voice would be calm, and moved closer to Frank.

“The guy's out, and if he's got a dime in his pocket we're going to be seeing the fucking colored lights in about three minutes.”

“Or maybe he didn't notice anything,” Frank said. “We're here, man, we're going to get what we came for.” Looking down again: “Annette, would you mind, please, opening the fucking safe?” Saying it calmly, for Stick more than for the big blond girl.

Stick knew it. He had to keep himself in control again. It was crowded in here, the checkout girl staring at him then looking away quickly, he wanted to take what they had right now and get out. But the big blond girl was saying something. She had the safe open and Frank was stooped down next to her, holding the grocery bag. Stick looked at the clock on the wall.

Frank told everybody to lie down and not move and if he saw a head raise up he'd blow it off, giving them the farewell address in his cool-gunman voice. Stick took the bag from him. Going out, he glanced at the clock again. The Jewish-looking lady was still there, the checkout girl loading bags and buzzing the buzzer. Stick wasn't sure how much time had passed since the guy left with the magazine. Enough, though. He didn't see the guy outside anywhere. He didn't expect to. He kept a few steps ahead of Frank, who was holding back on purpose walking to the car. Fucking games.

They got in the Nova. Frank slammed his door, it didn't catch and he had to open it and slam it again.

“I hope it starts,” Frank said, “and doesn't konk out. You think it's cold?”

Stick didn't say anything. He pushed the accelerator down halfway, held it, and snapped on the ignition. The engine caught at once with a good, heavy roar. Stick gave it a little more gas to be sure and listened to the idle. It was fine. But there was another sound, far away, a shrill, irritating sound that went
who-who, who-who
, and kept it up, getting louder, scaring the shit out of anybody sitting in a stolen car with a grocery bag full of money, scaring them way more than the old standard siren ever did.

Frank said, “Let's get out of here.” Not quite as cool as before.

The blue-and-red flashers were coming down Southfield, weaving through the traffic, still a couple of blocks away. They saw the flashers as they came out of the shadow and turned in front of the Chinese place. Stick glanced and saw enough, looked away to figure out where he was going, and saw the man coming out of the restaurant, the man with a magazine running out across the drive, then stopping dead as he saw the green Nova and the two guys inside. He was about five feet away from them when he ran back into the restaurant.

The red-and-blue flashing squad car with its awful
who-who
wail almost lost it taking the corner, got itself straightened out passing the bank and the Chinese place, and swerved into the Food Lanes parking lot as Stick eased the Nova around the far corner of the restaurant, cut through the open blacktop area behind the Michigan National Bank, and hit Southfield already doing thirty, not fast enough to attract attention but enough to get them out of there. Stick could picture the guy running over to the squad car, waving the magazine at them and pointing.
A green car!
Or if he knew anything—
A green '72 Nova went that way!
Shit.

Frank was hunched around, looking back. “Nothing yet.” He spotted the flashers a half mile back as they were going through an amber past Michigan Bell. “There they are.”

Stick edged over to the left and followed the curving ramp that led to the Lodge Expressway. He didn't take it, though. He ducked out on the spur that connected with the Northland service drive, followed it to the first overpass, crossed the expressway, and two minutes later was weaving through the mile-long parking area on the east side of the Northland shopping complex.

Stick felt better.

There was no hurry now, no red-and-blue flashers in sight. They were hidden among rows of shining automobiles, protected by the mass of the department store, Hudson's Northland, rising above the arcades of shops and stores and neon lights that formed a wall against the darkness and the police, wherever they were, over there somewhere.

Stick felt pretty good, in fact, realizing he was in control and had been in control from the time the cop car came fishtailing around the corner. He had used his head and timed it and got out of there without squealing the tires or doing anything dumb. That was a good feeling, once it was over and he could look back at it. Frank, Mr. Cool, was still tense, watching for cops.

Stick glanced at him. “How about a J&B?”

“How about a couple?” Frank said. He paused and got some of his calm back. “Since we got nothing else to do.”

14

THE DINING ROOM WAS PANELED
and brightly lighted. Not in there, Frank said. In the cocktail lounge that was marble and velvet and dark wood, with imitation gas lamps and waitresses in French-maid outfits. Stick said, You think we're dressed all right? Frank said, Relax.

He was getting it all back now.

“It's the same booze in the bottles,” Frank said. “The rest of the shit is overhead. But not bad, uh? I used to come here.”

He called the waitress with the dark-dyed hairdo and rosy makeup dear and ordered doubles, Scotch and a bourbon. It was funny, Frank was at ease now and Stick felt awkward, sitting in the booth with his poplin jacket on and the Food Lanes shopping bag next to him—the groceries in with the money, maybe two grand or more in there—afraid the manager or somebody was going to come over and ask them to leave because they weren't dressed right.

“Here's to it,” Frank said. He raised his glass and took a drink. “You were right about the guy with the magazine. You see him outside?”

“See him—I almost ran over him.”

“You should've. Teach him to mind his fucking business.”

“Another half a minute,” Stick said, “we wouldn't be here.”

Frank sipped his drink. “Adds a little color. Otherwise it'd be routine, like a job. Same thing all the time.”

“It was close,” Stick said.

“Sure it was close, in a way it was. We're looking in the fucking whites of their eyes. But we did it. Suck in a little, let them go by, then take off. It's called timing. We don't have to put it down as a rule because we've got it, instinctively.”

“You telling me you like it?” Stick said. “The flashers, that sound? That's a terrible sound to hear coming at you.”

“It's part of it. You don't have to like it, no,” Frank said. “You accept it, the possibility, and when it happens you keep it together.”

“What're the odds?” Stick said. “One close one out of what, thirty? That's not bad, but maybe we've been lucky and it's starting to catch up.”

“No, if you know what you're doing, each one is like the first time only better, because you've been there. Incidentally, it's thirty-one.”

“But things can happen,” Stick said. “In the grocery, I tell you the guy saw us. No, you're playing some fucking game, you're going to stay there till you get the safe. That's not going by instinct or rules or anything, that's so fucking dumb it's stupid.”

“We're here, right? And we got what was in the safe.”

“We're here—you want to do it like that every time?”

“All right—” Frank paused and lit a cigarette, then motioned to the waitress to do it again. “You're saying don't take unnecessary chances. I agree, up to a point. But the nature of the business, you play it as you come to it. The rules are basically good,
but
what I'm saying, you can't fit them into each and every situation.”