“You haven’t thought about that?”
“The way I’ve pictured it,” Lucy said, “I skip through details, I see us bringing them out of the car, I see Bertie standing in the road… He realizes what’s happening to him… I see it without a beginning or an end. It’s the same way I remember photographs of people he tortured and killed and what I actually saw when he murdered the lepers. Do you understand what I mean? There’s nothing that comes before or after. He kills people or commits acts of terror and leaves. That’s the end of it. Nothing happens to him. All right, I see us stop him and take the money… But that isn’t the end of it. It continues on, and I don’t know what he’ll do.”
Jack took his time. There were a few different ways to approach this.
He said, “Well, what’s the first thing you think of? He calls the cops and tells them he’s been robbed-if you don’t mind my using that word, but that’s the way they’d see it and write their report. An armed robbery was committed at such and such a time and place…”
“But it isn’t.”
“If you don’t get caught you can call it anything you want. But this game’s like any other, you have to play by the rules. An honest criminal, if he’s caught and convicted, will abide by the fact he’s broken the law and is gonna do time. I’ve learned that’s how you get through life without punching walls and hurting yourself; you abide by the facts of the situation, whatever it is. Didn’t you know that? I thought you might’ve come across it in nun training. I knew a very successful burglar in the joint, a safecracker, he even paid his lawyer in advance, kept him on a retainer.”
Lucy listened, but it seemed with some effort. She said right away, “I’m not going to argue with you about law. We’re not criminals.”
Jack said, “I don’t like to think so either. In fact I’m convinced we’re on the side of the angels, at least the avenging ones. But if we’re ever brought up, don’t be surprised if it’s in criminal court. I suppose there could be a question of jurisdiction, depending on where it happens. We take these guys off in Mississippi and come back to New Orleans with the cash, that could make it federal, crossing a state line to commit a felony. I don’t know, but what’s the difference, we’d still say, ‘What money? What’re you talking about?’ Whoever happens to ask. I accept the possibility of getting busted without giving it much thought, and not just ’cause it makes me break out in a cold sweat.”
Lucy said, “Because you don’t think it will happen.”
“That’s right, and you know why?”
“Because it’s possible he won’t call the police.”
Jack smiled at her. “There you are. One reason being, he might be dead. The other, how does he explain what he’s doing way out on the highway with the two million bucks? He’s suppose to be leaving Gulfport on a banana boat. What does he tell his CIA pal, Wally Scales? Well, maybe he says he changed his mind, decided to ship out of Miami instead. Whether the CIA guy believes him or not is something else. But once you get into that area, another question comes up. If Bertie’s gonna keep the money for himself, what does he say happened to it? Unless he plans to disappear.”
Lucy was shaking her head. “He has an image of himself, he wears medals. The man likes to be seen.”
“That’s the impression I have. So he’d have to fake something and come up with a story, how he was ripped off. Sandinistas in New Orleans or some other guys, like Jerry Boylan. He stops somewhere this side of Gulfport, shoots a few holes in his new car, and calls Wally… I don’t know. I think he’d have to do something like that. Only now, if he actually does get ripped off and it’s somewhere past Gulfport, he’d have to give it serious thought before he calls Wally. On the other hand, if for some reason he does recognize us, I think the only person he’d call would be you. Then we’d have a problem.”
Lucy said, “Wait a minute. Why wouldn’t he recognize us? He knows who we are.”
“Yeah, but he won’t really see us. You know that book you loaned me, Nicaragua, with the pictures of the young hotshot Sandinistas in their baseball caps and sport shirts? They’re all wearing masks, bandanas, or scarves over their faces with eye holes. If you don’t want to be identified, and we definitely do not, then that’s what you have to do.”
Lucy said, “But I want him to see me. That’s part of it.”
“Why would you?”
“He has to realize, he isn’t simply being robbed, that it’s an act of retribution.”
“If we cover our faces,” Jack said, “it’s a stickup. If we don’t, it’s something else and we’re the good guys.”
She said, “Look, you can do whatever you want. But he has to know who I am. If he doesn’t, I’ll tell him.”
“How come you never mentioned this before?”
“I thought it was understood.”
“You tell Roy?”
“Did we talk about it? No.”
“Roy was gonna look for Mardi Gras masks. He likes the idea of black faces, so the colonel’d think we’re colored guys.”
She said, “Jack, I’m very serious about this. It’s important to me.”
“Well, it’s up to you. But if you tell Roy, I’m pretty sure he’ll walk out.”
“Why?”
“Come on-what’ve we been talking about? You could get picked up, the only one he identifies. The first question the cops ask is who was with you. Then they tell you what kind of a sentence you’re looking at at some women’s correctional. Then they lighten up, offer you a deal, and ask you again who was with you.”
“You think I’d tell?”
“Roy wouldn’t take the chance.”
“I’m asking you,” Lucy said. “Do you think I’d tell?”
“We had all week to talk about it. Now all of a sudden… it’s a different kind of thing.”
She said, “Jack? Do you think I’d tell?”
She stared at him, waiting, and he said, “I think they could pull your fingernails out, you wouldn’t say a word. But you’d have to convince Roy.”
“If it should happen,” Lucy said. “But if you trust me, isn’t that enough?”
Putting him on the spot-sitting here with a blue bandana in his coat pocket and a Beretta automatic shoved into his waist, ready to go. He said, “Maybe it is.” They were this far. He said, “Do you know how you’re gonna get the money down there?”
“Through the motherhouse,” Lucy said. “Transfer it to the bank in León, where the sisters have an account.”
“Are you going back?”
“To Nicaragua? I’m thinking about it.”
“I didn’t mean back in the order.”
“I’m not sure what I am, but I’m no longer a Sister of Saint Francis…”
“Of the Stigmata,” Jack said.
She seemed to smile, remembering. “When I was nineteen I’d say the word stigmata, whisper it, and get the chills and thrills.” Looking at him, but within herself too.
She said she used to pray for a vision, an honest-to-God mystical experience, and believed, when she was nineteen, it would happen unexpectedly but soon. She said she had never told anyone before, that she used to concentrate, imagine herself weightless and then slowly raise her arms and go up on her toes trying to levitate like Saint Francis and be suspended by divine love. She said she would try to imagine what an ecstatic experience would be like and would think, if it isn’t in the mind then it must be experienced through the senses, the body. Then she would wonder, if it’s physical, would it be anything like physical love, making love to a man? The way she was looking at him now he knew what she was going to say. “But I don’t know what that’s like. It’s something I have to find out.”
Quietly telling him this in a room in the St. Louis Hotel at one-thirty in the morning, her eyes on him, waiting.
He said, “Lucy…”
He got up and stood looking down at her, it seemed like a long time before he offered his hands and brought her from the chair into his arms with a tender feeling, a good feeling. He said, “I’ll hold you. Let me just hold you.”