“There wasn’t much else I could do,” said Judd. He smiled rather sadly. “I couldn’t very well tell Dan Miller that the Navajo Squaw Uranium Development And Mining Company was one of my little projects, now could I?”
1966
Just One of Those Days
The bank robbery was planned to account for every last detail — except one.
Harry came into the motel room as I was putting my shoulder holster on. “Forget it, Ralph,” he said.
I looked at him. “Forget it? What do you mean, forget it?”
He took off his coat and tossed it on the hod. “The bank’s closed,” he said.
“It can’t be closed,” I said. “This is Tuesday.”
“Wrong,” he said. He flipped his automatic out of his holster and tossed it on the bed. “It ran be closed,” he said. “Everything can be closed. This is Griffin’s Day.”
“This is what’s Day?”
“Griffin’s,” he said. He shrugged out of his shoulder holster and tossed it on the bed. “Kenny Griffin’s Day,” he said.
“I give up,” I said. “What’s a Kenny Griffin?”
“Astronaut,” he said. He opened his shirt collar and tossed himself onto the bed. “Comes from this burg,” he said. “It’s his Homecoming Day. They’re having a big parade for him.”
“By the bank?” I asked.
“What difference?” He moved his automatic out from under his hip, adjusted his pillow, and shut his eyes. “The bank’s closed anyway,” he said.
I cocked my head, and from far away I heard band music. “Well, if that isn’t nice,” I said.
“They’re gonna give him the key to the city,” Harry said.
“That is real nice,” I said.
“Speeches, and little kids giving him Bowers.”
“That’s so nice I can’t stand it,” I said.
“He was in orbit,” Harry said.
“He should of stayed in orbit,” I said.
“So we’ll do it tomorrow,” said Harry.
“I know,” I said. “But it’s just irritating.”
It was more irritating to me than to Harry, because, after all, I was the planner. I hated it when a plan went wrong or had to be changed around, no matter how minor the change. Like planning a caper on Tuesday and having to do it on Wednesday instead. A small alteration, an unimportant shift, but we’d have to stay in this town one day longer than expected, which increased the chances of identification at some later date. We’d have to change our airline reservations, which maybe some smart clerk would think about afterwards. We’d show up at the Miami hotel a day late, which would tend to make us conspicuous there, too. Nothing vital, sure, nothing desperate, but it only takes a tiny leak to sink a mighty battleship. I remember reading that on a poster once when I was a kid, and it made a big impression on me.
I am the natural planner type. I had eased this bank and this town for three weeks before making my plan, and then for another five days after it was set. I worked out just the right method, the right time, the right getaway, the right everything.
The one thing I didn’t work out was one of those astronauts hailing from this town and deciding on my day he’ll come on hack again. As I later said to Harry, why couldn’t he of just phoned?
So we did it on Wednesday. We went to the bank at precisely two fifty-four, flipped the masks up over our faces, and announced, “This is a stick-up. Everybody freeze.”
Everybody froze. While I watched the people and the door, Harry went behind the counter and started filling the bag.
Actually, Wednesday worked just as well as Tuesday so far as the mechanics of the plan were concerned. On all three midweek days, Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday, all but three of the bank employees were at lunch at two fifty-four p.m., having to take a later-than-normal lunch because the bank was at its busiest during usual lunch hours. On the days I had chocked it, there had never been any more than three customers here at this time, and the average had been only slightly over one. Today, for instance, there was just one, a small and elderly lady, who carried an umbrella despite the bright sun outside.
The rest of the plan would work as well on Wednesday as on Tuesday, too. The traffic lights I’d timed worked the same every day of the week, the plane schedule out at the airport was the same as yesterday and the traffic we could expect on the Belt Highway was no different, either. Still, I did hate to have things changed on me.
Harry was done filling the bag at one minute to three, which was a full minute ahead of time. We both stood by the door and waited and, when the second hand was done with its sweep once more, Harry put his gun away, flipped his mask off, picked up the hag and went out to where we’d parked the stolen Ford in front of the fire hydrant.
I now had 40 seconds. I was looking everywhere at once, at my watch, at the three employees and the little old lady customer ami at Harry out front in the Ford. If he didn’t manage to get it started in time, we’d have to wait another minute and ten seconds.
But he did. After 31 seconds, he gave me the sign. I nodded, let nine more seconds go by and dashed out of the bank. Eighteen running paces while I stuffed the gun away and stripped off the mask, and then I was in the car and it was rolling.
There was a traffic light at the corner. “Twenty-two miles an hour,” I said, looking at that light, seeing it red down there in front of us.
“I know,” said Harry. “Don’t worry, I know.”
The light turned green just as we reached the intersection. We sailed on through. I looked back, and saw people just erupting from the bank.
Midway down this block there was an alley on the right that led through to the next block. Harry made the turn, smooth and sweet, into a space hardly any wider than our car, and ahead of us was the MG. Harry hit the brakes, I grabbed the bag, and we jumped out of the Ford. Harry opened the Ford’s hood and grabbed a handful of wires and yanked. Then he shut the hood and ran to the MG.
I was already in it, putting on the beard and the sunglasses and the cap and the yellow turtleneek sweater. Harry put on his beard and sunglasses and beret and green sports jacket. He started the engine, I stared at the second hand of my watch.
“Five,” I said. “Four. Three. Two. One. Go!”
We shot out of the alley, turned left, made the light just before it went to red, turned right, made the lights perfectly for three blocks, then hit the Schuyler Avenue ramp to the Belt Highway.
“You watch the signs,” Harry said. “I’ll watch the traffic.”
“Naturally.” I said.
Almost every city has one of these bypass highways now, a belt that makes a complete circuit of the city. Not only can travelers passing through use it to avoid getting involved in city traffic, but local citizens can use it for high-speed routing from one part of the city to the other. This one, called the Belt Highway, was an elevated road all the way around, giving a fine view of the town and the countryside.
But it was neither the town nor the surrounding countryside I was interested in at the moment. Right now, my primary concern was the Airport Road exit. As Harry steered us through the light midweek afternoon traffic, I watched the signs.
One thing I have to admit, they did put up plenty of signs. Like for the first exit we came to, which was called Callisto Street Exit. First there was a sign that said, “Callisto Street Exit, ¼ Mile.” A little after that, there was a sign that said, “Callisto Street Exit, Keep Right.” And then finally, at the exit itself, a sign with an arrow pointing to the down-ramp at the words. “Callisto Street Exit.”