And Nolan said, “It’s not that being careful doesn’t hurt, kid. It’s that being sloppy can kill you.” Jon hadn’t seemed so skeptical after that.
Is that the turn up there?” Jon asked
“Is it?” Nolan said.
It was, but he wasn’t about to tell Jon. He’d spent all day with Jon, driving the gravel and blacktop back roads of the area, familiarizing himself and the kid as well with all the possible routes between the cottage and Iowa City and the cottage and Port City. And he had it all down, himself. But Jon would be doing the driving, so it was Jon who had to know where he was.
“It’s the turn,” Jon said. “I recognize that farmhouse over there.”
“Well, then. Turn.”
Jon turned. He said, “I’m only having trouble because it’s dark. It won’t be dark the day of the heist, you know.”
“If you can find your way around these roads in the dark,” Nolan said, “daytime won’t be any problem.”
Jon thought about that, seemed to get the point, yawned and said, “Anyway, they keep this blacktop nice and clear. Not like some of those others we were on today.”
It hadn’t snowed since Thursday, but it had stayed cold, and the ground was snow-covered.
“Some rich bastard farmer owns most of this,” Nolan said, gesturing to the side of the road that was cornfield; trees lining the river were on the other side. “County keeps the roads around here clear for him and a couple others like him.”
“Yeah, well the Iowa City streets are still packed with ice and snow.”
“Maybe if you bought a couple hundred acres of farmland in downtown Iowa City, that’d change. Hey, slow down.”
Jon did, but said, “What for? Rigley’s cottage isn’t for a half-mile or so. And anyway, I’m only doing forty-five in the first place.”
“Stop a second. I want to get a look at that cottage there. Rigley’s closest neighbor. See anything?”
It was a small, paint-peeling clapboard cottage, crowded by trees, close to the river, on stilts — nothing lavish, nothing at all like Rigley’s. No cars were around. No lights on inside.
“Nothing,” Jon said.
“Rigley says the people who own it don’t use it much. Trying to sell it. He says they don’t use it at all this time of year.”
“Looks like he’s right”
“Looks like.”
They drove on.
The little bluff Rigley’s cottage sat on was the only clear spot along a good three-quarters of a mile of thickly clustered trees — long, tall, skinny things growing close to and even in the water like weeds gotten out of hand. Ugly damn trees. Especially in their wintertime gray and skeletal state, though Nolan figured they probably weren’t any beauties even in the green of summer. The close-to-a-mile stretch of land Rigley’s cottage was in the midst of was damn near swamplike, and accounted for the isolation of the cottage in an area otherwise heavily populated with cottages and cabins. The bluff, an island clearing in the sea of tree-littered and marshy land, provided safety from flooding, which made possible the houselike luxury of the cottage. Isolated as it was, it seemed acceptable to Nolan as a meeting place; even suitable, perhaps, as a place to gather after the heist to split up the take.
A gravel drive cut through overhanging trees to the cottage, which wasn’t visible from the blacktop, and as he pulled onto the drive, Jon said, “You think these hunting jackets are really necessary?”
They were wearing the hunting jackets Jon had gone to Cedar Rapids to pick up.
“Yes,” Nolan said. He had already explained that as hunters they wouldn’t raise undue suspicion in the wooded river area.
“So who’s going to see us with all these trees and everything?”
“People in cottages across the river, maybe. Anybody else who happens to be driving along that blacktop back there.”
“But it’s dark out. It’s the darkest damn night I ever saw, Nolan. The river’s right over there, and I can’t even see it.”
Nolan was getting a little bored with Jon’s questions and complaints and said, very deliberately, “It won’t be dark the day of the heist, you know.”
“Oh. Yeah. So we’ll be wearing the jackets then, too.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know that”
“Now you do.”
“That doesn’t explain the Santa Claus suits.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Jon sighed and said nothing. He pulled the Chevy II in beside Rigley’s Eldorado and parked it. They got out. The cottage was dark.
“Listen, kid, I want you to do something for me in there.”
“Sure. What?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass? What do you mean?”
“I mean don’t be a smart-ass in there. Be nice to them.”
“Nice to them! After all that shithead and his bitch did to us, you say be...”
“Nice to them. I’m going to be nice to them. I’m not going to like it, but I’m going to do it. So are you.”
“Why?”
“Think about it. If you can’t figure it out, I’ll tell you later. Now let’s go in.”
He went up four wooden steps and knocked.
The girl, Julie, answered right away. She looked good. Pink fuzzy sweater caressing her abundant boobs, pink plaid slacks hugging the accommodatingly wide hips. She was one fine piece of ass, Nolan had to admit, even if she was kind of heavily made-up, especially around those huge brown eyes of hers, as if they needed any emphasizing.
She didn’t ask them in; she just held open the door and stepped aside. A cold, businesslike bitch, her attitude contrasting with the almost blatant sexual come-on of her makeup and wardrobe. All of which, she seemed to be making clear, was exclusively for Rigley. Nobody else was to get any ideas.
Which normally would have been fine with Nolan. He didn’t believe in getting sexually involved with somebody else’s woman, at least not on a heist, he didn’t. But he didn’t like the bitch’s icy attitude. He wanted to break through that. He wanted to build both her and Rigley’s confidence in him.
And that wouldn’t be any simple task. As he stepped inside, Nolan could feel waves of uneasiness shimmering in the room like heat over asphalt. He got out of his hunting jacket. Jon was doing the same. The girl made no move to hang them up. No hostess-playing for her. Nolan handed his coat to Jon to hang up.
The fire was going. The animated outdoor-scene beer sign was also going. There were no other lights on in the room. All the shutters were shut, as if the overcast, black night out there was high noon or something. Rigley was behind the bar, mixing up a pitcher of Manhattans. He was casually attired, for Rigley anyway: yellow and gray pattern turtleneck sweater and (Nolan saw as Rigley came around the bar to greet them) gray slacks that looked as if they’d never been worn before — in fact, they hardly looked as if they were being worn now.
Pitcher of Manhattans in one hand, Rigley extended the other, giving Nolan a smile as white and perfect as it was insincere. Rigley’s executive cool was even phonier tonight than usuaclass="underline" the tiny ice cubes inside the pitcher were clinking around, keeping time with the banker’s trembling hand, and yes, the tic at the edge of his right eye was going again. Nolan had the urge to take the man by the shoulders and shake him and say, “Settle down, damn it!” But it passed.
Rigley lifted the pitcher as if making a toast, and said, “Can I pour you one, Logan?”
“That’d be fine,” Nolan said. “Jon’ll have one too.”
“I don’t think I want...” Jon began, then caught Nolan’s look and said, “That’d be... nice. Thank you.”