“What?” the guard said as he turned away from the doors. “What are you...?”
“This is a gun in my pocket. Keep quiet and no one will get hurt. Open your mouth, and the whole place gets shot up.”
The guard blinked his eyes and then looked down to the menacing bulge in Jeremy’s pocket. He was tempted for a moment to begin yelling, and then his eyes took in the slicked-down hair and the pencil-thin mustache, and something warned him to keep his silence. This man was a killer.
“Don’t let anyone else in,” Jeremy said. “If anyone wants to go out, let them out. Act the way you always do. No funny business. We’ll just stand here and chat as if nothing’s happening. Have you got that?”
The bank guard nodded.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the bank manager said to Anson. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m carrying a gun,” Anson whispered, “and I know how to use it. Get up from that desk and walk back to the vault with me. If anyone looks at you curiously, smile back at them. When we get to the vault, you’ll open the door, and we’ll go in together. If you so much as look crooked at anybody, you’re a dead man. You understand?”
“I... understand,” the manager said. He estimated the distance between his foot and the alarm buzzer set in the floor under his desk, and then he estimated the distance between his heart and the gun the redheaded, mustached man held in his pocket. “I... I’ll do what you say,” he murmured, and he rose from the desk. Anson walked with him to the locked door. The manager signaled to the teller nearest the door, and the teller pushed a button and the door clicked open. The manager and Anson walked back to the vault door. One of the tellers turned to look at the manager, but he smiled and nodded, and the teller went back to his work.
“Open it,” Anson whispered.
The manager nodded weakly and began twisting the dials in the face of the huge steel door.
At 3:05, he swung back the door, and he and Anson stepped into the vault. The bank guard, the only other member of the bank’s staff who knew that the bank was being held up, watched the manager and the redheaded man enter the vault, and he sighed deeply, and then smiled as he let a customer out of the bank.
Carl sat at the wheel of the car and glanced at his watch.
3:06.
He looked up at the light on the corner of Main and West Davis, and then he watched the sweep hand of his watch as it swung through sixty seconds. At 3:07, the light changed to green and Carl turned the corner and headed for the bank driveway at the end of the street. In four minutes, Anson would be coming out of that door with $500,000 worth of cabbage. In six minutes, Jeremy would be leaving the front of the bank. They’d be gone before anybody inside had sense enough to know what had hit them.
He drove leisurely down the street. There was a line of traffic on the other side of the two-lane street, but there was only one car behind him. He could see the A&P ahead, the driveway on its left. He threw the directional signal shaft up, saw the little light on the dashboard begin blinking intermittently as he prepared for his right turn. He saw the A&P truck then.
The truck had just pulled into the area in front of the driveway, ready to back into a space in front of the supermarket. Anson cursed silently and jammed on the brakes. The truck driver was taking all his damn sweet time, maneuvering the big lumbering machine into position against the curb, its nose jutting out so that it blocked the entrance to the driveway. Carl looked at his watch. 3:09. He had two minutes to get that damned car into the driveway. The man in the car behind him began honking his horn.
“Shut up, you damn fool,” Carl said angrily.
It suddenly occurred to him that the man honking his horn behind him was attracting attention. And if anyone looked at Carl’s car, they’d automatically figure he was getting ready to turn into the driveway. Where else could he be going? Why else was he waiting for the truck to back up in front of the supermarket?
He stepped on the gas at once, driving to the corner and making a U-turn against the stream of oncoming traffic. He drove down the street again, signaled for a left turn, and headed for the driveway as the truck backed into position in front of the supermarket. It was almost 3:11. Anson would be coming out of that rear door in a few seconds.
“Well, for Christ’s sake, move it up a little,” he heard the voice at the end of the driveway say.
“Move it where, you damn fool!” a second voice answered.
“Can’t you see the driveway?”
“The hell with the driveway. You’re backed up too close to this car. I can’t get your doors open.”
“Oh, hell!” Carl heard the second voice reply, and then his heart lurched into his throat when he heard the truck’s motor whine into action again.
Anson stuffed the suitcase rapidly. Bills, more bills than he’d seen in his life. Crisp and green, and smelling of big cars and women and liquor and anything a man wanted.
“Get over there in the corner,” he said to the manager.
The manager moved swiftly. Anson kept piling the stacked and bound bills into the suitcase. His hands moved rapidly, the gun dangling on his forefinger from its trigger guard. He slammed the suitcase shut and glanced at his watch. 3:10.
“Don’t start yelling,” he said to the manager. “Now that I’ve got the money, I’m more likely to kill for it.”
He stepped quickly to the vault door, put the gun into his coat pocket, slammed the door and whirled the dials, and then walked rapidly to the rear door of the bank, not turning to look behind him.
Jeremy, at the entrance doors, saw Anson come out of the vault and head out of the building. He looked up at the clock on the wall over the tellers’ cages. 3:11. Two minutes to go. Two minutes and he would be out of here.
Anson stepped into the driveway, closed the door behind him, and reached for the rear door handle of the car. He opened the door, tossed the suitcase onto the backseat, climbed in after it, and said, “Go, Carl.”
“Go where? There’s a truck at the other end of the drivel”
Anson whirled on the seat. He spotted the truck. Sweat broke out on his forehead. “Back up,” he said. “As far as you can go. I’ll get rid of the truck.”
“How? What can you...?”
“I don’t know! Move! Jerry’s comin’ out that front door in a minute and a half!”
Carl threw the car into reverse and backed down the driveway.
“More,” Anson said.
“I can’t go no more. We don’t want to block the sidewalk.”
“Okay.” Anson was already opening the door. “I’ll move the truck. As soon as you’re clear, back into the street and over to the front of the bank. I’ll catch you.”
“How will you...?”
“Go!” Anson snapped, and left the car. He ran directly to the truck, around the front end, and then he climbed into the cab and threw the gears into reverse. He rammed his foot down onto the accelerator, felt the truck lurch backward, heard screams behind him, and then heard the sullen crunch of metal as the truck’s doors struck the car parked behind. As he leaped out of the cab, he saw one of the bronze bank doors open, saw Jeremy starting down the steps, heading for the curb. Jeremy’s face went pale and his eyes popped wide when he saw the empty space at the curb. He looked back at the bronze doors, and then he wet his lips, his eyes blinking furiously. The car! Where the hell was the goddamn car!
Anson’s feet struck the pavement. He heard the car in the driveway grind into gear an instant before Carl stepped on the gas. Jeremy was about to panic, he could see that.
“Jerry!” he yelled. “This way! Quick!”