Cop Out

Wednesday
The Bag

It had been a good Indian summer and there were still leaves on the tiring maples behind the plant. It was the evergreens that looked expectant, under the moon they stood like girls waiting to be asked by the tall dark handsome sky.

Howland turned away from the window, unadmiring. He hated November. November meant December, and December meant Christmas bills. He had no feeling for nature or religion or almost anything else but money. It seemed to him that for all his fifty-seven years he had been reaching out for money that would stick to his fingers. The irony was that so much of it had passed through them.

He compared his watch with the steel hands over the Manila driftwood door, lettered in computer-type characters Curtis Pickney, General Manager.

Almost ten.

Howland went back to his desk. He studied the payroll.

So near and yet so far is the story of my life.

It had started with his first job out of the commercial course at New Bradford High. Old man Louie Wocjzewski had taken him on to tend register in the sandwich shop across the blacktop from Compo Copper and Brass. It had seemed to him then that there could not be so much cash in the world. They were working six-day shifts in those days and eight to nine hundred dollars a week had gone through the register. What he had got from it was twelve greasy singles, counted out in cautious cadence by old Wojy every Saturday night.

It had been worse at The Taugus County National Bank during his cage days when he had handled thousands belonging to everyone in town but Teller Howland. He had not even been able to afford a checking account at first because he had just married Sherrie-Ann and she had stupidly got herself pregnant and sick and then aborted in a mess of hospital and doctor and drug bills, she was still that way throwing their lousy few dollars around like he was a millionaire, my personal dollar drain, Howland’s Sewer I ought to call her. Why I didn’t ditch her long ago I’ll never know, she even makes rotten chowder.

He sat down at his desk before the greenbacks.

He had felt the tiny kick of hope when Curtis Pickney hired him for the new New Bradford branch of Aztec Paper Products. Pickney had spoken rapidly of company expansion, opportunities for advancement (to what?), fringe benefits (and no union), salary to start $103 (take-home $86.75, but you know those g.d. do-gooders in Washington, Mr. Howland), and after nine years he was all the way up to $112.90 take-home and he was still the bookkeeper of the New Bradford branch of Aztec Paper Products. And he would remain its bookkeeper at Pickney’s pleasure or until he was hauled out feet first or he made a stink, in which case he’d be still breathing but out on his canister. And where would a man fifty-seven get a decent job in New Bradford? Or anywhere else?

What in hell is keeping them?

As he thought it he heard the triple knock at the back door of the plant.

Howland jumped.

One, two-three.

But he stood there.

The payroll was in undistributed sheafs of rubberbanded bills beside the canvas bag as he had brought it from the bank in the afternoon accompanied in their every-Wednesday waltz by Officer Wesley Malone, the town cop with the eyes that always seemed to be scouting for Indian sign or something.

I wonder what Wes would think of this, probably stalk me like he did the bobcat that showed up from Canada or some place and played hob at Hurley’s chicken farm. And put a bullet between its eyes.

The thought turned about and it strengthened him. Still, as Howland hurried to the back door through the dark plant his lungs labored and his heart punched away at his Adam’s apple.

But his head held trueblue to his plans. They did not include Sherrie-Ann. They did not even include Marie Griggs, the twitch-britches night countergirl at Elwood’s Diner.

He was not sure what they did include. Except $6,000.

A year’s pay practically, tax-free.

Howland unlocked the door.

Hinch was at the wheel. My wheelman, Furia called him. Hinch drove into the empty parking lot behind the plant and stopped the car on the tarmacadam ten feet from the rear entrance. It was a Chrysler New Yorker with a powerful purr, like Hinch. Black satin under the dust and not a dent.

Furia had picked it out personally on the main drag in Newton Center, Mass. in broad daylight. They had switched plates on a back road near Lexington and Hinch crowed. It was a sweet bus, the neatest they had ever copped. It even had a police band on the radio. Furia was sitting up front with Hinch. Goldie was in the back seat flipping one of her Lady Vere de Vere cigarets, goldtipped what else.

Furia got out.

He had a stiff’s skin, tight and yellow, and Mickey Mouse ears. Goldie, who was gone on Star Trek and Leonard Nimoy, had once called him Mr. Spock for a gag, but only once. Furia wore an executive three-button Brooks, a no-iron white shirt, a bleak gray silk tie, a two-inch Knox, black gloves, built-up heels, and amber goggles, the latest type, that made him look like a frogman. His London Fog he had left on the front seat.

He stood there like a spinning top, motionless to the eye. He looked around.

“No.” He had a spinning sort of voice, too, so hard and tight it practically sang.

Goldie stopped in the act of stepping out of the car. Hinch did not move.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because I’m giving you the word.”

“Bitch,” Hinch chortled.

Furia looked at him. Hinch gave him a rather embarrassed spread of the hand.

“I gave you the word, Goldie.”

Goldie shrugged and stepped back into the Chrysler banging the door. When Goldie shrugged her long gold hair shrugged with her. She had borrowed the effect from the TV commercials. She was all gold and scarlet, a girl of bottles and pastes. Her miniskirt came eight inches under her crotch. She was wearing gold fishnets and tall gilt boots.

Her eyes sat on purple cushions, not eye shadow.

“Looks okay,” Hinch said.

“Don’t kill the engine just in case.”

“Don’t worry, Fure.”

Furia stepped up to the plant door. He walked on the balls of his feet like an actor playing a thief. As he walked he felt for his shoulder holster the way other men feel for their zippers.

He knocked three times. One, two-three.

The pair in the car sat very still. Hinch was looking into the rearview mirror. Goldie was looking into Furia.

“He’s taking his sonofabitch time,” Furia said.

“He chickened out maybe,” Hinch said.

Goldie said nothing.

The lock turned over and Howland stood in the moonlight like a ghost in shirtsleeves.

“Took your sonofabitch time,” Furia said. “Where’s the gelt?”

“The what?”

“The moo. The payroll.”

“Oh.” Howland yawned suddenly. “On my desk. Make it snappy.” His teeth clicked like telegraph keys. He kept sneaking looks at the deserted lot.

Furia nodded at the Chrysler and Hinch got out in one move: he was behind the wheel, he was on the macadam. Goldie stirred but when Furia gave her the look she sat back.

“Has he got the rope?” Howland asked.

“Come on.” Furia jabbed at Howland’s groin playfully. The bookkeeper backed off and Hinch laughed. “What’s the stall? Let’s see that bread.”

Howland led the way, hurrying. His steps echoed, Furia’s and Hinch’s did not. Hinch was wearing gloves now, too. He was carrying a black flight bag.

Howland’s desk was in a corner of the outer office near the window. There was a greenshade light over the desk.

“Here it is.” He yawned again. “What am I yawning for?” he said. “Where is the rope?”

Hinch pushed him aside. “Hey, man,” he said. “That’s a mess of bread.”

“Twenty-four thousand. You don’t have to count it. It’s all there.”

“Sure,” Furia said. “We trust you. Start packing, Hinch.”

Hinch opened the flight bag and began stuffing the bundles of bills in. Howland watched nervously. Into his nervousness crept alarm.

“Hey, you’re taking too much,” Howland protested. “We had a deal. Where’s mine?”

“Here,” Furia said, and shot him three times, one-and-two-three in a syncopated series. The third bullet went into Howland no more than two inches above the first two as the bookkeeper’s knees collapsed. The light over the desk bounced off his bald spot. His nose made a pulpy noise when it hit the vinyl floor.

Furia blew on his gun the way the bad guy did it in Westerns. It was a Walther PPK, eight-shot, which he had picked up in a pawnshop heist in Jersey City. It had a double-action hammer and Furia was wild about it. “It’s better than a woman,” he had said to Goldie. “It’s better than you.” He picked up the three ejected cases with his left hand and dropped them into his pocket. The automatic he kept in his right.

“You cooled him pretty,” Hinch said, looking down at Howland. Blood was beginning to worm out on the vinyl from under the bookkeeper. “Well, let’s go, Fure.” He had all the money in the bag, even the rolls of coins, and the bag zipped.

“I say when we go,” Furia said. He was looking around as if they had all the time in the world. “Okay, that’s it.”

He walked out. Hinch lingered. All of a sudden he was reluctant to leave Howland.

“Where’s the rope, he says.” When Hinch grinned his mouth showed a hole where two front teeth had been. He was wearing a black leather windbreaker, black chinos, and blue Keds. He had rusty hair which he wore long at the neck and a nose that had been broken during his wrestling days. His eyes were small and of a light, almost nonexistent, pink-gray. “We forgot the gag, too, pidge,” he said to Howland.

“Hinch.”

“Okay, Fure, okay,” Hinch said. He catfooted after Furia, looking pleased.

“I knew it,” Goldie said. Hinch was backing the Chrysler around.

“You knew what?” Furia had the flight bag on his lap like a child.

“The shots. You killed him.”

“So I killed him.”

“Stupid.”

Furia turned half around and his left hand swished across her face.

“I don’t dig a broad with lip neither,” Hinch said approvingly. He drove across the lot on the bias, without lights. When he got to the turnout he braked. “Where to, Fure?”

“Over the bridge to the cloverleaf.”

Hinch swung left and switched on the riding lights. There was no traffic on the outlying road. He drove at a humble thirty.

“You asked for it,” Furia said.

There was a trickle of blood at the corner of Goldie’s pug nose. She was dabbing at it with a Kleenex.

“The thing is I don’t take names from nobody,” Furia said. “You got to watch the mouth with me, Goldie. You ought to know that by this time.”

Hinch nodded happily.

“What did you have to shoot him for?” Goldie said. In his own way Furia had apologized, they both understood that if Hinch did not. “I didn’t set this up for a killing, Fure. Why go for the big one?”

“Who’s to know?” Furia argued. “Howland sure as hell didn’t sound about our deal. Hinch and me wore gloves and I’ll ditch the heater soon as we grab off another one. So they’ll never hook those three slugs onto us, Goldie. I even picked up the cases. You got nothing to worry about.”

“It’s still the big one.”

“You button your trap, bitch,” Hinch said.

“You button yours,” Furia said in a flash. “This is between me and Goldie. And don’t call her no more names, Hinch, hear?”

Hinch drove.

“Why I plugged him,” Furia said. “And you had a year college, Goldie.” He sounded like a kindly teacher. “A three-way split is better than four, I make it, and I never even graduated public school. That shlep just bought us an extra six grand.”

Goldie said fretfully, “You sure he’s dead?”

Furia laughed. They were rattling over the bridge spanning the Tonekeneke River that led out of town; beyond lay the cloverleaf interchange and the through road Goldie called The Pike, with its string of dark gas stations. The only light came from an allnight diner with a big neon sign at the other side of the cloverleaf. The neon sign said elwood’s diner. It smeared the aluminum siding a dimestore violet.

“Stop in there, Hinch, I’m hungry.”

“Fure,” Goldie said. “My folks still live here. Suppose somebody spots me?”

“How many years you cut out of this jerk burg? Six?”

“Seven. But-”

“And you used to have like dark brown hair, right? And go around like one of them Girl Scouts? Relax, Goldie. Nobody’s going to make you. I’m starved.”

Goldie licked the scarlet lip under the smudge on her nostril. Furia was always starved after a job. At such times it was as if he had been weaned hungry and had never made up for it. Even Hinch looked doubtful.

“I told you, Hinch, didn’t I? Pull in.”

Hinch skirted the concrete island and drove off the cloverleaf. Neither he nor Goldie said anything more. Goldie’s face screwed smaller. She had a funny feeling about the caper. Fure was flying. It never works out the way I plan it. He always queers it some way, he’s a natural-born loser.

Hinch swung the Chrysler into a slot. A dozen others were occupied by cars and trucks. He turned off the ignition and started to get out.

“Hold it.” Furia turned to examine Goldie in the violet haze. “You got blood on your nose. Wipe it off.”

“I thought I wiped it off.”

He ripped a tissue from the box over the dash, spat on it, and handed it to her. “The left side.”

She examined her nose in her compact mirror, scrubbed the smudge off, used the puff.

“Do I look all right for Local Yokel?”

Furia laughed again. That’s twice in three minutes. He’s real turned on. He’ll try to be a man-mountain in bed tonight.

“We don’t sit together,” Furia said to Hinch. “You park at the counter. Goldie and me we’ll find a booth or somewheres.”

“That’s using your tank, Fure.”

“Goldie don’t think so. Do you, Goldie?”

He was sounding amused. Goldie risked it. “Does it matter what I think?”

“Not a goddam bit,” Furia said cheerfully. He got out with the black bag and made for the diner steps without looking back.

That’s what I love about you, you’re such a little gentleman.

The diner was busy, not crowded. Furia went in first and snagged a booth from four teenagers who had been nursing cheeseburgers and malts. Goldie managed to join him at the cost of a few stares. She saw no one she recognized. She slipped behind the partition and hid her miniskirt under the fake marble top. I told Fure I ought to wear slacks tonight but no he’s got to show off my legs like we’re on the town, these studs will remember me.

She was angrier with Furia than when he had struck her.

Hinch slouched in a minute later and settled his bulk on a stool a few feet away. He became immediately enchanted with one of the girls behind the counter, who had just come out of the kitchen. The girl had sprayshine black hair done up in exaggerated bouffant and a rear end that jerked from side to side as she moved.

“You’d better watch the pig,” Goldie said. “He’s already got his piggy eyes on a girl.”

“Don’t worry about Hinch,” Furia said. “What’ll it be, doll? Steak and fries? Live it up.”

“I’m not hungry. Just coffee.”

Furia shrugged. He had stripped off his gloves and he began to drum on the table with his neat little nails. His Mediterranean eyes were glazed. In the glare of the fluorescents his skin had a greenish shine.

The diner was jumping with soul music, orders, dishes, talk. There was a lively smell of frying onions and meat. Furia drank it in. The overcast in his eyes was from pride at his achievement and regret that these squares could not know his power. Goldie had seen it before, a recklessness that would later rush to relieve itself. She had her own needs, which involved perpetual thought. His violence kept her squirming.

“Hey, you,” Furia said. The girl with the versatile rump was delivering a trayful of grinders to the next booth. “We ain’t got all year.”

Goldie shut her eyes. When she opened them the girl was clearing the dirty dishes from their table. She was leaning far over, her left breast over Furia’s hands.

“I’ll be right back, folks.” She flicked a rag over the table and seesawed away.

“That chick is stacked what I mean,” Furia said. “As good as you, Goldie.”

“I think she recognized me,” Goldie said.

“You think. You’re always thinking.”

“I’m not sure. She could have. She was starting high school when I left New Bradford. Her name is Griggs, Marie Griggs. Let’s split, Fure.”

“You make me throw up. And she did? It’s a free country, ain’t it? Two people having a bite?”

“Why take chances?”

“Who’s taking chances?”

“You are. With that bag between your legs. And packing the gun.”

“We’ll take off when I’ve ate my steak.” His lips were thinning down. “Now knock it off, she’s coming back. Steak medium-well, side order fries, two black. And don’t take all night.”

The waitress wrote it down. “You’re not having anything but coffee, Miss?”

“I just told you, didn’t I?” Furia said with a stare.

She left fast. His stare warmed as he watched her behind. “No wonder Hinch got his tongue hanging out. I could go for a piece of that myself.”

Flying all right.

“Fure-”

“She don’t know you from her old lady’s mustache.” His tone said that the subject was closed. Goldie shut her eyes again.

When his steak came it was too rare. Another time he would have turned nasty and fired it back. As it was he ate it, grousing. Steaks were a problem with him. Cooks always thought the waitress had heard wrong. He hated bloody meat. I ain’t no goddam dog, he would say.

He hacked off massive chunks, including the fat, and bolted them. The fork never left his fist. Goldie sipped carefully. Her skin was one big itch. Psycho-something, a doctor had told her. He had sounded like some shrink and she had never gone back. It had been worse recently.

Hinch was working away on the girl behind the counter, she was beginning to look sore.

One of these days I’m going to ditch these creeps.

At eleven o’clock, as Furia was stabbing his last slice of potato, the shortorder man turned on the radio. Goldie, on her feet, sat down again.

“Now what?”

“That’s the station at Tonekeneke Falls, WRUD, with the late news.”

“So?”

“Fure, I have this feeling.”

“You and your feels,” Furia said. “You’re goosier than an old broad tonight. Let’s hit it.”

“Will it hurt to listen a minute?”

He sat back comfortably and began to pick his teeth with the edge of a matchpacket cover. “First you can’t wait to blow the dump-”

He stopped. The announcer was saying: “-this bulletin. Thomas F. Howland, bookkeeper of the Aztec Paper Products company branch in New Bradford, was found in his office a few minutes ago shot to death. Mr. Howland was alone at the plant, preparing the payroll for tomorrow, when he was apparently surprised by robbers, who killed him and escaped with over twenty-four thousand dollars in cash, according to Curtis Pickney, the general manager, who found the slain bookkeeper’s body. Mr. Pickney was driving by on his way home from a late Zoning Board meeting, saw lights in the plant, and investigated. He notified the New Bradford police and Chief John Secco has taken charge of the case. The Resident State Trooper in New Bradford is also on the scene. A search is being organized for Edward Taylor, the night security guard, who has disappeared. Police fear that Taylor may also have been the victim of foul play. We will bring you further bulletins as they come in. In Washington today the President announced… “

“No,” Furia said. “Stay put.” He nodded at Hinch, who had turned their way. Hinch was blinking his pink eyes. At Furia’s signal he tossed a bill on the counter and ran out with two truckdrivers who had jumped up and left their hamburgers uneaten.

“I told you, Fure!”

“Say, Miss America, how’s about two more coffees?”

The waitress took their empty cups. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “That nice old guy.”

“Who?”

“That Tom Howland.”

“The one they say got shot? You knew him?”

“He ate in here all the time. Used to bend my ear by the hour. I can’t believe it.”

“You never know,” Furia said, shaking his head. “Step on those coffees, huh, doll?”

She went away.

“Some day you’ll learn to listen to me,” Goldie muttered. “I told you to just tie him up. No, you’ve got to go and shoot him.”

“Goddam it, Goldie, you bug the living hell out of me sometimes, you know that?”

They drank their second cups in silence. There was no music in the diner now. The cook had turned the radio off, too. People were arguing about the robbery and murder. Furia said, “Now,” and rose. Goldie slid from the booth and made her way safely to the door. Furia, carrying the black bag, strolled up to the counter and said to the waitress, “How much for the lousy steak and javas?”

Goldie slipped out.

Hinch had the motor running when Furia got in beside him. “Turn on the police band.”

Hinch turned it on. The air was full of directives and acknowledgments. The state police were setting up roadblocks throughout the area.

“Now what?” Goldie had her arms folded over her breasts. “Big shot?”

“You want I should shove your teeth down your throat, is that what you want?” Furia said. “I ought to let Hinch work you over.”

“Any time, pal,” Hinch said.

“Who asked you? I got to think.”

“What’s to think?” Hinch said. “We hole up in the hideout till the heat goes away, like we said. No sweat. Let’s drag, Fure.”

“If you had a brain you’d be a dope.” Furia had a roadmap of the area spread on his lap under the maplight. “To get there from here we got to cross this intersection. There’s no other road in. That’ll be one of their main checkpoints. We can’t make it tonight. We got to think of something else.”

“You’d better get rid of the gun,” Goldie said remotely. She was burrowed as far as she could get into the corner of the rear seat.

“Not till I get me another one.”

“You going to kill somebody else for one?”

“I told you!”

“Why didn’t you take the watchman’s gun?”

“Because it landed in some bushes when we jumped him. We couldn’t hang around looking for it in the dark. I’ll get one, don’t worry.”

“It’s a wonder you didn’t shoot him, too.”

“You’re asking for a rap in that big moosh of yours, Goldie. I’m telling you! When Howland sent this Taylor into town for coffee and we hit him on the road, he put up a fight and we had to cool him with a knock across the ear. We tied him up and threw him in some bushes. How many times I got to tell you?”

Hinch said, “We parking here all night?”

“Let me think!”

Goldie let him think. When she thought the time was ripe she said, “Maybe if we think out loud.”

Furia immediately said, “So?”

“The watchman can’t finger you, you hit him in the dark. Nobody saw us at the plant except Howland, and he’s dead.”

“That’s why I hit him. That and the extra cut. But you got to make out like I’m a dumdum.”

“If we’d worked it the way I said,” Goldie said, “he’d have cut his throat before he fingered us. But I’m not going to argue with you, Fure. The big thing went sour was the manager driving past the plant. So now we’re hung up here. For a while they’re going to stop every car trying to leave New Bradford.”

“I know,” Hinch said brightly. “We bury it.”

“And have the paper rot or be chewed up? Or somebody find it?” Goldie said.

“We sure as a bitch ain’t throwing it away,” Hinch growled.

“Who said anything about throwing it away? It’s got to be put somewhere safe till they stop searching cars. The shack would be good, but we’re cut off from there till they get fed up and figure we made it out before they set up the blocks. Meantime-the way I see it, Fure-we need help.”

“The way she sees it,” Hinch said. “Who’s fixing this match, Fure, you or her?”

But Furia said, “What help, Goldie?”

“Somebody to keep it for us.”

“That’s a great idea that is,” Furia said. “Who you going to ask, the fuzz?”

Goldie said, “Yes.”

Hinch jiggled his bowling-ball head. “I tell you, Fure, this broad is bad news. Some joke.”

“No joke,” Goldie said. “I mean it.”

“She means it,” Hinch said with disgust.

Furia picked a sliver of steak out of his teeth. “With a far-out idea like that there’s got to be something in it. What’s on your mind, Goldie?”

“Look,” Goldie said. “I’ve been keeping in touch with my family off and on through my kid sister Nanette-”

“That is absolutely out,” Furia said. “I ain’t stashing no twenty-four grand with a bunch of rubes.”

“Are you kidding? They’d break a leg running to Chief Secco with it. Ma’s the big wheel in her church, and my old man thinks having a bottle of beer in your car is a federal offense.” Goldie laughed. “But Nanette’s no square. She’s looking to cut out one of these days, too. I know from her letters. She does a lot of babysitting nights and one of her steady jobs is for a couple named Malone, they have a kid Barbara. The Malones live in a one-family house on Old Bradford Road. It’s one of the original streets of the town, never any traffic, and the neighbors pull their sidewalks in at nine o’clock. Well, Wesley Malone is a cop.”

“There she goes again,” Hinch said.

“On the New Bradford police force.”

“What gives with this dame?” Hinch demanded of Taugus County. “Some idea! We should park our loot with the town cop!”

But Furia was heavily in thought. “How old did you say their kid is, Goldie?”

“Must be eight or nine by now.”

“You got yourself a deal.”

“But Fure,” Hinch protested.

“That’s the beauty part,” Furia said. “A cop’s got to know the facts of life, don’t he? He ain’t going to panic and try something stupid. Okay, Hinch, get going.”

“Where to?” Hinch asked sullenly.

“This Old Bradford Road. Direct him, Goldie.”

Goldie directed him. They went back into the cloverleaf and across the bridge, past three blocks of midtown, and sharply right into a steep road called Lovers Hill, Goldie said, because there was a parking strip on top where the town kids necked. Halfway up she said, “Next right turn,” and Hinch turned in grudgingly. There were no street lights, and towering trees. It was a narrow street, almost a lane, lined with very old two-story frame houses in need of paint.

The road swooped and wound in an S. At the uppermost curve of the S Goldie said, “I think that’s it. Yes. The one with the porch lit up.”

It was the only house on the street that showed a light.

“Almost,” Furia said, sucking his teeth, “like they got the welcome mat out.”

Ellen began praising the film the moment the house lights went up.

“Not that I approve of all that violence,” Ellen said as her husband held her cloth coat for her. “But you have to admit, Loney, it’s a marvelous picture. Didn’t you think so?”

“You asking me?” Malone said.

“Certainly I’m asking you.”

“It’s a fraud,” Malone said.

“I suppose now you’re a movie critic.”

“You asked me, didn’t you?”

“Hello, Wes,” a man said. They were being nudged up the aisle by the crowd. “Good picture, I thought.”

“Yeah, Lew,” Malone said. “Very good.”

“Why is it a fraud?” Ellen asked in a whisper.

“Because it is. It makes them out a couple of heroes. Like they were Dillinger or somebody. In fact, they used some stuff that actually happened to Dillinger. You felt sorry for them, didn’t you?”

“I suppose. What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything. Nobody felt sorry for those punks at the time it happened. Even the hoods were down on them. The truth is they were a couple of smalltime murderers who never gave their victims a chance. Clyde got his kicks out of killing. His favorite target was somebody’s back. Hi, Arthur.”

“Great picture, Wes!” Arthur said.

“Just great,” Malone said.

“It got the nomination for Best Picture,” Ellen sniffed. “You’re such an expert.”

“No expert. I just happened to read an article about them, that’s all. Why kid the public?”

“Well, I don’t care, I liked it,” Ellen said. But she squeezed his arm.

The Malones came out of the New Bradford Theater and made for their car. Ellen walked slowly; she knew how tired he was. And how stubborn. Loney had insisted on following their Wednesday night ritual, which involved dinner at the Old Bradford Inn in midtown and the movies afterward, even though he had not slept eight hours in the past ninety-six. It was the only recreation she got, Loney had said, flattening out his chin, and she wasn’t going to lose out just because the flu hit the department and he had to work double shift four days running. He could get a night’s sleep tonight, Mert Peck was out of bed and Harry Rawlson was back on duty, too.

“How about a bite at Elwood’s?” he said at the car. It was a beatup Saab he had picked up for $650 the year before, their old Plymouth had collapsed at 137,000 miles. The big Pontiac special he drove on duty belonged to the town.

“I don’t think so,” Ellen said. “I’m kind of worried about Bibby. Nanette had to leave at ten thirty, her mother’s down sick, and I said it would be all right. But with Bibby home alone-”

“Sure.” He was relieved, she knew every pore in his body. Then she saw him stiffen and turned to see why.

One of the New Bradford police cars had torn past the intersection of Grange Street and Main along the Green, siren howling. It was being chased by several civilian cars.

“I wonder what’s up,” Malone said. “Something’s up.”

“Let it. You’re coming home with me, Loney. Get in, I’ll drive.”

Malone got in, and Ellen went round and took the wheel. He was looking back at Main Street and she saw him feel for the gun under his jacket. Ellen hated Chief Secco’s rule about his men carrying their revolvers off duty.

“Lay off the artillery, bud,” Ellen said grimly, starting the Saab. “You’re going nowhere but beddy-bye.”

“It’s something big,” Malone said. “Look, Ellen, drop me off at the stationhouse.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll only be a couple minutes. I want to find out what gives.”

“I’ll drop you off and I won’t see you till God knows when.”

“Ellen, I promise. Drop me off and go on home to Bibby. I’ll walk it up the Hill.”

“You’ll never make it, you’re dead on your feet.”

“That’s what I like about you,” he said, smiling. “You’ve got such confidence in me.”

Grange Street was one-way below Main and the Green, and Ellen sighed and turned into Freight Street and past the dark brown unappetizing railroad station. She had to stop for the light at the corner near the R.R. crossing. Malone was squinting to their right, across the bridge and the Tonekeneke and the cloverleaf to The Pike. Two state police cruisers were balling south on The Pike, sirens all out. Ellen deliberately jumped the light and turned left.

She made another left turn east of the Green, drove the one block up to Grange again, and swung right. The Colonial redbrick town hall stood at the southeast corner of the Green and Grange Street, extending into Grange; the New Bradford Police Department was near the rear of the building, with a separate entrance. The entrance was a little windbreak vestibule. There were two green globes outside.

Ellen stopped the car. He was on the sidewalk before she could put on her emergency.

“Remember, Loney, you promised. I’ll be hopping mad if you doublecross me.”

“I’ll be right home.”

He hurried inside and Ellen peeled off, taking her worry out on the Saab.

To Malone’s surprise no one was in the station but Sam Buchard, the night desk man, and Chief Secco and a middle-aged woman. The chief was over in the corner at the steel desk normally used by the Resident State Trooper, and he was talking to the woman seated beside the desk. Her makeup was smeared and her eyes looked worse than Malone’s. She was smoking a cigaret rapidly. Buchard was making an entry in the case log. The LETS-the Law Enforcement Teletype System out of the state capital-was clacking away as usual in its cubicle behind the desk.

Malone walked around the glassed partition to the working area. Chief Secco looked up with a disapproving glance and went back to his interrogation. The woman did not turn around. The desk man said, “What are you doing here, Wes?”

“Sam, what’s up?”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“I was at the movies with Ellen.”

“Murder and robbery over at Aztec.”

“Murder?” The last homicide in New Bradford had been four years ago when two men and a woman from downstate had decided to try some illegal night fishing off the railroad trestle over the Tonekeneke. They had been tanked up and the men had got into a fight over the woman. One of the men had fallen off the trestle into thirty feet of water and drowned. Malone and Mert Peck and Trooper Miller had fished his body out the next morning fifty yards downstream. Malone could not recall a bona-fide Murder One in all his years on the New Bradford force. “Who was murdered, Sam?”

“Howland, the bookkeeper. Shot three times in the chest. The payroll was stolen.”

Malone recognized her now. Sherrie-Ann Howland, the one the women called “the bloodsucker.” She had never even given Tom Howland the excuse of being unfaithful to him. Townspeople rarely saw her, she was said to be a secret drinker. She was sober enough now. Malone knew nearly everyone in town, its population was only 16,000.

“Any leads, Sam?”

“Not a one. The state boys have set up roadblocks throughout the area. Curtis Pickney found him by a fluke, and they say Howland wasn’t dead long. So maybe the killers didn’t have a chance to get away. Anyway, that’s the theory we’re working on.”

Malone knuckled his eyes. “Where was Ed Taylor?”

“We just found him.”

“For God’s sake, did Ed get it, too?”

“No, they slugged him, tied him up, and threw him in some bushes. Ed says there were two of them. No I.D., it was too dark. They took Ed to the hospital. He’ll be all right. He’s a lucky guy, Wes. They could have shot him, too.”

Malone hung around. Secco was still questioning Mrs. Howland. He took the log and pretended to read it. The familiar form-B. & E. and Larceny, One-Car Accident, Etc., Obscene or Harassing Telephone Calls, Non-support, Driving under Influence, Stolen and Recovered Motor Vehicles, Resisting Arrest, Destruction of Private Property, Attempted Suicide-had ghosts in it like the TV sometimes. He dropped the log and wandered over to the cabinets. Each officer had a drawer for his personal property. He opened his and fingered its contents-summons book, warning book, his copy of the motor vehicle laws, tape measure, a torn-off brass button Ellen had replaced and then found in the lining of his leather duty-jacket, a crayon self-portrait of Barbara signed bibby to my loving father in multicolor curlicue capitals, a copy of a five-year-old income tax return. He shut his drawer and took a Hershey bar from the department commissary drawer, depositing a dime in the cashbox. He stripped off the paper, dropped it into the waste basket, and chewed the chocolate slowly. Chief Secco was still talking to the widow.

Ellen will have my hide…

Malone took inventory. The E & J Emergikit on the counter-resuscitator, inhalator, aspirator. The two-watt, two-channel walkie-talkie. The case with the camera and flashbulbs. Nothing changes. Only for Sherrie-Ann Howland. I hope he left some insurance. It’s a dead cinch Pickney didn’t pay him enough to sock anything away. The whole town knew Pick-ney’s and Aztec’s way with a buck. And there was all that talk about Howland and Marie Briggs at Elwood’s. How do you kill in cold blood? A man had a right to live out his life, even a life as sorry as Tom Howland’s. A woman had a right to a husband, even a woman like Sherrie-Ann.

Secco rose. Mrs. Howland got up in a different way. As if her back ached. “You sure you don’t want me to have one of the boys run you home, Mrs. Howland?”

“I parked my car in the town hall lot.” There was nothing in the widow’s voice.

“I could have it delivered to you in the morning.”

“No.” She walked out, past Sam Buchard, past Malone, past the partition, through the vestibule. She walked stooped over like a soldier holding his guts in.

“Goddam,” Sam Buchard said.

“Oh, Wes,” Chief Secco said. “One thing. When you met Howland at the bank today and took him back to the plant with the payroll, how did he seem to you?”

Malone was puzzled. “I didn’t notice specially.”

“Did he act nervous?”

“Well, I don’t know. He talked his head off.”

“About what?”

“A lot of nothing. Now that I think of it, maybe he was nervous. Why?”

“All right, Wes,” Chief Secco said. “Out.”

“Chief,” Malone began.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“John, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

“When you went off duty, Wes, what did I tell you?”

“You said take a couple days off-”

“Then do it. We’re under control here. I’m not about to have you come down with exhaustion. I’ve told you-more than once-this isn’t a one-man department. Believe it or not, I’ve got ten other men most as good as you.”

“Four of them trainees.”

“That’s my problem. You leaving under your own steam, Wes, or do I have to run you out?” Secco looked as if he could do it. He was almost sixty but he had a steer’s build and a tough face under the gray crewcut. He was home-grown New Bradford like most of the force. His father had been a dairy farmer and he had grown up tossing hay bales and stripping teats. He still had a knee-buckling grip.

“All right, John, but just one thing. How does it look to you?”

“An outside job, I make it. I didn’t tell Mrs. Howland, but I think Howland was in on it and got crossed. That’s why I asked you if he seemed nervous this afternoon. Now get out, will you?”

“You can’t leave me hanging, John! What’s the indication of that?”

“Ed Taylor says Howland all of a sudden sent him into town for coffee. Ed thought nothing of it at the time, but after he got slugged and came to it struck him funny. Howland never did that before. Looks to me like a setup: Howland got Ed out of the way so he could let the robbers into the plant. He’d probably dickered for a cut of the loot, and after making the deal they shot him down. Go home.”

“Any hard evidence?”

“Not yet.”

“Mrs. Howland have any ideas?”

“She can’t see two inches past her own miseries. Go home.”

“Who’s at the plant?”

“Trooper Miller. He’s waiting for the state lab men and the coroner. Go home, Wes!”

Malone left on dragging feet, not all from fatigue.

He walked east to the corner, turned right, did the one block past the Ford agency to Three Corners, and started up Lovers Hill.

How did a man get to the point of kicking his whole life away? Even a life as rotten as Howland’s? Or maybe that was the answer. Howland’s wife was a drag and a drain, his job was a lot of nothing, he was going nowhere, he was in his upper fifties, and he handled a lot of other people’s money. It made some sort of cockeyed sense if you were in Howland’s shoes. He had never seen a happy look on Howland’s face, even at the times when he dropped into Elwood’s for a coffee on a cold night and caught the guy playing up to Marie Briggs.

He wondered if the Briggs girl was involved. No, Marie was too smart. Besides, she had a thing going with Jimmy Wyckoff and it looked serious. Jimmy was a good-looking kid who pulled down a good salary as a machinist at Compo Copper and Brass. If there was anything between Marie and Rowland it had all been in Howland’s head.

Malone felt a rush of affection for his own girls.

Suppose I didn’t have them? Suppose Ellen had turned out i nag and a spender like Sherrie-Ann? And as lousy in bed as ihe must be? Suppose Ellen had miscarried with Bibby, as;he had done twice before and once since Bibby was born, vhen Dr. Levitt advised her not to get pregnant any more? There would be no little girl with copper curls and a valen-ine for a face and those big honey eyes full of love for the lero in her life. (And hadn’t Ellen been floored when, at the ige of six, Bibby had climbed into his lap and clutched him around the neck and looked deep into his eyes and asked, “Daddy, do you love mommy more than you love me?” He could still see the expression on Ellen’s face.)

Malone turned up into Old Bradford Road.

No, life would be as big a zero as Howland’s without his girls. Until he had met Ellen, with her snapping Irish eyes and tongue, he had never been serious about a girl. He had never had a girl. Only girls, and most of those had been the kind who drifted in and out of Rosie’s over on Lower Freight, and they didn’t count. He had never had any close friends of either sex before Ellen. It was Ellen, with her insight into people, who had quickly seen him for what he was and dubbed him The Malone Ranger, from which he became “Loney” to her and to her alone.

He found himself smiling as he trudged around the curves of the S. In bed sometimes he called her Tonto, just to get her mad. (“If you haven’t found out the difference between Tonto and me yet, Wesley Malone, you need a course in sex education!”)

He had always had to make out. His father, a cold and silent man, had worked on the roads for the state, and Malone’s memories of him were colored by the black oil he could never seem to clean off his hands and face. He had died when Malone was thirteen, a stranger, leaving a bed-fond widow who chainsmoked and never combed her hair, and four younger children. They were girls, and he became the man of the house before he had to shave. It still made him mad when he thought of the monthly check from the town welfare fund. It provided just enough to keep them from starving, and an inexhaustible supply of ammunition for the town kids. He had hunted up work for after school, swearing to himself that the first time he could make enough to turn down the town handout he would kick somebody’s teeth in. He did his studying at night-his mother insisted, with a stubbornness he now recognized as the source of his own, that he go through high school. During the summers he mowed lawns, bagged groceries at the supermarket, farmed out for the haying season, painted divider lines on the roads. Anything to earn a dollar. He turned it all over to his mother. Money meant little to him except as it kept her from complaining.

By the time she died of lung cancer in New Bradford Hospital, his sister Kathleen was old enough to cope with the household and the younger girls. He began bringing his earnings to Kathleen. He had supported his sisters through high school, he had seen them safely married, he had kissed them goodbye as one by one they left town with their husbands and kids, wondering whether he would ever see them again. Most of them he never had seen again, although he got a letter once in a blue moon, usually griping, they came by their complaining ways honestly. And his favorite, Kathleen, was living in San Diego on the base, her husband was career Navy, and he did not hear from her at all.

He had never played Little League ball, he had never joined 4-H or a club at high school, he had never prowled the town with a gang on Halloween, he had never gone dragging on The Pike with other teenagers when the car bug hit. Instead, when he had been able to slip off into the woods with his.22, a hand-me-down from his father which he had kept fiercely cleaned and oiled, he pretended to be a Marine-wriggling through the brush on his belly, drawing a bead on the snapping turtles that infested Balsam Lake (and never shooting except at the empty gin and whisky bottles with which the Lake woods abounded)-always by himself. Somewhere along the road he had lost or strangled the need for group enjoyment. By the time he was free and on his own, the boys he had grown up with avoided him and the girls laughed at him as a square. That was when he had spent so much time at Rosie’s.

One of his recurring regrets was that he had been too young for Korea and too old for Vietnam. He had enlisted in the Marines instead of waiting to be drafted and spent two of his four years on sea duty in the Med, all drill and mock-landings and spit-and-polish and the whorehouses of Barcelona, Marseilles, Kavala, Istanbul; the rest of his hitch he sulked at Parris Island handing out fatigues and skivvies to frightened recruits. He was not, his C.O. told him, a good Marine, too much rugged individualism and not enough esprit de corps. He was a lance corporal twice and a corporal once; he wound up a Pfc. His only achievement of record was the Expert Medal he earned on the firing range. He formed no lasting friendships in the Corps, either.

It was John Secco who had talked him into joining the New Bradford force. He had always looked up to Chief Secco as a fair man, his standard of goodness. Secco had an understanding of boys. His policies had kept the juvenile delinquency rate in New Bradford among the lowest in the state.

“I won’t kid you, Wes,” Secco had said. “You’ll never get fat being a town cop. You’ll have to learn how to handle selectmen, sorehead taxpayers, bitching storekeepers, Saturday night drunks, husband-and-wife fights, kids out to raise Cain, and all the rest. A good smalltown policeman has to be a politician, a squareshooter, a hardnose, and a father confessor rolled into one. It’s almost as tough as being a good bartender. And all for a starting pay of eighty-some bucks. I’ve had my eye on you for a long time, Wes. You’re just the kind of man I want in my department. There’s only thing that bothers me.”

“What’s that?”

“Can you follow orders? Can you work with others? Can you discipline yourself? Your Marine record says you can’t.”

And he had said, “I don’t know, Chief. I’ve done some growing up. I think so.”

“All right, let’s give it a try. Take your training at the state police school, and let’s see how you make out on your six months’ probation.”

He had chalked up the best record of any recruit in the New Bradford department’s history. But he thought that John Secco still had questions in his eye. John and Ellen. They sure hold a tight rein on me. And it’s not so bad.

^ The porch light was on, which meant that Ellen was waiting up for him. Leave it to Irish. The Saab was in the driveway, too, not put away. She had probably left it handy in case he failed to show in what she considered a reasonable time and she decided to drive back down into town to haul him home by the ear.

As he turned into his gate Malone paused. There was a strange car across the street, a black dusty late-model Chrysler New Yorker sedan. No one on Old Bradford Road could afford a car like that. It was parked at the Tyrell house, but the house was dark, so the people couldn’t be visiting. The Tyrells rarely had visitors, and never so late at night, they were an old couple who went to bed with their chickens. The people from the Chrysler might have been visiting the young Cunninghams next door, but the Cunningham house showed no lights, either. Maybe I ought to check it out. But then he remembered Ellen’s look at the stationhouse and decided that discretion was the better part of whatever it was.

Malone trudged up the walk and onto his porch, reaching for his keys. He felt suddenly like dropping where he was, curling up on the mat and giving himself totally to sleep. He could not recall when he had felt so tired, even on maneuvers. I wonder what kind of hell I’d catch from that little old Irisher of mine if she opened the front door and fell over me.

He was still grinning when he unlocked the door and stepped into the dark hall and felt a cold something press into the skin behind his ear and heard a spinning sort of voice behind him say, “Freeze, cop.”

It’s got to be I’m dreaming. I did fall asleep out there. This can’t be for real. Not my house, Ellen, Bibby.

“Don’t do it,” the spinning voice said. “I just as soon shoot the top of your head off.” It turned in another direction. “See if he’s heeled.”

Malone heard someone say, “Where’s my wife and daughter?”

“Just stand still, fuzz.” The muzzle dug in.

Rough hands ran up his body. Another man, a strong one. The hand scraped his left nipple and found the butt of the revolver sticking out of his shoulder holster, the one he used off duty. The hand came out and he felt lighter, lost.

“I got it,” a second voice said. This one was as rough as the hands, but muted, a gargly purr like a cougar’s.

“Put the lights on,” the first voice said. It sounded happy. “Let me have it, Hinch.”

Hinch.

“Just a minute, Fure.”

Fure?

The lights went up. The first thing Malone saw through the archway was Ellen in the parlor perched like a Sunday school kid on the edge of her mother’s New England rocker. She still had her coat on. Her face was the color of milk with the butterfat skimmed off.

“Can I move my head?” Malone asked.

“Like a good little cop.” The spinny one.

Malone moved his head and came to life. The two men were wearing masks. If they had meant to kill they would not have cared if he and Ellen saw their faces. He let his breath out.

The masks were ridiculous. They were fullface and skintight, brown bear faces. The bear face on the little man was too big for him; it was wrinkled up like something unwrapped after a thousand years. The big man’s fitted. The little one was a fashion plate. The big one was strictly motorcycle mugg, a hard case.

They go to the trouble of wearing masks and then they say each other’s names out loud. Don’t ever take chances with the dumb ones, John said, they either panic like animals or they like it.

The man called Fure liked it. He was now holding two guns, his own and Malone’s. His was a seven-inch automatic, a foreign handgun. At first Malone thought it was a Mauser. But then he saw that it was a Walther PPK, a gun popular with continental law officers. Must be stolen. There had been nothing European in either voice.

That’s the gun they killed Tom Howland with. The gun the little guy killed Howland with. It would have to be the little guy. He digs guns.

Fure was digging Malone’s gun. The eyes behind the bear mask were crazy with joy. He had the Walther in his left armpit now and he was turning Malone’s revolver over and over in his gloved hands.

“A Colt Trooper, Hinch. Six-shot,.357 Magnum. You ought to feel the balance of this baby. You’re a pal, fuzz. Here.” He handed the Walther to the big man. “Where’s the ammo belt goes with this?”

“I don’t keep it in the house-” Malone stopped. Fure was laughing. He reached into the hall closet and straightened up dangling the ammunition belt. The holster was empty, the bullet holders were full. “Naughty, naughty. Okay, fuzz. Inside with wifie.”

Malone went into the parlor, his own gun digging into his head.

“Not near her. On that sofa over there.”

Ellen’s eyes followed him each inch of the way, saying do something, don’t do anything.

He’s a shrewd bugger for all his dumbness. He figures that together we’re strong, apart we’re helpless. Malone felt the rage rising. He sat down on the sofa.

“Ellen. Where’s Bibby?”

“Upstairs with the woman.”

“Is she all right?”

“I don’t know. I think. I found them here when I got home. They won’t even let me see her.”

The woman. Then there were three of them. Apparently Ed Taylor had not seen the woman. Making it tougher for John and the state boys. They’re looking for just two males.

“Your kid’s okay for now, Malone,” Fure said. He was running his hand over the Colt as if it were alive. “You want her to stay that way you jump up and roll over. Hinch. The bag.”

Hinch reached behind the sofa and came up with a black bag. He handed it to the fashion plate. It seemed to Malone that he did it very slowly.

“It’s yours.” The bag landed in Malone’s lap. Fure scraped Ellen’s treasured antique crewel chair over to him, the one with the shaky legs, and dropped into it. He kept fondling the Colt. They had to turn their heads to face him.

“What do I do with this, Fure?” Malone asked.

“Mr. Furia to cops.”

“Mr. Furia.”

“Take a look inside.”

Malone unzipped the bag. Bundles of greenbacks stared up at him.

The purr behind him said, “I still think-”

“Just don’t, Hinch,” Furia said. “Know where this loot comes from, cop?”

“I can guess.” Malone said in a soft voice, “You don’t know about this, Ellen. Tom Howland was killed tonight at the Aztec plant and the payroll stolen. That’s what all the excitement was about. This is the Aztec payroll. Right, Furia?”

“Mister Furia.”

“Mr. Furia.”

“Right.”

He thought Ellen was going to topple over.

“Can I go to my wife, please? She looks sick.”

“No.”

Ellen’s eyes were begging him. They made a quick upward roll toward where little Barbara was. “I’m all right, Loney.”

Malone said, “What did you mean, this is mine?”

“You’ll never have so much bread in your hands your whole life. Enjoy it.”

“What did you mean?”

“Like for the time being.”

“I don’t get it.”

“No? You’re putting me on.”

“I don’t get any of this.”

“You want I should spell it out? What you do, cop, is you hold this for us. Like you’re a bank.”

Malone tried to look stupid.

“You still don’t get it,” Furia said. “We drew a real dumb one, Hinch, a dummy town cop.”

Hinch heehawed.

“Okay, dummy, listen good,” Furia said. “With the bread on us we can’t get through the roadblocks. Without it we can. They’ll have no reason to handle us different from anybody else. Specially seeing there’s going to be four of us in the car.”

“Four of you,” Malone said. His mouth was sticky. “I thought there were three.”

“Four,” Furia said. “Me, Hinch, Goldie, and your kid. Only she’ll be Goldie’s. Her mama, like.”

“No,” Ellen said. ‘Wo.”

“Yeah,” Furia said. “Your kid’s our receipt for the loot. All clear?”

“It’s taking chances,” Malone said carefully. “Suppose one of the officers recognizes her when you’re stopped? This is a small town. Everybody knows everybody. That blows it.”

“You better pray it don’t. Can you pray?”

“Yes,” Malone said. He wondered if it was true. He had not been inside a church since his confirmation. Ellen took Barbara every Sunday to the second mass, she’s not going to grow up a heathen like you, Loney Baloney, you’re a cross he has to bear Father Weil says.

“They tell me it helps,” Furia said. One of the eyes in the bear mask winked. “All clear now?”

“All clear,” Malone said.

“It better be. You try any cop stuff, dummy, or your missus there sets up a squawk, and the kid gets it through the head. Be a nice dummy and keep your old lady’s yap shut and you get the kid back with her noggin in one piece. It’s that simple.”

Ellen’s eyes were scurrying about and Malone said, “Ellen.”

“I won’t. They can’t!”

“They can and you will. We have no choice, honey.”

“You listen to your papa, honey,” Furia said. “He’s a smart dummy.”

“How do we know they’ll keep their word?” Ellen screamed. “You know what you’ve always said about kidnapers, Loney!”

“This isn’t a kidnaping except technically. All they want is to hold Bibby as security till they can get the payroll back.”

“We’ll never see her again.”

“They’ll keep their word,” Malone said. “Or they’ll never see this money again. I’ll make sure of that.” He said to Furia, “All right, we have a deal. But now you listen to me and you listen good.”

“Yeah?” Furia said.

“You hurt my daughter and I’ll hunt you down and cut you to pieces. If it takes the rest of my life. You, and this goon, and that woman upstairs.”

A growl behind him. “Fure, let me. Let me.”

“You close your goddam mouth, Hinch!” Furia shouted. He jumped up and sprang forward, eyes in the wrinkled mask boiling. “I ought to knock you off right now, cop, you know that?”

“You need me,” Malone said. He tried not to swallow.

“I ain’t going to need you forever. Nobody talks to me like that. But nobody!”

“Remember what I said.”

Their eyes locked. I could jump him now. And get a bullet in my back from the goon. And leave Ellen and Bibby to their mercy. Malone looked away.

“Goldie!” Furia yelled.

A woman’s voice from upstairs said, “Yes, Fure.”

“Wake the kid up and get her dressed!”

“Let me,” Ellen whimpered. “Please? She’ll be so scared.”

“Let her,” Malone said. “She’s not going to try anything.”

“She damn well better not.” Furia waved the Colt. Ellen jumped to her feet and ran up the stairs.

Furia sat himself down on the rocker. The Colt was aimed at Malone’s navel. He’d love to pull that trigger. He’d pull, not squeeze. He’s kill-crazy. Malone looked down at his own hands. They were gripping the edge of the sofa so hard the knuckles resembled dead bone. He put his hands on the black bag.

They appeared at the top of the stairs, Ellen clutching Barbara’s hand, the woman strolling behind them. The woman was wearing a mask, too. Through the mouth slit she was smoking a goldtipped cigaret. That was all Malone saw of her.

He said with a smile, “Baby. Come down here.”

She was still sleepy. Ellen had dressed her in her best outfit, the red corduroy dress, the patent leather shoes, the blue wool coat and hat.

“Have you told her anything, Ellen?”

“What could I tell her?” Ellen said. “What?”

“Are we going someplace, daddy?” Bibby asked.

He set the black bag on the sofa and took her on his lap. “Bibby, are you all waked up?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Will you listen to me very, very hard?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“These people are going to take you somewhere in a car. You’re to go with them like a good girl.”

“Aren’t you and mommy going, too?”

“No, baby.”

“Then why do I have to go?”

“I can’t explain now. Let’s say it’s because I ask you to.”

Her lips began to quiver. “I don’t like them. Why are they wearing those masks? They’re hor’ble.”

“Oh, they’re just pretending something.”

“They have guns. They’ll hurt me.”

“I have a gun and I’ve never hurt you, have I?”

“No, daddy… “

“Come on,” Furia said. “Time’s up, like the screws say.”

“Wait a minute, Fure,” the woman said. “Let him explain it to his little girl.”

“They won’t hurt you, Bibby. I promise. Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

“No… “

“Remember, they won’t hurt you. And you do whatever they tell you, Bibby. Whatever. You may even have to pretend, too, the way you did in the school play.”

“Pretend what?” Barbara asked in an interested voice.

“Well, the chances are some policemen are going to stop the car. If they do you make believe you’re sleeping in the lady’s lap. If they wake you up and ask you questions, just say the lady is your mama and that’s all.”

“My mama? That lady?” She looked at her mother. Her mother looked at her.

“It’s just pretend, baby. Do you understand?”

“I understand, but not whyT

“Some day I’ll explain the whole thing to you. But for now you’ve got to promise me you’ll do whatever they say. Promos? ise:

“All right. When will they bring me back?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A day, maybe two.”

“Well,” Barbara said. “I don’t like to, but I guess I will. Goodbye, daddy.” She held her face up to be kissed. Valentine face. He kissed it. She jumped off his lap and ran to her mother.

Ellen held on to her.

“Okay, okay,” Furia said. Malone could have sworn he was grinning under the mask. “Let’s get the show on the road, like they say.”

“Ellen,” Malone said.

The woman walked over and pulled Barbara from Ellen’s clutch. Sexy figure, flashy getup, hard voice-maybe late twenties, though it was hard to tell without a face to go by. And brains, she’s the brains. I know her from somewhere. I’ve heard that voice before. A long time ago.

“Come on, honey,” the woman said. “We’ll have just buckets of fun.” She took Barbara’s hand. “Fure. It won’t hurt to buy insurance. With Barbara in the car, and you and her and me making like one happy family, it will look better if Hinch isn’t with us. That getup of his doesn’t go with the act.”

“What, what?” Hinch said.

“Goldie’s right,” Furia said. “You hoof it, Hinch. You can cut off that main road into the woods somewheres and stand a good chance of not even being stopped. If they stop you, so what? One guy on the hitch. Stow your mask in the car. Also the heater-I’ll drop it in the river before we get to the checkpoint. We’ll meet you at the shack.”

Hinch glanced at the Walther automatic in his hand. He’s not used to guns. Malone tucked the observation away. “If you say so, Fure. Not because of her.”

“I say so.”

“Goldie and you and the kid’ll meet me?”

“You worried about something?”

“Who, me? I ain’t worried, Fure.”

“Then do like I say. All right, Goldie.”

The woman immediately said, “We’ll be seeing you soon, mommy. Won’t we, Bibs?” and they marched out through the archway and into the hall and out the front door and, incredibly, were gone.

Furia backed his way out. At the door he said, “Remember, cop, that’s your kid we got. So don’t be a hero.”

And he was gone, too.

They were left alone with the black bag.

Standing at the window watching the Chrysler back around and straighten out and head down Old Bradford Road toward Lovers Hill.

Standing at the window until the sound of the Chrysler died.

Then Ellen whirled and said in a voice full of hate, “You great big policeman you. You cowardly sonofabitch, you let them take my Bibby away. You let them!” and she was punching his chest and sobbing and he put his arms around her and said in a hoarseness of baffled rage, “Ellen, they won’t hurt her, I’ll kill them, they want that money more than anything, don’t cry, Ellen, I’ll get her back.”