Dead End

12—

I came out of the delicatessen with a bag full of beer, a barbecued chicken, orange juice, and a pie. It was my third night of shopping. I went out every other night, never to the same store twice, never bought more than five bucks' worth of food in any one shop. I was pretty cocky and sure of my disguise, almost welcomed leaving the buggy house. Although Doc seemed to think my walking around was a milk run. He was carrying his coolness too far, asking me to hunt around for some kind of sharp cheese, special crackers, frozen egg rolls, or other fancy chow. And he seemed to be worrying more about fuel for his lighter than figuring a way for us to break out of town. Of course I was acting a trifle stir-happy, too. I kept buying light bulbs; had this fear about the light in our room giving out.

But Doc had been right—as always. Luck had been with us all the way. Molly hadn't any friends: In the ten days we'd been in the house not a soul had come near it. I stopped for the evening paper and a couple packs of butts, then walked up to the old house like I owned it. I'd found a key in Molly's purse, along with most of the original five hundred dollars we'd given her. I'd also come across a neat bankbook in another purse. The old witch had $7269.53 socked away in a savings account. We couldn't touch that, but I kept the book anyway.

As I took out the key, my eye hit the dateline on the newspaper. It was a small shock to realize tomorrow would be exactly eight years since Daisy had died. I stared at the date for a moment, upset. I always made a point of putting flowers on her grave every year. I wanted to do it now, wanted to badly because I had a hunch I'd never see her grave again.

I turned around and walked up the street, hunting for a florist shop. It was silly; a florist would starve in this neighborhood. And it would be dangerous going to her grave. Not only all that traveling, but they just might have it staked out. Still, they didn't know her as Laspiza; on police records she was down as Mrs. Daisy Perm.

I kept walking in the night, thinking at least I could send some flowers. It was the very least I could do for Mom, and if I sent them under the name Laspiza, as I'd have to, there was little chance of anybody getting wise. But a little voice in the back of my noggin kept telling me it was risky. A small thing like this could be the very bit that would trip me. Yet this would be my last chance to give Daisy flowers.

I walked across town several blocks—I'd never been this far from the house—and came out on Seventy-ninth Street, which is a pretty big thoroughfare and well lighted. I wasn't too worried, had plenty of confidence in my “clown” outfit. I walked about a block up Seventy-ninth, most of the stores still open, thinking that even if I didn't send them I ought to buy flowers for her. Somehow, she'd know I had her in mind. And would Daisy also know I was on the lam? A—

My heart jumped out of my mouth as I hurriedly faced a store window, raised my grocery bags over my face. There at the curb, getting out of his low-slung MG, was Shep Harris!

Maybe he saw me and maybe he didn't. In the window's reflection I watched him walk directly into a hobby-toy store. I turned and walked by the store—fast—and saw Shep's owl face as he talked to a clerk, pointing to something on the shelf. His back was to me and I turned the corner, headed for the house, trying not to run. I was so jittery I walked into a couple of teen-age girls who giggled at me to watch where I was going.

Shep with his dope about facial angles—had he seen me? With a million bucks in my kick, I was worrying about flowers for a grave. That kind of carelessness could put me underground myself!

Unlocking the door, I made straight for the kitchen, walking fast in the dark. I put the food on the table, turned on the light. My hands were trembling and I leaned against the refrigerator for a moment, to calm my nerves. There was a faint sour stink in the house. Probably only faint because I was used to it—and probably Molly. I was always aware of it after I'd been out of the house. I called out, “Doc?”

There was a few seconds of silence. I got jittery all over again about something else—maybe Doc had taken off with the dough!

But then I heard his steps and a moment later he appeared in the kitchen doorway. I could smell him, too. He sure looked a mess: his clothes crumpled and stained, hair uncombed, the thick gray stubble on his face. Dapper Doc—he hadn't washed or had his clothes off since we'd been here. He asked, “What took you so long?”

“I was shopping around for your damn frozen strawberries,” I said, walking over to the sink, easing the cotton out of my nose, and running cold water over my wrists.

“Pull the shade down,” he snapped, looking through the paper bags on the table. “You get them?”

“No. I didn't see any and I couldn't ask. Dressed like a working stiff, a storekeeper might get suspicious.”

Doc sighed. “You're right. But I certainly have a yen for them. Sound like I'm pregnant.”

“Get pregnant with some ideas for leaving this dump.”

“I hope this chicken isn't stale. Let's get back to our room. Stinks in here.”

He turned out the light and I put two beers in the refrigerator, dropped one of them. It made a noise like thunder in the still house. Doc jumped, then grinned as he asked, “Getting the shakes, Bucky?”

“Could be.”

After we ate, and I threw the garbage in the unused old coal furnace in the damp cellar—and how I wanted to light all the junk in it, burn the bugs that were having a holiday there!—I came back to the room to see Doc sprawled on his cot, smoking a cigarette and contentedly reading the papers. He looked like he was right at home. I asked, “How much longer are we going to stay here? No sense in pushing our luck too far.”

“We haven't been pushing it. This is a good spot.”

“Is it? Molly's odor is reaching outside.”

“Not yet. If this were an apartment, or an attached house, it would, but with empty lots on all sides we're safe.”

“I smelt her outside,” I said to annoy him.

He glanced at me over the top of his paper. “You really did, Bucky boy, or was it your imagination?”

There wasn't any sense playing games in our spot. I shrugged. As I changed into my regular clothes, I told him. “Maybe it was all in my mind. But this is for real. I saw Shep Harris on the street tonight. You remember him, the eye—”

Doc sat up fast as a cat. “Did he see you?”

“I don't think so. He was rushing into a store, probably trying to get in before closing time. I doubt if he could make me in this disguise.”

Doc seemed lost in thought for a moment. “This Harris, he's the square who tipped you off on Johnson, isn't he?”

“Yeah. He knows a lot about facial measurements, bone structure. I goofed: I was over on Seventy-ninth Street and he—”

“What the devil were you doing over there? Damn it, Bucky, I told you not to walk too far or—”

“Relax. I was looking for your lousy frozen strawberries. I'm certain he didn't make me, but the point is, sooner or later somebody will recognize me, start asking questions. We've been here long enough.”

“This Harris thing can be a bad break. Of all people, he'd be on the lookout for you.” Doc poked the newspapers. “I think we can move in a day or two. We've already vanished from the papers.”

“Got any ideas cooking?”

“I always have,” Doc said, smugly. “Of course, they will still be covering the railroad station, bus and plane terminals, and maybe the highway entrances. But by this time the dragnet should be off, only have a comparative few men watching—and they'll be looking for us, for two men carrying suitcases. I imagine that's where they think they have us: A million dollars is bulky and they know we wouldn't leave the money behind. To them, it's the albatross around our neck.” Doc smiled at me, waiting for me to ask what that last crack meant.

Instead I said, “That's assuming they don't think we blew town at once.”

Doc scratched the toothbrush whiskers on his chin. “We have to figure as if they're still watching for us in town. If they aren't, so much the better. Here's my idea, son: Suppose we leave town separately, you dressed in your clown outfit, and I'll get some dirty work duds for myself. We'll each be on our own for a few days.”

“Yeah?” I said, trying to keep suspicion out of my voice. “How do we leave—on a magic carpet?”

Doc gave me his best tight smile. “Could be, Bucky, a million bucks is a modern genie. Cut the smart-aleck talk and see what you think of this. Maybe you can come up with something better. Now—a few hours apart, and in the early morning hours, we'll go down to the farmers' market, which is very busy at that time. If the place isn't being watched too closely, we each look for a trucker who will give us a hitch. Maybe offer him a few bucks, or a carton of cigarettes, tell him we're down on our luck. Now—”

“What if the market is being watched?”

“Then we return here, work out something else, like buying us an old truck. However, I don't think we'll have any trouble. Unless the market is heavily staked out, we should make it with our disguises.”

“How can we disguise the money we'll be lugging?”

“Coming to that,” he said like a lecturer. “Naturally I've given a lot of thought to it. That's our big gimmick because we turn it against the police. You see, after we get a ride with our sob story, we go out of town in opposite directions—and we go empty-handed!”

“You mean we bury the money in the back yard? That's risky. Sooner or later they're going to find Molly and then they'll take the house and yard apart. Even if they don't, be bad returning here in a year or so. And how will we live during all that time?”

Doc laughed at me. The big difference between him and Nate was Doc really acted like he found the world one big joke, while with Nate it had been a pose. Doc said, “We could live on the five grand we're each carrying. But as you say, burying the money would be old hat. No, Bucky, the money goes with us, only we won't be carrying it. Uncle Sam and the express company will do it for us—the money will be sent out by mail and express freight!”

I couldn't have jumped more if I had been fingered. “Mail it out? Doc, have you flipped?”

The tight smile again. But with his face unshaved it looked old instead of sharp. “Don't get up in the air, son. I told you I've given this a lot of thought. Years ago I was in Syracuse on my way back from a trip to Canada. I stopped at a third-rate hotel named Carson's. I happened to be broke at the time. Tomorrow you call the hotel long-distance, ask for a Gil Jones—merely to find out if the hotel is still in business.”

“Forget the dives you've lived in. Get back to the bundle.”

“Damn it, listen and stop interrupting me! Or if you feel nervous, take a nap and we'll discuss it later.”

“Let's talk about it now, Doc.”

“Then listen. Once we're sure the hotel is still there, the following day we get a couple of baskets, or heavy cardboard cartons. We line them with old clothes from Molly's junk, then fill them with money, tie them securely. Now, there's an express depot near here. You ship a basket or box to Gil Jones at the Syracuse hotel. You'll say it's only old clothes and insure it for the minimum. The following day you'll ship another basket of 'clothes,' and at the—

“Day? You expect me to go out during the day?”

“Yes. You'll have to. The express office won't be open at night. Now, Bucky, wait before you hit the ceiling: I certainly realize we run more chance going out during the light hours, but you'll only have to walk within a radius of five or six blocks of this house. Not as far as you went tonight.”

“I don't like going out during the day.”

“Use common sense, son. What really is the difference? If your clown outfit works for the evening, it will work in the daylight hours too. Let me finish my plan. At the same time you ship the second basket of 'clothes,' you'll mail the larger bills in several relatively small packages. There are two post office substations near here. You'll send these first-class mail. We ship the smaller bills in the baskets and the larger bills by mail. That will take care of all the money, except for what we carry with us. Buying it?”

“Why, hell no! It's crazy for me to walk into a post office. Next you'll tell me to stop at the local precinct house to ask where the post offices are!”

“Come on, talk sense,” Doc said patiently. “First off, these are substations, just stores and not regular post offices. But in any event, why should they be looking for us in a post office?”

“There may be wanted flyers of us posted.”

“Oh, I'm certain there are. So?”

“Doc, you talk sense! If those flyers are up, it'd be plain nuts to have me near them!”

“Calm down, Bucky. Forget the flyers, for two reasons. First, you won't look anything like your mug shot, Secondly, no one bothers to read those flyers or—”

“Shep Harris reads them.”

“Because they are mailed directly to his office. Bucky, take my word for it—nobody reads flyers posted on a wall. Unless it's a mug shot of a woman. Do you think I'd take a chance like this if I wasn't certain you'll be safe? In your disguise you could stop Bill Smith on the street for a match and he wouldn't make you. Believe me, son. Any other objections?”

“You bet! Suppose they open the packages? And who's this Gil Jones?”

“Easy, son,” Doc said softly. “I haven't the slightest intention of throwing away our million. If you mean by 'they' the postal authorities—they can't open first-class mail, and they don't. When the postal clerk asks what's in the packages, you go for dumb, tell him you're sending your brother some old letters and notebooks he wants. The clerk will then say it has to go first class. You act surprised, raise a fuss at the few dollars extra postage first class will cost. But you pay it. Obviously we couldn't send the baskets first class, without attracting attention. We could send them parcel post, but they might be opened for inspection. Not much of a chance, but the express company doesn't open any packages.”

“You ever see how they throw packages around in the post office?” I yelled, so wound up I couldn't keep my voice down. “Suppose one is busted open? Or a basket is broken? We'll be dead!”

Doc crushed his cigarette on the floor; the space under his cot looked like a giant ash tray. “Take it soft, son. I've considered all that, naturally. It's a hundred-to-one chance we have to take. Actually, all the corny jokes to the contrary, very few packages are broken in transit. We'll pack them well, with cardboard and plenty of gummed tape under the outside wrapper. There isn't anything that can break. Even if the wrapper should be torn, the money won't show. But let's say somehow one is accidentally opened—we can tell if the hotel is staked out. Then we'll have to flee with what we have. But the odds are all in our favor. We surely can't make it if we take the money with us.”

“You still haven't told me who Gil Jones is.”

Doc held out his hand. “Mr. Penn, shake hands with Mr. Gil Jones. If you'll just close your big yap for a few minutes and let me finish, there won't be so many questions. Now, here's the rest of the idea. I figure the baskets will take about a week to reach Syracuse but the first-class mail will only take three or four days, at the most. This means once we ship the packages on their way, we have to start too, and keep going. We each get a hitch to towns about a hundred miles from here, where we each buy a good secondhand car, but nothing too good or flashy, and drive like hell for Syracuse. Or we go by train or bus. We'll stay off planes. The point is, if we leave by, say, Wednesday, mail the packages by then, then we must be at the Syracuse hotel by Saturday. I'll register as Gil Jones, get a fishing license and make up a few other papers for possible identification. You register as Ted Brown. Do you know anything about the produce business?”

“Naw.”

“I do. I used to be on the market detail. I'll fill you in on enough details to get by. Your story is you're a trucker heading for a fishing vacation in Canada. You'll buy some fishing tackle in a secondhand store, or a pawnshop, in Syracuse. Once we reach the hotel all we have to do is act quiet and wait for the packages, then head north. I picked Syracuse because it's a big city, easy to get lost in, and also it's less than a half a day's drive to Canada. Like it?”

“How can we buy a used car without showing a license?”

Doc rubbed his whiskers. “Not too hard—give the dealer a song about leaving your license with a pal and you're in a big rush to meet him. The dealer won't ask too many questions when he sees it's all for cash. Maybe we'll skip the car idea and go by train. Have to give this part more thought. What else?”

“How will we get the money into Canada? Won't they examine our bags at the border?”

“It's a big border and not too tightly watched. We'll get over.”

“Won't the Canadian police be looking for us?”

“Of course, but certainly not as hard as the local police. If Syracuse looks safe, we may hole up there for a few months, then go to Canada. Once in Canada we can lay low in comfort, explore the setup for taking a boat to the West Indies, or any place where we won't need a passport. We can take it very slow, perhaps see what the deal is about buying forged Canadian passports. But we'll cross that bridge once we're safe in Canada. Any more holes in my plan?”

“I still think it's crazy! We'll have a million dollars out of our hands, riding around the country in packages!”

“It's a bold plan, but simple, and it will work. The fact that the money is out of our hands is the smartest move we can make. The only way we could take the money with us would be to first stay in this hole for another five or six months, and that is risky. Who will stop a couple of poorly dressed working slobs, traveling empty-handed, or with a small bag or a shopping bag?”

“But if one of those packages or baskets comes open, we're done!”

“That's right. So we have to wrap them very well. But remember if this Harris made you, or if a gas man comes to check the meter here a few times and doesn't get any answer, we're done, too.”

I thought furiously, was absolutely against letting the money out of our hands. “Suppose the hotel clerk gets interested in the packages?”

“First, he hasn't any reason to. It's our fishing gear and clothes we're waiting for. After all, we're not sending the packages registered mail, or anything that would make the clerk suspicious. And that's exactly why we have to be there before any package arrives. By train we can reach Syracuse in eighteen hours, perhaps a few hours longer by bus, and even less time if we get a car and drive. We can do it easily.”

“Suppose you get picked up, get sick, or hurt—what happens to Gil Jones?”

Doc nodded thoughtfully, started another cigarette working. “Good—that's using your head, kid. I never considered that angle. I didn't want us to be together, thought we'd be safer acting as strangers, but you raise a good point. We'll send the packages to Gil Jones, in care of Ted Brown. That way, whoever gets there first can take the packages and wait for the other. We'll set a deadline: The first one there will hang around for exactly six days. By that time he'll know something has gone wrong, one of us has been bagged, and take off. However, if one of us gets sick or hurt in an accident—long as he's in the clear—he'll wire the other to wait. Buy it now, Bucky boy?”

We argued most of the night. I still saw a lot of holes. If one of us was collared it would be silly for the other to wait a week; in a week's time the cops would have beaten all the details out of the one bagged. But I didn't tell that to Doc. I argued against buying cars without a license; if we were even stopped for passing a light in any town, or for anything in some hick speed trap, we were finished. I didn't like the idea of the money leaving our hands, nor of Doc getting to Syracuse before me. (Although I didn't tell him that.) The more we talked, the more I began to go for the idea. I wanted to get out of this bug-joint, and seeing Shep Harris had given me a bad jolt. Doc was clever; who would bother a couple of stiffs in old clothes, empty-handed? I had to admire Doc's brainwork, and also I had a few ideas of my own.

Toward morning, after we'd gone over and over it, I gave in. We finally decided—at my insistence—that we would each carry a hundred thousand with us, say in a paper package. After all, a hitchhiker would be carrying something, like a paper bag or small canvas bag with his clean shirt. And if anything happened to the packages, we'd at least have getaway money. Doc was against the idea, felt if one of us was in an accident, for example, how could he possibly explain all that money? But he finally gave in.

I couldn't sleep much that night, and early the next morning we rummaged around the stinking cellar. Luck was with us again. We found a couple of strong baskets, big ones, like apples come in. After lining them with old clothes, we carefully packed one with ten- and twenty-and fifty-dollar bills, and were easily able to put in $231,200. Doc said that was too much and we repacked it with less dough and more clothing. Doc was sharp; he even left part of an old coat sticking out of the top so there wouldn't be any doubt as to the contents. We found some clothesline in a kitchen cabinet—God knows why Molly had bought it: Washing was the last thing ever on her mind—and tied the basket good, real good.

We decided I would express the basket that afternoon, and buy wrapping paper, plenty of gummed tape, cardboard, twine, and a pack of labels. I'd mail the packages the following day, along with expressing another basket. We would then take off tomorrow night.

As I was ready to leave with the basket, Doc said, “Now remember, first you make the long-distance call to the hotel, then get the wrapping paper and stuff in several stationery stores. Get plenty of it, and more clothesline. Also another can of lighter fluid; I misplaced the one you got the other day. And I'd like a chocolate bar.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I wisecracked, but the thought of walking out in broad daylight had me far from a wisecracking mood. Still, I knew it had to be done.

Strolling down the sunny street with almost a quarter of a million bucks in a basket in my arms made me sweat. If I was stopped, I was a goner. But then, if I was stopped at any time, for any reason, I'd be a burnt cookie.

Like the first night I'd been out, after I'd walked a block I felt okay. One part of Doc's plan worried me: It was important we know if the market and the trucks were being watched before we started anything. I considered taking a cab down there, or even walking, but it would be a big chance. Besides, at this hour the market would be empty. I was pretty sure I could get a ride out of town.

I purchased two books of labels and a pen in a candy store, then made the long-distance call. The hotel was still doing business in Syracuse, of course. I wrote out a label for the basket, made certain it was on good, and headed for the express office.

The bored clerk weighed the basket, asked, “What's in here?”

“What you can see—old duds. My brother got hisself a job out there and wants his old work clothes.” *

The clerk wrinkled his veined nose. “Didn't you ever hear of the invention of the washing machine?”

“Do tell? They really got such machines? What will they think of next?” I cornballed, almost enjoying myself. “Tell you, let him wash it. I don't know why he wants this junk—they been laying around the cellar all year. He must have a dirty job, like in the oil fields, needs these clothes.”

“Want to insure it?” he asked, starting to write.

“Naw, only old stuff that... Yeah, insure it for, the smallest amount, just to say I did it.”

“How much you value this junk?”

“Guess about ten bucks,” I said calmly, wondering how this jerk's face would look if he could see the “junk.” “Is that label on good? Maybe I ought to write out the address again on—”

“It's on okay. Don't worry about it.”

On the way back to the house, I bought wrapping paper, cord, picked up some old cardboard boxes and plenty of gummed tape. I went into a store to get Doc's lighter fluid and noticed they were selling cheap wrist watches. I thought about buying one, for it suddenly occurred to me that quite a few guys on the force had noticed my boxer's watch at one time or another, and I ought to throw it away. But I knew I couldn't part with it, so I merely took it off and stuck it in my pocket.

I stopped at another store to buy Doc's candy bars, and had a soda myself. Now that the money was on its way, or at least part of it, I felt tense but also relieved—the chips were really down now.

Doc and I spent the rest of the day packing the other basket and the packages of big bills. Then Doc picked out some old clothes to wear. I told him to take a shave—not even a bum would be seen with his whiskers. He said he'd do it just before we took off; maybe shave off all his hair as part of his disguise. After supper we made a list of the main towns within a hundred miles, decided on which city we'd each try to hitch to, what the probable bus and train connections were. Doc even lectured me on the wholesale produce business. He was such a bug for details, I felt confident things would work out okay. But I hardly slept that night, my brain spinning, my insides knotted—another day or two and I'd be rich, free of this dump.