Dead End

13—

I must have fallen off in the early hours, for I awoke this morning when Doc felt of my wrist, looking for my watch. When I pulled it out, it was nearly noon. I explained why I was hiding it and Doc thought it was a smart move. I washed and took the second basket to the express office, my heart beating like a fast drum, wondering if the police would be waiting for me. I'd left my pen at the house, and I had to stop and buy another one. The same clerk was working the counter and he didn't say a word. I told him I'd found more clothes to send my brother.

On the way back to the house I even walked into a ratty-looking bar for a fast shot to quiet my nerves. There was some loud jerk working off an all-night binge and feeling very gay for himself. He started kidding about my blond hair reminding him of the faggy wrestlers he saw on TV and I got out of the bar fast—before I clipped him.

The big money was packed in four packages, each a little bigger than a good-sized box of candy. I carried them in a shopping bag. Doc gave me the addresses of the two post offices, reminded me to bring back food for a last supper. He said he would be shaved and dressed by the time I returned, and we'd take off for the market at around ten. Doc had even managed to find a couple of dirty old canvas bags in Molly's room, big enough to carry most of the hundred grand we were each going to take, and the kind of a bag a working stiff would be carrying his few belongings in.

I felt jittery as I walked toward the first post office. However, Doc had this down pat. It was a drugstore with a one-window post office in the rear. There was a girl clerk. I took out two of the packages, made out labels for them, gave her one as I said, “Parcel post.” To my surprise, my voice sounded calm.

“Anything breakable in here?” she asked, weighing it.

“Nope. Just some old notebooks and letters my brother wants.”

“Then—you mean it contains writing?”

“Only a lot of pencil writing. You know, school notebooks.”

“Pen or pencil doesn't make the slightest difference. It's still writing and must be sent first class. This will cost you a dollar and eighty cents.”

I could have won an Oscar, the doubtful way I stared at the five-dollar bill I was fingering. After the proper hesitation, I muttered, “Sure is a lot of money for nothing. I thought I could ship it parcel post. What would that cost?”

“What's the difference?” she asked a little stiffly. “You'll have to send it first class.”

“Well, it beats me why he wants these old papers anyway. But they must be important to him, so send it first class. What's this one add up to?” I asked, handing her the second package. “Has writing in it, too.”

“This is heavier. Be a... two dollars and twenty cents.”'

I handed her the five bucks as I said, “I hope I ain't putting out money I'll never get back.”

The other substation wasn't part of a store. I mean it was, or used to be, a store, but all of it was a post office with several windows. I went through the same routine with the last packages. There were a few wanted flyers on a bulletin board. I couldn't see our mugs and didn't have nerve enough to look.

I dropped into a coffeepot for a sandwich. Food sometimes calmed my nerves, but not now. I felt high, all of me racing—the way I guess a charge of “horse” hits you. It didn't seem possible I was successfully pulling off one of the biggest scores in crime history.

I was eating aimlessly; sandwich, pie, toast, cake. I told myself to haul tail out of this place. It would be some jerky, needless move, some little thing, that would queer the whole deal. Elma rarely went farther from the apartment than the corner store, but today she might be walking around here, drop in for a cup of coffee. Not that she'd make me in this clown outfit. Still, it was a needless chance. It was the first time I'd thought of her in days. I wondered how she was taking all this. Not that it mattered to me.

The fly-specked wall clock said it was eleven after four as I started for the house, anxious to duck any coming-from-work crowds. I stopped in at a small supermarket I'd never been in before, bought some food for supper. I even lucked up on Doc's yen—frozen strawberries.

As I walked I felt very good, very sure of myself. I'd tested my clown outfit enough to have absolute confidence in it as a disguise. Looking at myself in a store window, I only saw a sloppy-looking fat slob in dirty clothes. And now that all the money was moving, it seemed like most of the work was done, although I knew I was a long way from being in the clear.

The good feeling—all feelings—fled the second I turned into “our” block. I saw smoke coming out of the house! Fire engines and squad cars were all around the place, blocking the street!

I ducked into a doorway and for a heavy, dumb moment I didn't get it. The firemen were hosing the wooden house but didn't seem to have the fire under control. I wondered where Doc was—a dull pounding in the front of my head warning me it was all over.

They moved a pump engine closer, giving me a clear view of the sidewalk near the house. I saw Doc—oh, I sure saw him—in the midst of a crowd of cops and detectives! I even saw Ollie and that little punk who had flattened me. Doc was talking to Lieutenant Smith. Doc looking like a runt next to Smith. Doc still unshaven and in his own wrinkled clothes. Of course, I couldn't hear what Doc was saying. But I didn't have to: His gesturing hands told me plenty—he was going through the motions of his hands being tied! I sure got the message then—right between my stupid eyes!