Help, I Am Being Held Prisoner

31

THURSDAY I WAS IN A C O M P L E T E state of nerves. This afternoon the boys were going to pull the bank job, and now that I was excused from attendance I felt guilty. Can you imagine? Feeling guilty about not robbing a bank.

But what if they were caught? I would always feel that my absence had made that tiny little bit of difference, that one more gun, one more hand, two more eyes, would have added up to success instead of failure. I had lied to those people, conned them, played practical jokes on them, and now I was letting them down when it really mattered. And they were even going to give me my share of the proceeds, just as though I’d come through.

They’re a swell bunch of fellows, I kept telling myself all day, completely forgetting the many times I’d felt I was one tiny revelation from violent death at their hands. Forgetting, in fact, that I still was only one tiny revelation from violent death at their hands. A swell bunch of fellows, I kept repeating in my head. Gee, I hope they don’t get caught.

They didn’t. Phil came around to my cell about eight o’clock that night, and he looked disgusted again, as though he’d been smelling more stink bombs. Andy was present, sitting on the other bunk, and Phil nodded meaningfully toward him, saying to me, “Hey, Harry, come for a walk.”

Being now a man without privileges, the extent of the walk I could take was up and down the corridor outside my cell, so that’s what the two of us did. From the look on Phil’s face I knew the news was going to be bad and the only question was just how bad. Had there been gunfire? Were some of the boys dead? Had they gotten away, but with no money? On the other hand, was the bad news more personal than that; which is to say, had Phil tipped to any of the things about me that I didn’t want him to know.

I felt very nervous, therefore, when I stepped out into the corridor with him, and the two of us began to stroll up and down. Phil didn’t say anything, and when I sneaked a look at his profile he was looking extremely disgusted. So finally I was the one who broke the silence, saying, “Everything go okay?”

“No.”

“Trouble in the bank?” Some sort of lump was in my throat; maybe it was my heart.

“You could call it trouble,” he said. He stopped and gave, me a flat look and said, “They were having a party.”

“A what?”

“They can’t have a Christmas party like everybody else,” he said. “Last week, like everybody else. They have to have a New Year’s party instead.”

“A party,” I said. “In the bank?”

“All over the fucking bank,” he said. “Three o’clock comes around, they throw the customers out, they lock the door, they break out the booze and the record player and they proceed to have a blast.”

“Good Christ,” I said. “It’s as bad as the stink bombs.” “It’s worse than the fucking stink bombs,” Phil said. “When Joe got there in the typewriter truck, he didn’t notice what was going on. We’re all in the luncheonette waiting for our coffee, we can see what’s happening, but he’s right there on the sidewalk in front of the fucking place and he doesn’t notice anything going on. So he gets the typewriter out of the truck and goes over and knocks on the bank door, and it isn’t till some secretary opens the door wearing the guard’s hat that Joe notices there’s maybe some activity taking place inside the fucking bank.” Phil had a really remarkable capacity for expressing disgust. While marveling at that, I said, “So what did he do?” “What could he do, the dipshit? He gave her the typewriter. So now we got to cop another fucking typewriter for the next time we try the job.”

The next time. “Ah,” I said.

“One good thing,” he said, “you’ll be able to come back into it by then.”

“Right,” I said. I tried to sound enthusiastic.

“Anyway,” he said, “I thought you’d like to know.” He looked at his watch. “Listen, I gotta take off, I’m bowling with Max tonight. I’m maybe joining that league of his.” “That’s nice,” I said. Next time. They’re going to try again. I’ll be able to come back into it.

Phil started away down the corridor, then stopped and looked back. He still looked disgusted. “Sometimes,” he said, “I think God doesn’t want us to rob that fucking bank.”