Manhunt. Volume 13, Number 5, September 1965

Fair Exchange by Patrick Sherlock

All that glitters ain’t necessarily gold.

It was a perfect plan. Not one flaw — from beginning to end — not one little flaw. I had spent long months planning it, working out the smallest details to perfection. I had even made five dress rehearsals which were all successful and the funniest thing about this whole affair was that it was so simple. It was so simple that it couldn’t fail.

I kept telling myself this as I drove out to the airport but I couldn’t shake that feeling you always get before a job. The car I was driving was hot but I didn’t have any worry on that score. I had very carefully selected a dark colored, nondescript, late model car; nothing flashy or expensive looking, just good dependable transportation. I had stolen the car last night and it wasn’t likely that it was on the “hot sheet” yet but just in case, I had even switched license plates.

It was a warm morning and I could feel my fingers begin to sweat inside the thin pigskin gloves as I nervously gripped the wheel. I rolled down the window and slipped over into the slow lane as I glanced down briefly and saw the speedometer needle drop below the posted speed limit. No sense in breaking the law when you don’t have to, I thought.

As I passed by the hangars on the outskirts of the airport, I felt those little things in my stomach begin to flap their wings violently. “I can’t miss,” I told myself, “This time I can’t miss; it’s a sure thing, like money in the bank.”

I pulled up to the gate at the parking lot, got a check from the attendant and drove through. I squeezed into a slot between two other similarly nondescript cars and cut the motor. I glanced briefly in the rear-view mirror and rolled up the windows. Reaching into the back seat I took out the black gladstone suitcase and one of those small airline bags with the adjustable straps. Stepping out of the car, I pressed the button on the self-locking door and slammed it shut, and removed my gloves. I set the straps so the airline bag hung loosely from my left shoulder and carrying the black gladstone in my right hand, I headed across the parking lot toward the terminal building looking no different than any of the thousand other passengers that would be passing through the airport during this day.

The big clock in the main lobby read 9:21 A.M. I checked my watch and it was right but I was nine minutes ahead of my schedule. I sat down in one of the rows of benches and tried to make myself slow down and relax. I killed the nine minutes by alternately dragging on a cigarette and wiping the perspiration off my face. I had to force myself to remain seated until the minute hand on my watch finally reached the half hour mark.

I stood up and walked the entire length of the lobby until I came to the baggage claim area. The room was empty now, but had I arrived here nine minutes earlier it would have been full of redcaps, airline agents, and arriving passengers waiting to claim their luggage. It was a perfectly planned job, a sure thing, just as long as I stuck to the schedule and didn’t get careless or over-anxious.

I glanced around casually to make sure no one was in the area and then walked swiftly to a row of public check lockers. I pushed the gladstone into the nearest one, slid a quarter into the slot, locked the door and removed the key. I walked back down the lobby still carrying the airline bag over my shoulder, stopping occasionally to glance curiously at the information boards behind the airline ticket counters.

As I approached Trans-State Airlines I checked my watch, 9:45, I was right back on schedule again. I paused at the Trans-State information board and saw that flight 32 would arrive on schedule at 11:05. It was very important to me that flight 32 arrived on time. “Everything is on schedule,” I told myself, “Nothing can go wrong now.”

I walked to the center of the lobby and rode the escalator to the second floor. Off to my left, ran a long hall which housed dozens of concessionaires shops and to my right was a large expensive looking restaurant. Directly in front of me was a large arrow pointing to my left and below it, a sign which read: All departing and arriving flights and shops. I turned to the left and walked past several doors until I came to one marked: Gentlemen, and I pushed it open. The room was empty so my luck was still running good. I straightened my tie in the mirror and brushed some lint off the sleeves of my bright checkered sport jacket. My shoes were well shined and my black trousers were impeccably creased.

Satisfied, I walked outside and began a slow examination of the shop windows, but when I came abreast of the small enclosure which housed TRASK & CO., I suddenly became occupied with lighting a cigarette and walked past without looking in. I didn’t have to, I’d been studying it for months and I knew every inch and crack of that office as well as I knew my own room.

On the window in 12 inch block letters was the name: ‘TRASK & CO.’ and beneath that but in smaller letters: ‘FOREIGN CURRENCY EXCHANGE’. Also in the window was a small sign which read: Money orders and travelers checks — Issued and Cashed. I didn’t have to look inside to see the short, gray haired guy behind the counter or the middle-aged, flabby guard in his blue uniform. I didn’t have to because I knew they’d be there and I knew that at 10:30 an armored car would deliver $35,000 in 5’s, 10’s and 20’s to Trask & Co. for the weekend returnees at the end of their vacations, who would want to convert their Francs, Pounds and Liras into greenbacks. And I also knew that at 11:00 exactly, the chubby guard would take his daily twenty minute coffee break.

Just beyond the last shop, the hall turned abruptly to the right and became a gaily lit passageway leading out to the arriving and departing flight gates. Small clusters of people stood idly waiting at the gates and from somewhere within the building, a woman’s deep, sultry voice announced the boarding of the 10:30 Jet to London and Paris.

It was now 10:10 and I noticed that my fingers were trembling. I walked back down the hall and turned up the stairs leading to the observation deck. At the top, I inserted a dime, pushed through the turnstyle and walked out onto the deck. There were a few people up there but not too many at this early hour of the day. I strolled to the railing and watched the passengers boarding their planes. Quick stepping, vacation-bound families and trudging, worry-burdened businessmen poured from the gate, crossed a strip of oil stained ramp and filed up the stairs to their magic carpet.

As I stood watching them, it occurred to me how very lucky they all were and once again I was filled with my old companion — envy. They all possessed something valuable; something that I’ve always lacked and never been able to acquire. They had a destination; they were going somewhere, to someone, while I had no place to go to and no one to go to. I’m a loner, I’ve always been one and that’s the way I want it, so I’m not complaining but there are... well, there are times that I sometimes wonder what it would’ve been like if I had been able to become a nine-to-fiver and go the whole bit, you know, wife and kids, mortgage and car payments and backyard cookouts... ah hell, I probably would have been a lousy father and a worse husband. What kind of influence would I have been for kids; I’m a fast buck guy. Easy money and fast living, that’s my kind of life.

I looked at my watch again, 10:30. Below me, the plane door was shut and some guys in white coveralls were pushing the stairs away. I waved nonchalantly to an imaginary friend on board and turned away. I walked across the deck to the street side and glanced over the rail. The armored car was parked at the curb, right on schedule. Everything had been right on schedule so far; it was a good sign. This was going to be easy money.

There was an open air snack bar by the exit stairs and the thought of a good cup of black coffee appealed to me. The kid behind the counter gave me no more than a passing glance when he took my dime and handed me a paper cup full of coffee, so I knew he’d never remember me. The coffee was hot and strong and it did a lot to help my nerves. My fingers weren’t shaking anymore and those things in my stomach had crawled back to wherever they go when a guy is cool. The weight of the .45 in the airline bag hanging from my shoulder was as comforting as the presence of an old dependable friend, which is what he was. I knew every screw and spring in his well oiled little body. I must have taken him apart and cleaned him a thousand times; we were on very intimate terms.

The clock behind the snack bar showed 10:52. It was almost time for me to make my move. In thirty minutes it would be all over and I’d be $35,000 richer. I stood by the railing and stared at the sky and waited. Five minutes later a speck dropped from the clouds. It grew in size and shape until I could finally make out the familiar silhouette of a plane. It circled the airport in a slow lazy bank and then glided down the last two miles in a long sloping decline; its wheels now visible and its flaps down. Its wheels touched down easily and as it shot past me I could make out the ‘Trans State’ lettering on the side of the fuselage. I looked at my watch and smiled; it was now 10:59.

As I went back through the turnstyle, I could hear that deep sultry voice on the loudspeaker again, only this time she was announcing the arrival of Trans State flight 32. It was exactly 11:00 o’clock.

I paused on the stairs and removed the .45 from the bag. I took the loaded clip from my pocket, shoved it into place and jacked up a shell. This time it would work, I knew it would I’d put a lot of time and sweat into this job and it couldn’t fail. I wouldn’t let it; I’m a three time loser and a guy that’s took three falls hasn’t got a thing to lose. During my last stretch, an old con had taught me three basic rules for a successful heist: plan carefully, execute swiftly and escape safely. My mistakes in the past all fell into this last category but now I had the perfect getaway; this time I could brazenly walk through a division of cops and they wouldn’t even look at me.

At the foot of the stairs, I turned to the left and walked down the hall, stopping in front of the office of Trask & Co. I looked at my watch again; it was 11:02. I had exactly 18 minutes before die guard returned and approximately 6 minutes before the deplaning passengers from flight 32 passed by here on their way to the baggage claim area. I walked inside and stared at the little old guy who looked up at me inquisitively through steel rimmed glasses.

“Good morning.” He said, “What can I do for you?”

“You know the routine Pop, same as in the movies. Just keep your hands in sight and don’t make any sudden moves.”

His eyes widened and he looked down and saw the big automatic in my fist. His mouth hung slack and he stared stupidly at the .45 as I pushed him towards the office in the rear. He looked like he was about to faint, so I grabbed his arm and was surprised at the frailty of his body. He stumbled against the safe and turned to me with actual horror in his eyes. I’d never seen fear quite like that before and it made me feel uneasy.

“Open the safe” I ordered.

“Please... please don’t kill me.”

“Just open the safe, Pop, and you won’t get hurt. All I want is the money.”

I tried to make my voice sound a little more human. I didn’t like scaring him like this; he was a pretty old guy. He bent down slowly and spun the dial with palsy-like fingers and when he pulled the handle, the door remained locked.

“I... I must have missed, I... I’m sorry.”

He tried again and I glanced at the clock on the wall: 11:10. The hall outside was probably full of passengers by now. He pulled at the handle again but it still didn’t open.

“Goddamnit old man, you’re stalling.” I snarled. “Get that door open or I’ll blow your head off.”

“No... no please,” he begged, “I’m... just scared... my fingers are shaking.”

“This is your last chance Pop, get it open or else.” I said, glancing nervously at the front door.

His fingers began playing with the dial again and this time the door swung open when he pulled on the latch. I pushed him aside roughly and reached into the safe and withdrew the two sacks of money. The old guy was looking at me uncertainly.

“Lay down on your stomach, Pop, and when I leave here I don’t want to hear any alarms.”

He scrambled down onto his stomach as I crammed the money in the airline bag and backed toward the door. He looked like he wouldn’t have moved for a month if I had told him not to. I tucked the .45 under my belt, buttoned the sport jacket around it and walked casually through the outer office. It was now 11:16; the timing had been perfect. A little closer than I had planned but perfect nonetheless. I opened the door and fell into the stream of flight 32 passengers in the hall. I walked briskly along trying not to hurry and thinking about the $35,000 that I carried.

At the men’s room, I pushed the door open and walked into one of the stalls and locked the door. I stripped off my sport jacket, tie and the detachable white collar of my shirt and pulled the reversed white collar from the bag and hitched it behind my neck. Then I hooked on the black dickie and slipped into the matching black suit jacket while I stuck the gun, sport jacket and tie back into the bag on top of the money and zipped it. I stepped in front of the mirror and tore off the adhesive mustache and stuck it in my pocket.

When I opened the door and joined the tail end of the flight 32 passengers in the hall, it was 11:22. Halfway down the escalator, an alarm went off; that would be the guard returning from his coffee break. By the time we had reached the baggage claim area, there were sirens screaming from all directions outside. The Police would be looking for a man with a mustache wearing a sport jacket and I smiled contentedly to myself because none of them, not even the most cynical cop would be suspicious of a priest.

I moved carefully through the crowd till I reached the check lockers and removed my black gladstone. By now the bags were off the plane and the passengers were claiming them and moving out into the street. I moved outside with them, letting myself drift with the tide of passengers whose destination I knew would lead me to the cab line.

But the line was empty; there wasn’t a cab in sight. This had been the one slight flaw in my plan: depending on a cab for transportation and chancing a delay at the scene of the crime if none were immediately available. But since everything so far had come off so smoothly, I wasn’t particularly worried. As a matter of fact, I felt rather safe and snug. There were about twenty other people standing around me waiting for cabs and I tried to make myself look as impatient and inconvenienced as they did. Two uniformed cops stood a short distance away and stared at us suspiciously. They were looking for a man in a sport jacket, white shirt and tie; and if they found one in this crowd, it wouldn’t be me.

Just then another cop came running up and whispered something to them. Then, all three of them turned and looked at me and I glanced away and tried to remain calm. When one of them detached himself from the group and walked towards me, I had to fight down every nerve and reflex in my body to keep from running. My pulse was beating faster and faster, and when I felt his big hand lock itself around my arm, my heart sank down into my stomach and I thought I was going to be sick. What had I done wrong, I asked myself; where did I slip up?

“Will you come with me please.” He said, not asked.

“Wh... what for, Officer?” I managed to ask.

“Just come with me.”

He pulled gently but firmly on my arm and I followed meekly. We were joined by the other two cops and they marched me back into the building. I had nothing to lose now so I decided to try a bluff.

“What’s this all about, Officer?” I asked politely.

The cop on my right removed the gladstone from my hand while the other slipped the airline bag from my shoulder. “We’ll take care of these for you.” One of them said.

“Will you please tell me where you’re taking me?”

The older cop looked at me for a long moment and then said, “I’m sorry Father, I thought you’d have guessed by now. There’s a dying man upstairs and he’s asking for a Priest.”

A surge of relief swept over me and I felt some of my self-confidence returning. Outside, a line of cabs had somehow mysteriously appeared and I began to dare hope that I might still pull this off, if I kept my head and didn’t panic. With a little more luck and a lot of moxie, I could bluff my way out. Maybe.

“Of course,” I said. “Please take me to him; I’ll leave my bags down here with the other officers.”

I had seen a few guys croak in stir and I remembered the routine the Chaplain had gone through. I was pretty confident that I could play the role. I followed the cop back through the terminal and up the escalator.

“It’s a pretty awful thing, Father.” The cop was saying, “Little old guy upstairs in the currency exchange office got held up. Musta been too much for his ticker. He’s had a few attacks before but this one looks real bad. The Doc don’t think he’ll make it.”

“That’s terrible.” I said. “Did you catch the man who did it?”

“Not yet, but we will. The airport sealed up tight; he’ll never get through.”

We hurried down the hall. There was the usual group of curious onlookers gathered outside and a big burly cop was trying to make them move on. It was a hell of a thought to have but I wanted that old man to be dead when I got there. I didn’t think there was one chance in a million that he’d recognize me but then there was that one chance. The cop cleared a path for us through the crowd. I paused briefly at the door, took a deep breath and walked in.

The room was full of cops and detectives, and they all turned to look at me when I came in. I was able to meet their stares but my poise was slowly slipping. The fat guard in the blue uniform was sitting on a chair in the corner looking sick,

“This way, Father.” A man said urgently from the inner office, “Hurry, there’s only a few moments left.”

As I passed the fat guard, I was able to catch a few words of his conversation. “Yeah,” he was saying to a detective. “At least 30,000, probably closer to 35,000.”

I felt a tingle of delight run up my spine when I heard that. I passed by and walked into the inner office. He was laying right where I left him only someone had turned him over onto his back. I knelt down beside him and placed my left hand on his brow and began murmuring inaudibly. The old guy opened his eyes and looked up at me. He looked like hell. His skin was drawn tight across his small boned cheeks and his face had turned a pale, ash-gray color. Even I could tell that he didn’t have much more time; he just looked like death.

Suddenly his eyes grew bright with excitement and he tried to talk. I could see the recognition begin to dawn on his face, but by this time I was beyond caring if he recognized me or not. Outside the fat guard was still talking and bits of his conversation were drifting in to me.

“Yeah, it’s all there. 35,000 dollars, right where we left it, in the cash drawer under the counter.” He was saying, “The guy musta took the two bags of foreign currency we had in the safe and left all this cash.”

I closed my eyes and felt sick. The old guy was whispering hoarsely and a detective had knelt down beside him. “Can you beat that,” someone was saying. “35,000 dollars in American money and some clown swipes two sacks of foreign money.”

The detective was staring at me now and the old guy kept pointing his finger at me, as he whispered.

“Yeah,” someone else said outside. “And all that foreign money’s only worth about 78 bucks in greenbacks.”

I felt someone’s hands grab me by the arm and I was dragged to my feet. There was no resistance left in me; there was no fight left either. There was nothing left in me at all.