Cutting Loose, page 2
A month after leaving California, she had made a call.
“Yeah?” said Sol.
“Me.”
He was silent for a while.
“So. Are you in or out?”
“I don’t know. This is a shit storm.”
“Give it time.”
She knew the FBI must have her name, but they had said nothing, and that had stretched her nerves tight. Even the changes she had made to her appearance had not calmed her, and yet the need to continue was still there.
Max, there in Medina, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, looked at her over the back of the seat and said, “Hey.”
“What?”
“Let’s fucking do it.”
Two days later, Special Agent Gus Esposito was watching the grainy footage from Medina.
“That one, “said Dell, pointing. “Tell me that isn’t the same guy.”
“Yeah, could be.”
“The way he keeps the right leg back. The set of the shoulders.”
“Uh huh.”
Dell, a skinny guy in his late thirties, reversed the film for a few frames.
“And there. It’s that way he has of carrying it, the barrel held high.”
“I hear you.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Relax, Dell. Could be.”
Dell exhaled with irritation.
“Dell, be cool.”
“Man—this is the bit that gets me. That same guy—the second one—he’s pointing his AK at the teller—he’s for sure the one in Delmont.”
“Believe he is.”
“And the girl—”
“Yeah.”
“It’s her.”
“Uh huh.”
“Astaire.”
“From what the cops in Medina say, it’s them.”
“So, all three. That’s what we’re saying?”
“Yeah.”
The previous footage from the bank in Delmont, California, had not been released. Although the robbers were masked, FBI analysts had been poring over the film of that robbery for two months and had become familiar with their manner. Immediately after the NBC broadcast that made Carey leave California, tips began coming in from the public. A restaurateur in Carmel, a walker in the hills, a stevedore in Monterey, the owner of an apartment block, and several others, had phoned the FBI hot line.
Three days after the broadcast, a team kicked in Rick’s front door. He was at his ease with a spliff and a four-pack, watching a heavyweight elimination bout on TV at the time and was too relaxed to get to his feet. Downtown, they left him in an interview room for two hours.
SA Mahoney: So, Rick, you can have a piece of this if you want to go that way. There’s plenty to go around—Communist agitators robbing banks, killing people. There’s a plateful of trouble just for you, piping hot. Is that what you want? Or take your one chance to get with the team?
Lafitte: Okay. Look, I don’t have an ax to grind. You say she was doing this stuff—fair enough. News to me. Far as I was concerned, she was this hot chick. Way too young for me. I wasn’t putting any moves on her. The rest? Forget it. You’ve checked me out. Not even a driving violation. I’m clean.
SA Mahoney: You’re looking at time here, my friend. Consorting with terrorists.
Lafitte: Horse pucky. You can’t sell me that. She was a chick, I was a guy who liked to be around her. That’s the beginning and the end of it. You think, suddenly—my time of life—I get a yen to pal up with bank robbers? And how’d I go about it? Place a personal ad—‘Geezer wants to hang with the wrong crowd’?
SA Mahoney: Records show you called Astaire at 7.10, Wednesday evening. Right when the story was being aired on TV. She left soon after.
Lafitte: So I phoned her, time to time.
SA Mahoney: You saw the graphic and put it together. Made the call.
Lafitte: Hey, keep it up. Push a little harder, why don’t you? See if it helps.
SA Mahoney: Rick—don’t be so tough. You’re scaring me.
Lafitte: Spare me the routine. You know I’m not a part of this. I called her. We passed the time of day.
SA Mahoney: Maybe you got her to Mexico on one of your boats.
Lafitte: That’s a good one. While my doppelganger was with two guys in a bar in Monterey. And look—what you said before you pressed record—you’d dump all over me if I didn’t play ball—
SA Mahoney: No such threats were made.
Lafitte: —that wasn’t very nice. Dump all over me? They teach you to talk that way in the Academy? Lesson one, how to talk street?”
“Mr. Astaire?”
“Yes.”
“FBI, sir. Special Agents Hamlin and Leveson.”
Astaire, at his front door, nodded and looked them over.
“Sir, we are pursuing inquiries into a series of bank robberies.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I see. And those inquiries bring you here.”
“Yes, sir. Uh—may we ask if you have been in communication with your daughter recently?”
“No.”
“No, you haven’t been in communication?”
“No, you may not ask.”
“Mr. Astaire, sir, we have reason to believe your daughter has participated in three bank robberies carried out for political motives.”
He cleared his throat. “Have you indeed?”
“Yes, sir. No doubt this comes as a shock to you.”
Astaire looked at them coldly and said nothing.
“Sir, may we come in to discuss this matter?”
“No.”
“Sir, these are terrorist incidents, and this is a major investigation. We’re asking you to cooperate with us by answering a few questions.”
“I decline to do so.”
“Sir, the most recent robbery was in Medina, not that far distant. The Mutual and General. You’ll have seen it on the news. I suggest it’s fair to ask if she visited with you.”
Astaire nodded.
“You agree, sir, that it’s a reasonable question?”
“Yes.”
“So will you answer that reasonable question?”
“No.”
“Sir, there have been two deaths.”
Astaire paused and looked over their shoulders into the distance.
“Two . . . Really?”
Hamlin and Leveson gave him a few moments to think it over, but not a trace of emotion crossed his face.
“Sir, sometimes our civic duty trumps all other considerations.”
“Thank you for that observation.”
“Sir, we could bring you before a grand jury to question you. “
“No you couldn’t. I’m an attorney. You don’t have a cat’s chance in hell of getting a subpoena.”
“Okay, sir. Thank you for your time. Have a nice day.”
Astaire never slammed doors, but once it was closed, he picked up a ceramic figurine he had never liked and hurled it at a wall.
“Damn, damn, damn. Stupid, brainless bitch.”
“When women go this way, they can be harder than the guys,” said Esposito. “More committed.”
“Yeah. Like Mossad always say, shoot the women first,” said Dell.
“She didn’t go to her parents’ place. Hamlin’s pretty sure.”
“Not with those two. Can you picture it? Her dad with the poker up his ass?” said Dell. “Hey, Dad, this is Moe and Joe, Commie bank robbers.”
“Yeah. Okay. One more time. The part where she goes over the counter.”
Dell toggled the images, and the masked female, shotgun in hand, pushed a customer to one side.
Carey, her heart thumping, got her backside on the counter and swung her legs over. She racked the slide and aimed the shotgun at the female teller with the red dress.
Sol was behind her, not moving, keeping an eye on the clock and covering the entrance. Max had his shotgun on the customers and bank staff. A security guard lay at his feet, motionless, his holster empty, blood from a head wound making an S shape on the tile floor. Carey tossed a bag at the teller.
“Fill it. No dye packs.” She lifted the Remington. “You hear me?”
The teller, terrified, yanked a drawer open and began filling the bag.
“Large denominations.”
She heard the sigh of the glass main door opening and looked up to see someone entering. Max turned and lifted his shotgun. Sol, sensing it, moved forward to block his line of fire and shouted, “Get down!”
The customer, a woman in her fifties with teased hair, knelt clumsily, then lay prone.
Carey, looking at the teller again, saw that her left hand was away from the drawer, and knew instinctively she had pressed an alarm.
“You fucking with me? What’s there?”
She checked under the counter but could see no buzzer.
“Keep going, dammit.”
The bills were hundreds and fifties. The bag was half-full. Carey’s intuition told her it was time to go. She glanced quickly at Sol, who held up two fingers.
The bank manager lay beside a desk, next to a customer he had been advising. The teller, a pretty girl in a mini dress, lifted her eyes for a moment to Carey, and her expression told Carey all she needed to know. She turned and drew a line under her throat, but Max yelled, “Keep going!”
She turned back to the girl, who was still filling the bag with her head down. The customer next to the manager, a fat guy whose Stetson had rolled under a desk, moved his leg, and Carey yelled, “Keep the fuck still, jackass!”
Then she heard movement, and Sol shouted, “It’s Code!”
She saw a flash of a blue uniform out front and grabbed the bag. Max fired and blew a hole in the glass frontage.
“Fuck,” she said and grabbed the bag.
Sol moved to his left and pointed his shotgun at the manager. “Where are your car keys?”
“Right here, sir, in my coat pocket.”
“You come with us, out back. Now. Up, up.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stumbled to his feet and led them to rooms in back. Sol, the last one through, turned for a moment, and the bank guard, blood on his face, rolling onto his front, lifted a back-up firearm and fired.
Sol groaned but kept going. He put a hand on Carey’s back to tell her he was all right. Max had his shotgun to the side of the manager’s head.
“Move it!”
“Yes, sir. Give me a moment. I have to unlock.”
The door gave onto a private car park.
“Over there, sir,” the manager said, holding out his car keys. “The tan Buick.”
“You drive,” said Max.
“Uh—yes, sir. Okay.”
They ran over to the Buick, and the manager fumbled with the keys.
“Just fucking do it,” said Max.
“Yes, sir. You bet.”
Then the doors were open, and the manager was sliding behind the wheel. Max flicked a look back and got in next to him. Carey saw wetness on Sol’s black shirt as they climbed in the back seat.
“What’s your name?” said Max.
“Lionel, sir.”
“What do they call you for short?”
Carey wondered who the fuck cared.
“Lionel, sir.”
“The whole thing, huh? Okay, Lionel, give me some gas.”
Two uniformed policemen came running around a corner of the bank, weapons drawn, but held their fire when they saw the shotgun held to Lionel’s head.
“Left,” said Max, as they came out of the park. “And Lionel—not a lick over thirty. You hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep us legal.”
“Okay.”
“You’re very polite, Lionel.”
“Seems like the best policy right now, sir.”
“Yeah.”
A couple of police cars sped past, lit up and sirens wailing. Max looked over the seat at the bag Carey was holding and nodded.
“Good, good.”
In spite of himself, Sol groaned. Max turned again and saw blood. He nodded and said, “There at the end, huh?”
Another cruiser went by.
“Where do you live, Lionel?”
“Out in the suburbs.”
“You got a second vehicle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
“A Chevy Nova.”
“So, this place in the suburbs. Where’s it at?”
“It’s just a place out of town.”
“Uh huh. You made that point already. Where exactly?”
“Sir, my wife and kids are there.”
“It’s against my religion to repeat myself. But I’m gonna do it. Where?”
“North.”
“Lionel—you start off being polite. Now you decide to jerk me around. Why the change of pace?”
“I’m just saying. My family is there.”
“Okay. Play it that way.”
After a few minutes they came to open country.
“We need to switch. This tag will be out there,” said Max.
“Yeah,” said Sol.
“How you doing?”
“Okay.”
A couple of trucks went by, then Sol said, “Try here.”
There were four single-story houses to the right of the road, and a dark-blue sedan was parked next to the second one. Max drew in at the curb, and they waited for a few moments to check for movement.
“Sol? Can you do this?”
Sol was the one who had the hot-wiring skills.
“Yeah.”
He climbed out carefully and took a home-made tool from a pocket.
“Lionel,” said Max. “Whyntcha get out, real quick.”
“Yes, sir.”
Max and Carey got out, carrying their shotguns, holding them down by their legs in case drivers went by. Sol, favoring his right arm, slid the tool below the off-side window.
“Lionel,” said Max, “move down there a ways, you hear me?”
Lionel moved backwards along the side of the garage.
“Right there is fine.”
There was a click, and Sol slid into the sedan. He stopped for a while to cough and leaned out to spit blood. Max turned to watch him, and Carey placed herself behind him. Sol stopped for a while, breathing slowly, then bent down to work under the dash.
Carey moved back toward Lionel and whispered, “Get behind the garage, then run.”
Soon the engine jumped into life, and Max smiled. “Sol, my hero.”
He turned, shotgun raised, and said, “Where the fuck is Lionel?”
Carey, turning also, said, “Looks like he made his move.”
“Shit,” said Max and took a few paces to his right. Lionel was running across a field. Max fired, but the range was too great, and Lionel was moving fast, back toward the suburbs.
TWO
“Habba . . . no. Please,” said Sol.
“Now it’s habba. The fuck does that mean? This dope talk can get on your tits,” said Max.
Carey looked over the net curtains down the road.
“Yeah.”
This was their second day in the apartment. They had been lucky finding it. Carey, wide-eyed and perky, a happy smile in place, had pushed open the door of a letting agency, wearing a skirt that could have been packed in a matchbox. The lackluster guy behind the desk coughed and closed a file.
“Miss—uh . . . My name’s Gary, and I’m hoping I can help you out.”
“I just bet you can, Gary.”
“Why don’t you set yourself down and tell me exactly what it is you’re looking for.”
“Wow. Let’s start with real estate.”
Gary chuckled. “We can do it that way around, for sure.”
Max and Sol, parked round the corner, were waiting patiently.
“It’s a big one, Gary. I’ve got a business deal coming up, and I need a place I can walk into, like now. Just for four, five days. Hotels don’t work for me.”
Gary moved his coffee mug.
“Skip the niceties, huh? In, out. Lemme think. . . .”
He gave her a sideways look and smiled.
“Just you? Singleton?”
“Just me.”
“Believe I can do it. Place come vacant just the other day. Duplex. Ground floor.”
“Who’s upstairs?”
“Guy who’s away a lot. You want privacy, you’ve got it.”
“Pay cash now?”
He spread his hands. “Sure. Hey, I’ll get my coat. Show you round.”
“Gary, relax. I’ll take it. Just give me the keys and the address.”
“Business lady. Decisions all the way. I like it.”
Fifteen minutes later, she slid into the car and dangled the keys. Max grinned. “That skirt, that brain.”
Sol was in the bedroom next to the living room, sweating and moaning. Max went to make some calls from a payphone to find a doctor and returned late that night with a guy who had a febrile look in the eyes that told Carey he had been barred for an addiction.
“Okay, let’s see your lill problem.”
His unnaturally dark hair was carefully combed across on top and back at the sides, and he wore a mauve shirt with beige hopsack pants and grey slip-ons; Carey wondered why he had made those choices as she led the way to the bedroom.
“Through here.”
“Okay.”
“Doc,” said Sol, opening his eyes.
“How’s it hanging, my man?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Uh huh. Let’s take a look-see.”
He put his bag down, leaned over Sol, and palpated the shoulder lightly.
“Okay, bullet went through. A touch of fabric got in there. I’m gonna pick that out.” He turned and said, “Give Sol ‘n’ me a few moments here.”
“You got it,” said Carey and closed the door behind her.
Max, pouring himself a shot of whiskey, turned to her and said, “You?”
“Sure.”
“Soon as Sol is okay, we’re out. This guy—he’s okay, this kind of work is all he’s got, but . . .”
“Right.”
“This, now . . . The heat.”
“What are you saying?”
He blew air. “I don’t know. Make another move, maybe. South . . .”
She sipped her whiskey, watching him, and knew that some of the bravado had been knocked out of him. The wild buckaroo who had worn the biker’s jacket and the tight T-shirt was now looking more carefully at what, if anything, was left in the years that lay ahead.
