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Authors: Robert Grossbach

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BOOK: Going in Style
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“It’s tough,” said Al. “I know. Bartendin’ alone is no picnic, and two jobs.…I wish I could help.”

Pete reached out to pat his cheek. “Aw, you’re a sweetie pie. Thanks, Al.”

Al nodded. A slow smile spread across his face. “How do you make a Bronx cocktail?” he asked.

Pete grinned back. “One ounce gin, one ounce vermouth, juice of one-quarter orange. Shake with ice cubes, strain into cocktail
glass.”

“Son of a gun,” said Al. “Not bad. You forgot only two things.”

“Two?” said Pete. “Jesus, I thought I had it. Okay, you’re the
real
bartender here. Shoot.”

“You gotta dust it with grated nutmeg—”

“Ah…” scoffed Pete.

“—and it’s to be served only when a subway train passes.”

“Now
that’s
something I didn’t know,” said Pete.
“That
is learned only after forty years of bartending.”

“Try fifty,” said Al. He looked at Pete sympathetically. “And hope you never get that much experience.”

In the park, squealing children ran back and forth under a water sprinkler while the old folks watched from nearby benches.

“Looks good,” said Joe. “I feel like going in there and joining ‘em.”

Willie nodded and patted his face with a handkerchief. He seemed unusually pale. Joe saw his lips working. Next to them on
the bench, an old woman was listening to the news on a portable radio.

“You look like you’re sick,” said Joe. “You feel okay?”

“Fine,” said Willie. He belched, and the old woman turned away.

“Should we go get you some Alka-Seltzer or something?”

Willie shook his head. “Nah. The fresh air will take care of it.”

Joe stood up. One of the children had fallen while running through the shower. The little boy had landed heavily on his hands
and knees; he was
now screaming hysterically. Joe walked quickly over and lifted the howling child off the ground. “Shhh,” he said softly. “There,
there. Easy. You’re okay.” Tears ran down the boy’s cheeks; he was only about four or five years old.

“Show me where it hurts,” said Joe.

“Hurts!” wailed the boy.

“Is it your knee?” Joe saw a young woman detach herself from a group of friends and amble in his direction.

“Yes,” said the boy bitterly. He held up his tiny hands. They were skinned, but not very badly.

“And your hands too?”

The boy shook his head yes. “I want Mommy!”

“Mommy’s coming,” said Joe. He was wet from the sprinkler, and the trickle of blood from the boy’s knee had made a small stain
on his shirt. “Tell you what,” continued Joe, “when you get home, ask your Daddy to make you new hands and a new knee.”

“Out of wood?” asked the boy.

Joe wiped a tear from the little chin. “Sure… tell him to make them out of wood.”

The young woman was upon them now. She wore shorts; her hair was in curlers. She was chewing gum. She shook her head in disgust.
Joe placed the boy on the ground, and he ran to his mother, hugging her hips and burying his face in her stomach.

“Two seconds!” she said angrily. “You can’t play for two seconds without something happening!” She detached him from herself
and pulled him roughly along. “Let’s go! Come on! Now!” She headed back toward her friends without saying a single word to
Joe.

Joe returned to the bench. “You know,” he said to Willie, “I don’t mind she didn’t thank me—that I
don’t expect—but she didn’t even
look
at me. It’s like I didn’t exist.”

The old woman next to Willie turned down her radio. “For her you
dont
exist,” she offered. “If she doesn’t care about her son, you expect she should notice you?”

“I suppose not,” said Joe. He strained to hear. “Excuse me, could you turn up the radio a bit? I’d like to get the weather.”

The old woman looked at him skeptically, but nevertheless increased the volume. “… partly sunny, but with a chance of afternoon
showers,” came the announcer’s voice. “Precipitation probability is thirty percent today, forty percent tonight and fifty
percent tomorrow.”

“This
you’re interested in?” said the woman. “After they’re finished with all their probabilities, the only thing they’ve told
you is that it may rain. For that, you don’t need a radio.”

“In this half hour,” said the announcer, “new OPEC price hike, Carter to visit Turkey, teamsters demand wage increase, man
murdered in Crown Heights, Mets win, Yanks lose, Borg advances. But first—a unique bank robbery in Manhattan.”

Joe nudged a beginning-to-doze Willie. “Listen!”

“Not too long after they opened their doors this morning,” continued the radio voice, “the Union Marine bank on Fortieth street
in Manhattan was taken over by three masked gunmen.”

Joe felt his blood racing. “You hear?” he said excitedly. “Gunmen!”

“You’re reliving your childhood?” asked the old woman. “You like cops and robbers?”

“Shhh!” said Joe. The woman seemed offended. He’d seen her in the park before—a sour, cynical old crab, he’d always thought—but
had never engaged her in conversation. “I think my son has an account there,” he whispered urgently. The woman nodded.

“It is believed that the thieves made off with over fifty thousand dollars in cash,” said the announcer, “a tidy sum, but
hardly unusual in a crime of this type.”

“Hardly unusual,” echoed Willie, grinning.

“However, what
does
make this robbery different from nearly all others is that the robbers were not the sort of people you might expect.”

“I was expecting Billy Carter,” said a new voice.

Joe turned. It was Al. He slid over on the bench next to Willie. “No problems at all,” he said.

“Shh!” ordered Willie.

“Wha? Pete didn’t even—”

“Shh! Listen to this!”

“Eyewitnesses at the scene,” droned the announcer, “claim that, despite disguises, it was obvious that all three gunmen were
well into their seventies.”

“Good for them!” said the old woman.

“The Gray Panthers, an organizaton for Senior Citizens’ rights, while not claiming any responsibility or prior knowledge of
the septuagenarian stickup, do point out that the incident dramatizes what the Panthers call ‘the woeful inadequacy’ of current
government programs that attempt to deal with the elderly. At this time, the police would not discuss the case further, except
to state that a full investigation would be launched and that the perpetrators, regardless
of age, would be subject to the full penalties of the law.” There was a pause. “In a moment, more news… but first,
this
about hemorrhoids. Do burning, itching sores make—”

The old woman clicked off the radio. “Last thing I wanna hear is about burning and itching sores,” she said. “Bad enough to
have ‘em, don’t need any lectures on ‘em.” She looked shrewdly at Joe, Willie, and Al. “Nice story about that robbery, huh?”

“Don’t sound believable to me,” said Joe. I figure the crooks just had
two
disguises, one over the other. The top one covered their faces, the bottom made ‘em look like they was old. I mean, I happen
to be in the seventies myself, an’ you can’t convince me someone my age could go and rob no bank.”

The woman shrugged and smiled faintly. Could she suspect? wondered Joe. He turned to Al. “Everything go all right?”

“Perfect,” said Al. “Pete didn’t miss the guns or nothing, and the money is locked up in my suitcase and buried way in the
back of one of his closets.”

“Well,” said Joe, pleased. “Then that’s that.”

“We’re famous,” said Willie quietly. “Famous.” Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, and his breathing was rapid and
shallow.

“Will?” said Joe. “You don’t look so good.”

Willie nodded. Rapid swallowing was failing to relieve his nausea. “Still got that stomach trouble, I think.”

“You wanna lie down?”

Willie was turning white. “Got some gas pains in my chest,” he whispered.

Al stood up. “Try lyin’ down,” he said. He cast a worried glance at Joe.

“It’s nothing,” said Willie. “Don’t make a big deal. I’m telling you, it’ll pass. Don’t—” He winced, as a massive pressure
seemed to squeeze his ribs up and back into his shoulder blades.

“Will,” said Joe, “maybe we should get an ambulance. Just to be on the safe side.”

“No,” gasped Willie. “No. I’m telling you, it’s nothing.” But some remote observer inside him was calmly suggesting the opposite.
This is a heart attack,
it noted.
If you don’t get help, you’ll die right here.
“I’ll lay down,” he conceded.

Al and Joe stood up. The old woman at the other end of the bench rose and came over. “Here,” she said, offering her handbag,
“let him rest on this.”

Joe slipped it under Willie’s head. Willie was grunting and sighing now from the discomfort. “I don’t care what he says,”
barked Joe to Al. “Go call an ambulance.”

Al started briskly away, then turned back. “I need some change.”

Joe dug three dimes out of his pocket and handed them over. He watched as Al headed out of the park. “All right, he’s gonna
get some help. Few minutes, everything’ll be fine.”

Willie’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish’s. The bloodless flesh of his face was stretched like tissue paper over
his cheekbones. “Nnnn,” he said. “Nnnn.”

“I think we should raise his legs,” said the old woman. “I read somewhere, you’re supposed to raise the person’s legs.”

Joe didn’t ask her,
What person’s legs?
or
Under what conditions?
It was a thing to do when his friend was otherwise totally helpless and seemingly
near death. He lifted Willie’s feet and hooked them over the back of the bench. “Just hang on a few minutes,” he said. “Ambulance
is coming.”

Willie closed his eyes. “Cold,” he whispered. “Cold.”

“I’ll get you something,” said Joe. He ran toward the group of young mothers on the opposite side of the sprinkler. “’Scuse
me,” he said breathlessly to them. “Would one of you ladies have something I could use to cover my friend?” He pointed back
toward the bench. “I think he’s havin’ a heart attack.”

The women, stopped in mid-conversation, just stared.

“He’s havin’ a heart attack,” repeated Joe.

“Oh, my! Here,” said a bespectacled brunette finally. She handed a blanket from her baby carriage.

“Take this,” said a heavy woman nearby, offering a light jacket.

“Should I call an ambulance?” yelled the brunette as Joe started back.

“Thanks, someone’s getting one!” shouted Joe. This will make their day, he reflected. Give them something to talk about for
hours. At the bench, he covered Willie’s legs with the blanket, laid the jacket over his torso. “Just hold on,” he said. “Help’ll
be here in one minute.”

Willie, shuddering, said nothing.

“Funny,” commented the old woman. “A hot, sunny day, and he’s freezing.”

Joe wondered if he should attempt mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but decided against it. Willie
was
breathing, although laboriously, and chances were he’d do his friend more harm than good. Joe
paced nervously back and forth in front of the bench.

A few of the young children began to edge closer, aware that something was wrong. “Move away!” ordered Joe. “Get outta here!”
They scattered.

Five minutes later, two of the women detached themselves from the knot of young mothers and came over.

“Is there anything at all we can do to help?” asked the brunette who had offered the blanket.

“I dunno,” said Joe. “The ambulance….Maybe, if someone could find a cop…”

“I will,” said the brunette.

Joe watched the two women retreat to the group, saw the brunette leave her baby carriage and walk rapidly up the path toward
the exit. He turned his attention to Willie, who seemed to be squirming, perhaps trying to sit up. “Stay still,” ordered Joe.
Willie’s eyes were open, but the pupils were not focused. “Stay still, or you’ll hurt yourself. Keep your feet up!”

Willie’s look was pleading, his voice quavering. “I’m scared, Joe. I’m real scared.”

Joe stroked his friend’s forehead. “I know, I know. But you just rest easy now and things’ll be all right. Al’s out gettin’
an ambulance—you know Al, he probably stopped for a beer first—and soon’s they get here, they’ll give you somethin’ to stop
the pain. They got terrific medicines nowadays, terrific…”

Willie tugged at his arm. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“Aw—

“Sorry to put you to so much trouble.,,

“You just rest now, Will.”

Willie slumped back. Joe looked around desperately, helplessly. Where the hell was the ambulance? It was over a half hour
already, why wasn’t it here? “This is like a dream,” he said to the old lady. “My friend is lyin’ here, and everyone is crawling
along in a slow motion.”

“Terrible,” agreed the woman. “A terrible thing to be old and sick.”

Five minutes later, Joe felt Willie’s gnarled fingers gripping his arm again. Willie was mouthing something, and Joe put his
ear close to Willie’s lips. “I don’t wanna die,” he heard. “I’m not ready.”

“You won’t die,” said Joe. “Don’t you worry now. I promise, you won’t.” He stroked Willie’s cheek, and looked up at the sky.
Damn, he thought. Damn, not now. Not now. His fingers felt wet. He glanced back down. Willie was crying, the tears trickling
out from under his closed eyelids. “Ambulance be here in just one minute,” said Joe hopelessly.

BOOK: Going in Style
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