Going in Style (23 page)

“That’s only the half of it,” said Joe.

“You mean, there’s more? I don’t know if I can stand the shock.”

“There’s a lot more, and you’ll have to stand it.” Joe forced himself to continue. “Right after we buried Willie, me and your
uncle took off to Las Vegas for a couple of hours and cleaned those bums out for over seventy thousand.”

Pete’s eyes seemed about to fly from his skull. “Did you say seventy or seventeen?”

“Seventy. Seven zero.”

“My God….”

Joe turned over the paper bag and dumped a mound of hundred-dollar bills on the table. “Between the bank job and Vegas, the
total comes to a little over a hundred six thousand dollars.”

Pete stared at the pile of money, mesmerized as much by its physical presence as by the manner in which it had been acquired.

“It was actually a couple of thousand more, but
we spent some of it in the hotel and for plane fares… and, of course, there was Willie’s funeral.” Joe paused. “Which brings
me to the next subject. Pete—”

“Jesus,” whispered Pete, “Jesus. Holy… Jesus.”

“Pete—”

“Who would believe this?”

“Pete!”

Pete looked up.

“Al’s dead,” said Joe.

“What?”

“Al died a couple of hours ago.”

“What? What’re you saying?”

“Pete, believe me, I am so sorry to break all of this to you this way, but things are coming to a head, and it has to be done.”

“Al’s dead?” said Pete dazedly. The meaning of the words, the depth and utter finality, had not yet sunk in.

“We came back from Las Vegas this afternoon,” said Joe, “and we were real tired. Al especially. We hardly got any sleep since
before the funeral, and what with all the excitement and everything, it must’Ve been too much for him. As soon as we got home,
we both nodded off right away. Later, I woke up, but he… must’Ve died in his sleep.”

“Oh, God…”

“The doctor said most likely his heart just stopped.” Joe sighed. “There was no pain or nothin’. He just… didn’t wake up.”

Kathy’s voice came from upstairs. “Pete and Joe—coffee’s ready.”

Pete inhaled and sat up. “We’ll be there in a minute, honey,” he called.

“You want me to bring it down?”

“No, that’s okay. We’ll be up soon.” A single tear trickled out of one of Pete’s eyes and down his cheek. “Where is he?” he
whispered to Joe.

“I called Ryan’s Funeral Home before I came over. Everything’s taken care of.”

Pete covered his face with his hands. “Jesus, how am I gonna tell the kids? Both my father and Kathy’s died before they were
born—he was like a Grandpa to them.”

“Look,” said Joe, “I know this whole thing is rough on you, but you gotta pull yourself together and listen to me for a minute.”

Pete nodded shakily, then took several deep breaths. “All right, go ahead.”

“When me, Al, and Willie pulled the bank job, we didn’t know what the hell we were doing.”

“But you said you planned it. It sounded like—”

“I know what it sounded like, and at the time we thought we were pretty smart… but we were wrong. We were stupid. We just
ran in and did it. Now I’ve been hearing stuff on the radio and thinking about how we approached this thing, and I got the
feeling we loused up somehow.”

“You think they’re closing in?” said Pete.

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“But what tipped them off? How could they possibly trace you?”

Joe shook his head. “Can’t tell. I just got this feeling….”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. What I need from you, Pete, is somewhere to stash all of this money. If there’s trouble, at least I know one
thing is taken care of.”

“I’m with you, Joe. Whatever I can do.”

“Good. You got one of them safe deposit boxes?”

Pete squinted at the mass of bills on the table. “Yeah, I do, but it’s not gigantic. I just use it to keep some papers in—the
mortgage, insurance, that kind of thing.”

“You think it’ll hold all this?”

Pete managed a faint smile. ‘I think I can squeeze it in.”

“You’re a good kid,” said Joe appreciatively. “I want you to take care of this right away, first thing in the morning.”

“Nine a.m.,” said Pete. “Soon as the bank opens.”

“And something else,” said Joe. “You gotta promise me that if anything should happen, you won’t turn any of this dough over
to the cops.”

“You have my word, Joe.”

“It would just bring you trouble, and them bastards would probably wind up taking all of it. They’d assume it was all stolen.”

“They’ll never see any of it, Joe.”

Joe looked at him. “You understand, don’t you, that this makes you an accessorary to the crime?”

“Accessory,” corrected Pete. “Yeah, I understand that. Don’t worry.”

They stood up. “All right then,” Joe said. “I’m gonna get going.” He extended his hand, and Pete cupped it in both his own.
“You won’t stay for coffee?”

Joe shook his head. “You drink it with Kathy, and you tell her what’s what. A man shouldn’t keep secrets from his wife. I
remember—1933, I think it was—I put my entire savings in the stock market, figured it’d bottom out. When I lost it, I didn’t
tell
Myrna. I was too ashamed. The thing was, I forgot about the money in a couple of weeks—I mean, it’s just paper—but my not
tellin’ Myrna, the guilt stayed with me for years. Years.” He tapped Pete on the shoulder. “So you tell Kathy everything,
hear? It’s her risk too.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Pete. “I would’ve anyway, whether you asked me to or not.”

“Good. Now… Al stashed the dough from the robbery in some suitcase he keeps here. You know where that is?”

Pete shrugged. “It’s not hard to figure out. He only
had
one piece of luggage, and he kept that in the closet down here.”

“All right,” said Joe. “You take care of that after I leave.”

They walked toward the foot of the staircase. “You’re a hell of a guy, Joe.”

“Never mind that. I just wish my friends had lived to share a little while longer in the good fortune.” Joe closed his eyes.
“I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

“You take care of yourself now, Joe. Take it real easy, rest up.”

“I will. Just remember, no matter what happens, do exactly like I told you, Pete. I got your word.”

“You do, Joe, and it’s good. Don’t worry about me. I’ll do just like you say.”

Joe nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you at Ryan’s in the morning.”

Kathy met them at the top of the steps. “Well, you two, about time. I was just coming down. I think you have iced coffee by
now, instead of regular.”

“Kath,” said Joe. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to disappoint you. I have to be leavin’.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“No, really. I’m sorry, but tomorrow’s gonna be a very heavy day for me.”

“But surely one cup—” Pete’s hand on her arm made her fall silent.

“Pete’ll explain everything,” said Joe. “And really, thanks for the hospitality. I’ll come see you again when I got more time.
I know I’m a terrible guest.”

At the front door, Kathy said, “Joe, you sure Pete can’t give you a ride home? It’s no trouble.”

“She’s right,” said Pete.

“No, no, I’ll walk.” Joe stepped outside. “Just forgive me my awful manners, will you?”

“You’re always welcome here, you know that,” Kathy called through the screen. Then, as he trudged down the concrete path:
“Give our regards to Al, will you?”

“Sure,” said Joe, in a voice so low she couldn’t possibly have heard. “Sure.”

When he got back to the apartment, he put on some hot water for tea, then changed his mind and shut off the burner. He went
into Al’s room, opened the closet door and took out a few pairs of trousers and some shirts. The place would have to be cleaned,
the old clothes donated to the Salvation Army. May as well start now, get a jump.…

Joe closed the door and returned to the kitchen. Impulsively, he pounded on the table. Noise! Noise meant life. Any noise—breathing,
nose-blowing, farting, skin-scratching—meant there was another presence, another being close by to relieve the loneliness.
But now there was only silence—and there would be only silence.

“What the hell should I do?” said Joe aloud. “Get a dog?”

Al’s not dead four hours and already I’m talking to myself, he thought. He sat down on a chair and stared at the light. He
knew it was futile to go to bed; sleep would come hard this evening. After a while, he folded his hands in front of him and
sat that way for the better part of the night.

Scraping.
Razor blade on parched, papier-mâ-ché, seventy-eight-year-old skin.

Joe stood in front of the bathroom mirror in black pants and sleeveless undershirt. Years ago, his son had given him an electric
razor, touting it highly. Why go through the whole business with the shaving cream? he’d asked. And the skill pulling, and
buying new blades all the time, and disposing of the old ones, and having to wash the razor, and dry it, and using the styptic
pencil, or bits of toilet paper…? Joe had agreed to try the electric razor, but had discarded it after two days. His son
had missed the point. It was no good simply because it failed to use up enough time.

After coffee, Joe put on a white shirt and then a
black tie. It was still only 8 a.m., way too early for Al’s funeral, and yet… Joe couldn’t stay indoors. The apartment was
oppressive, crowded with silence and packed-in memories. He grabbed his suit jacket from a hall closet, took one last look
around to see that everything was in order, and stepped out the door. Once again he had that peculiar tingling in his spine,
the tingling he’d felt in Las Vegas when he’d removed most of his bets from the table, and then they’d lost….

Outside, the bright sun made him squint. The day was perfect—clear, low humidity, the air fresh. Across the street, he saw
three small children dressed in light jackets, carrying little briefcases. One of them had a name tag pinned to her, unreadable,
of course, from this distance. Joe could not help smiling, and then a surprisingly intense feeling swept over him:
I want to go with you. I want to be back in school and have it all happen again.
And then, suddenly, a man stood before him, a serious, sober-faced man who flashed something from his wallet that said, FBI.
The man gripped Joe tightly on the arm. Two more men appeared behind him; they stepped forward and roughly pinned Joe’s hands
at the small of his back, then snapped cold metal cuffs around his wrists. They pushed him over to the side of a building,
leaned him against the brick, and began to run their hands over his body.

“He’s clean,” said the tallest of the agents, a blond.

From the corner of his eye, Joe saw the three children climb aboard a school bus. Strangely, what was happening to him seemed
of little interest or
importance. It was the children who occupied his thoughts. He was with them on their way to school; he would tell them not
to be afraid, that kindergarten or first grade or second really wasn’t all that bad, that you made things and learned things,
and came home to Mommy in the afternoon. It was a good time in one’s life, a very good time.

Four husky agents, guns drawn, emerged from a car and ran toward Joe’s apartment building. Onlookers began to gather, as Joe
was allowed to straighten up and turn around. A police car drew up to the curb, and then another, this one squealing to a
melodramatic stop. A half-dozen uniformed policemen took up positions near the house.

“Your friends still inside?” the blond agent asked Joe.

“You’re too late,” said Joe. “They’ve left for a better climate.”

The blond motioned to a hawk-faced agent, who led Joe to a blue Plymouth and accompanied him into the back seat. Wide-eyed
children and mothers wearing curlers drew closer, staring. The agent began to read from a small card: “Joseph Harris, we arrest
you for the crime of robbery committed against the Union Marine Bank on September 5, 1979. You have the right to remain silent,
the right to consult a…”

Joe’s mind began to wander. He winked and made faces at several of the children. Mrs. Flaum appeared at the door of the building
and called out to him. “Mr. Harris! Hey! Mr. Harris! What’s going on here?”

FBI agents streamed out of the building behind her, their guns holstered now.

“Mistaken identity,” called Joe, smiling. “They got the wrong man.”

An agent got into the front of the Plymouth and started the motor.

“Anything?” asked the hawk-faced man next to Joe.

The driver shook his head, and they pulled away from the curb.

Joe said, “Al, Willie—that’s it. They nabbed us.”

“What?” said the hawk-faced man.

“Who’s talking to you?” said Joe.

They rode rapidly through the city streets. Joe felt sorry for Mrs. Flaum, but at the same time he couldn’t help being amused—the
FBI agents would tear their apartment to shreds in search of the money; the landlady would give them a lifetime supply of
verbal abuse. He was still imagining the details of the confrontation when the car pulled up before a three-story, white stone
building on Queens Boulevard.

The agents ushered Joe through a crowd of reporters and photographers, several of whom shouted questions, but Joe was inside
before he could think of answers. He was led rapidly through marble-tiled corridors, then up a flight of stairs, through a
big room where perhaps a dozen people sat at dilapidated wooden desks, and finally into a smaller room that held only a table,
two chairs, and a row of file cabinets. Searching through one of the open drawers was a neatly dressed young man with hard,
brown eyes. He looked up as Joe entered. “Any problems?” he asked the blond and hawk-face, both of whom still accompanied
Joe.

The blond motioned him into a corner, and there was a tense, whispered interchange. Then the
blond unlocked Joe’s handcuffs, and left with the hawk-face agent, closing the door behind them.

“I’m Richard Tuffo,” said the hard-eyed man. “I’ve been heading the investigation of your case.”

“Very nice,” said Joe.