Spree (18 page)

“We could have jerseys made up,” Jon said, “that say ‘Mall Heist’ on ’em—and maybe walk arms linked. That’d be a nice touch.”

Comfort smiled kindly at him and said, “Remember what I told you about children, son?”

Jon, still sitting backward in the chair, gave him a sullen look, then looked away.

Roger got up and went over to Nolan’s small table and asked a few questions about the bank.

“The instant-cash machine is an NCR,” Nolan said. He dug in his shirt pocket for a slip of paper and handed it to Roger. “There’s the model number and a sketch. You can walk right in the bank and look at it tomorrow.”

“Don’t forget your jersey,” Jon said.

“What’s with you guys?” Roger said.

“Nothing,” Nolan said. “The jewelry store safe is tear-gas rigged.”

“I’ll talk to Fisher,” Roger said. “He’ll know how to get around that.”

“Fine,” Nolan said, smiling tightly. “See you soon.”

Roger smiled back, glanced at the slip of paper Nolan had handed him; it did indeed include the model number of the safe—but it also had a Moline address jotted down and said: “Come to my house now. Say nothing to Comfort.”

Roger nodded, folded the paper and slipped it in his pocket; he collected Phil, said his goodbyes all around, and left with Comfort, who dropped them at their hotel. Saying nothing to Phil about where he was going, he took the car, found an all-night gas station that could direct him to the Moline address, and when he got there Nolan was waiting.

12

THE LIGHT
blue Ford van was hardly ideal for a stakeout, but it was all Jon had. Neither of Nolan’s cars was usable, as Comfort had seen Sherry’s red 300 ZX, and had probably ID’ed Nolan’s silver Trans Am by now as well, whereas Jon’s van had been dropped off for a tune-up at a garage near Nolan’s place the morning after Jon got there—where it had sat ever since.

And now Jon sat in it—that is, the blue Ford van (which at least no longer said “The Nodes” on the side), in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn on Brady Street, just a few blocks from Brady Eighty. He didn’t have the motor running, and it was cold today—this was Wednesday afternoon, the first Wednesday of December—but he was warm in his bulky army-navy surplus store navy coat, and fur-lined gloves, and ski mask.

The ski mask was almost too warm—it was certainly too scratchy—but it was necessary. He couldn’t afford to be recognized by Comfort, whose red Chevy pickup, parked just across from him, he was watching. They’d seen Comfort climb into the driver’s seat of this pickup, Missouri plates, last night in front of Nolan’s.

It was a little after five o’clock and getting dark already. He’d been here damn near all day—since around nine this morning. He had a Thermos of hot chocolate (he hated coffee—that was for grown-ups) and the snub-nose .38 and a science-fiction novel by Walter Tevis,
Mockingbird
, which he’d finished an hour ago. The book was good, but reading a couple paragraphs and then glancing up at Comfort’s parked pickup, and then reading a couple more paragraphs, and then glancing up at Comfort’s parked pickup again, was a grueling process which he repeated to the point of a stiff sore neck. He kept the van doors locked, because if Comfort spotted him, a door might be yanked open and Jon jerked out; and the Comforts, of course, were capable of anything—which was why the .38 was snugged in the side right pocket of the navy coat.

He also had a mobile cellular phone in the car, a toy Nolan usually carried in his own car (he’d gotten it at a discount from the Radio Shack at Brady Eighty). Jon checked in every hour with Nolan, who was nearby at his restaurant at the mall.

Nolan had dropped by once, around noon, stopping quickly to drop off a sack of McDonald’s food, and to give him a fresh Thermos of hot chocolate.

Jon had been reading the science-fiction paperback when Nolan appeared in front of the windshield, just standing there before the van like Mad Max in the middle of a post-nuclear-holocaust road.

Jon opened the door for him, Nolan handed in the food and Thermos and said, “You shouldn’t read.”

“I can’t take the boredom otherwise.”

“Boredom is one thing. Bore of a gun barrel’s another.”

“Cute, Nolan. He hasn’t touched his fucking pickup yet, in case you’re interested.”

Nolan nodded and shut the van door and was gone.

Finding out where Comfort was staying was a break, or had seemed to be at the time; now that it was dusk and Comfort had stayed inside the motel all day, it seemed less significant. Time was running out. Tomorrow was the day. Operation Mall Haul. If they didn’t find Sherry tonight, they might not find her at all.

But at least they had an ally in Roger Winch.

Jon had just listened, last night, while Winch sat on the couch in the living room, Nolan standing in front of him like an attorney pleading his case.

“I’m taking a big chance, Roger. If Comfort knew I was talking to you, somebody could die.”

Winch, who was a low-key guy, didn’t like hearing that. He said, “I knew I shouldn’t get involved with Comfort. I only came in ’cause you were part of it.”

“Comfort wouldn’t have asked you in,” Nolan said, “if he’d known how many jobs we worked together.”

And Nolan had filled Winch in about Sherry’s kidnaping, explaining that his own participation in the heist was strictly coerced.

“I’m retired,” Nolan said. “I want no part of this.”

“It’s a sweet score,” Winch said, shrugging, smiling mildly. “It could go down in history.”

“So did the Manson murders. Comfort is a double-crossing murdering son of a bitch who’s likely to kill all of us when this is over.”

Winch’s expression was pained. “Maybe Phil and I should just go . . .”

Nolan patted the air with one hand. “No. Stay in. But I have to warn you—if I have the chance to stop this before it goes down, I will.”

“This is bad. I don’t like violence. You know me, Nolan—I never carried a gun in my life.”

“Yeah, but your pal Phil does.”

Winch shrugged again. “That’s part of a point man’s job. He’s never killed anybody.”

“It’s always a possibility, Roger. Look—I’d like you to stick. Play along. If you don’t, my girl’s going to die.”

“It sounds like she’s going to die anyway.”

“Not if I can find her before the heist goes down. He has to keep her alive to keep me part of this. Without me, there’s no score.”

Winch thought about it. Then he said, “What’s in it for me? I hate to say that, but if you’re going to try to stop this from going down, why should I play? Friendship doesn’t quite cut it. I like you, Nolan—but I like living more, and I got to agree with you: Cole Comfort is planning to do some killing before this is over.”

“I’ll make this worth your while,” Nolan said. “I can guarantee you a minimum of ten grand for sticking. Out of my own pocket. If we scrap the heist, consider it a kill fee.”

“What if the job goes down? If Comfort’s planning a double cross like you say, then—”

“Then a triple cross is called for. He thinks he’s on top of everything—he won’t expect us to be on top of him. I’d like to pull Phil in on this, and talk to Fisher, too. I’ve worked with him. Not as often as with you, but I’ve worked with him.”

Winch was nodding. “I think he’d line up with you. But it’s going to be tricky. And dangerous.”

“Yes it is. Remember—you’re not supposed to know about Sherry. As far as you and Phil know, this score is something Comfort and I put together as partners.”

“Could you make it twenty grand?”

“Fifteen.”

“Five up front?”

“No. Fifteen after.”

Winch shrugged. “Done. What now? The thing is supposed to go down in less than forty-eight hours.”

“I’m going to try to find Sherry and steal her back. I figure he’s got her stashed someplace being baby-sat by his boy Lyle.”

“Yeah,” Winch said, “his boy’s in on this—Comfort says so. But he wasn’t at the meet last night.”

“I only saw the kid once,” Nolan said. “Years ago. He was just a teenager. I don’t remember much about him.”

“He was around when I worked with Comfort, five years ago,” Winch said. “The boy was on the fringes of the supermarket jobs I was in on—he was in his late teens, then. He’s a nice enough, nice-looking kid, but a little thick.”

“Is he dangerous, do you think?”

“Nolan, he’s a Comfort.”

“Yeah. Stupid question. Do you know where Comfort’s staying?”

“No. I got a phone number, though.” Winch dug in his pocket and found a slip of paper. “Here. Copy it down.”

Nolan did, and Winch went back to his hotel, and Nolan looked in the Quad Cities directory, yellow pages, hotels and motels, and compared the number to the numbers listed there.

“He’s at the Holiday Inn,” Nolan said. “Figures he’d stay close to Brady Eighty, close to the Interstate, his getaway route.”

Jon looked at the slip of paper. “It says extension 714.”

Nolan nodded. “Which is probably his room number.”

“Could he have Sherry there?”

“Almost no chance. She’s stashed somewhere. Lyle’s looking after her. I’m sure of it.”

“Could we break in Comfort’s room tonight and just put a gun to his fucking head?”

“Sounds like fun,” Nolan said, “but all we’d have at best is a Mexican standoff. We can always try that—grabbing Comfort himself and threatening to kill him if he doesn’t call and have Sherry released.”

“Wouldn’t that work?”

“If Comfort wasn’t crazy, maybe. Who knows what he’d say when at gunpoint he called Lyle or whoever’s holding her? And he’s got firepower. He’s probably got the Leeches in his corner, and they’re violent crazy fuckers too. He’s got his son. Too many unknowns.”

“I don’t know. It’s tempting to bust in his room in the middle of the night, and—”

Nolan was shaking his head no. “We don’t know what or who is in his room. Sherry might be there, and we don’t want to start a shooting war. Cole Comfort could buy it, and we’d never get Sherry back from Lyle once that happened. Too risky. She’s safe for the moment.”

“So what do we do?”

Stake out the Holiday Inn. Which was how Jon had spent his day today. The plan was, if Comfort went to his pickup and left, Jon would tail him, calling Nolan on the mobile phone. Nolan would then search the room at the Holiday Inn—despite the slight chance Lyle might be in there with Sherry, which was a situation he could better control than one that included Coleman Comfort.

If Nolan could get in that room, without Comfort there, something might turn up—a phone number, a room key, a matchbook, something that would lead them to where Sherry was being held.

But so far Jon had done nothing but sit on his ass in this van, reading his paperback, calling Nolan briefly every hour, drinking hot chocolate, eating McDonald’s food and, every now and then, leaving the van to use the Men’s off the Holiday Inn lobby. Nolan had wanted him to piss in a tin can, but you have to draw the line somewhere.

By eight o’clock his bones were starting to ache; it was colder, and now and then he would turn the motor on and get the heat going. He was starting to think Comfort wasn’t going to leave his motel room until the second meet, tonight, which would once again be at 2:30 A.M. at Nolan’s. He was contemplating getting out and going into the lobby for another piss, when somebody approached the parked pickup.