Spree (22 page)

“Don’t poke me, Cole,” Nolan said.

“I’ll do what I fuckin’ well please.”

“I’m sure you will. But I’d ask you to keep in mind, I’ve been upholding my end of the bargain. I’m helping you heist your mall—
my
mall—and I’m giving it my best shot.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you are. I appreciate that.”

“I expect Sherry back—unharmed—and my full share. Jon’s, too.”

“We been through all that . . .”

“Just so we understand each other.”

Now Nolan was talking while the seated group studied photocopies of a map he’d made of the mall.

“The stores with the X’s,” Nolan said, looking down toward Dooley, “are the ones we’ll need opened, Phil.”

“No problem,” the locksmith said.

Comfort said, “Were you out to Brady Eighty today, Phil?”

“Yeah. I walked the mall. They use those sliding glass doors that lock together; a few have metal cage doors. In either case, picking the locks is no big deal.”

Nolan asked, “How long will it take you to open each shop?”

“Five to fifteen minutes.”

A Leech said, “Fifty stores, that’s a lot of time.”

Nolan said, “We won’t be opening fifty stores.”

Comfort scowled at Nolan and slammed a fist on the table and the beer pitchers sloshed. He said, “How many times do I have to say it? We’re looting the whole motherfucker! We’re taking it all!”

“Cole,” Nolan said, smiling tightly, “as much as you may wish to take every spool of thread and Snickers bar and Slinky, we got a finite amount of time, and finite manpower. We got to pick and choose.”

Comfort thought about that, just momentarily, waved a hand at Nolan dismissively, and said, “You’re right.” Then he looked at his photocopy of the map. “These places you X’ed are the targets, then—”

“Twelve stores,” Nolan said, “not counting the three big department stores, all of which are worth hitting.”

“And not counting the bank,” Winch said.

“Right,” Nolan said. “Not counting the bank.”

“What’s this double X,” Dooley asked, “near the back entry, on the east side of the building.”

“That’s where the maintenance and security people work out of,” Nolan said. “The security guy will be off duty, and we’ll drop a Mickey Finn in the janitor’s coffee.”

“Who will?” a Leech asked.

“I’ll take care of that,” Nolan said. “Now, note the three major department stores—Petersen’s on the east end, Penney’s in the middle, and I. Magnin at the west end. I. Magnin, of course, is the most important of these. Expensive merchandise.”

Another Leech said, “And that’s where the loading docks are.”

“Right,” Nolan said. “Behind each of the major department stores. Which is perfect for us. Easy loading access to one of the semis, no matter what store you’ve been ‘shopping’ at.”

He went on to explain why he’d chosen the various stores—the leather shop, for example, carried an inventory of leather goods and furs amounting to well over a quarter mil—and indicated a priority list, which shops to hit first, and began making assignments. To best utilize manpower, the truck cabs would sit empty with the exception of the middle one, where Jon would sit, as point man.

“Why him?” Comfort said.

“Why not?” Nolan said.

“Somebody’s gotta watch,” a Leech said. “Let him do it. He’s just a little guy.”

“What about guns?” Dooley asked.

“What about them?” Nolan said.

Comfort said, “Whoever wants to carry, carry. If you need something, just ask; I got some extra pieces. I’ll be packing and my boy will and the Leeches. I assume you will too, Phil.”

Dooley nodded, but Winch said, “I don’t have shit to do with guns.”

Comfort shrugged. “Up to you.”

Fisher looked up from his note-taking to say, “I have a stun gun. I don’t like bullets. Very crude.”

A Leech said, “Why ain’t the Walgreen’s got an X?”

“Why should it?” Nolan asked. “That’s dime-store stuff.”

Another Leech said, “They got a pharmacy.”

Yet another Leech said, “Meaning drugs.”

Nolan looked at Comfort, who shook his head no, violently.

“No, sir,” he said. “That’s one thing I won’t abide. I never dirtied my hands with dope.”

The Leeches looked at each other, doing comic takes, as if to say, “The guy’s crazy, but what are you gonna do?” Nolan tended to share that sentiment; the notion of Cole Comfort drawing the line somewhere was pretty fucking absurd.

Fisher said, “I was in DeReuss Jewelry today. I spotted the tear-gas alarm. It’s a wall-mount—turns on and off with a cylindrical key.”

“I saw it too,” Dooley said, nodding. “I could pick it, like any lock.”

“I’d suggest not,” Fisher said. “It could have a time sequence of some kind—turn the key right for three seconds, back three seconds, and right again, or whatever.”

“It’s bound to be a simple sequence,” said Dooley, nodding, “but that doesn’t make it easy to guess.”

“I’d suggest just knocking the metal plate off,” Fisher said, “and jumping the wires. Not much different from hot-wiring a car, actually.”

“And that would take care of the tear gas,” Nolan said.

“Should,” Fisher said.

“You know, a mall’s a big place,” a Leech said, making as profound an observation as Nolan guessed a Leech could make.

“And we’re going to be all spread out,” another Leech said.

“How’ll we keep in touch?” the final Leech said.

“Yes, Uncle Donald,” Jon said. “How?”

Nolan almost smiled at that, but again it was lost on the Leeches. “Walkie-talkies,” Nolan said. “Clip right on your belt. Radio Shack has plenty in stock; I checked.”

“Did you buy them at a discount?” Jon asked wryly.

“No,” Nolan said. “They’re the first things we’ll steal. That’s called five-finger discount, where I come from.”

The meeting went on one more hour and two more pitchers of beer. Nolan answered questions and they went over the details. It was a big job, but simple in many ways, particularly once it had been broken down into man-by-man tasks. The hardest thing was the loading they’d all be doing—particularly hauling the larger appliances on dollies and carts to the waiting semis. It would be a long hard night of physical labor. The hourly wage would be considerable, however.

As the party began breaking up, Nolan saw Fisher head for the john and followed him in. As they were pissing at adjoining stalls, he told Fisher he needed to talk to him privately, and Fisher agreed to drive out to Nolan’s house, once well shy of Comforts and Leeches.

Before he left, Comfort patted Nolan on the shoulder and said, “You’re doing fine. Keep it up, and everything’s gonna work out.”

“Keep up your end and it will.”

Comfort only smiled his disarmingly engaging smile and left. Why did that sadistic son of a bitch have such a warm, friendly smile?

When the restaurant was empty, Nolan, who’d had none of the beer, poured some whiskey in a shot glass and asked Jon if he wanted any. Jon, who rarely drank, said, “Fuck yes.”

They sat at a small table and drank the whiskey and Nolan said, “Did you notice Comfort’s thick kid Lyle didn’t say anything all night?”

“You’re wrong, Nolan,” Jon said, swirling his whiskey in his glass, staring at the dark liquid like it was a crystal ball hiding his future. “His presence spoke volumes.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he’s here, who was baby-sitting Sherry?”

“It occurred to me she might be dead.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You think your new squeeze Cindy Lou was watching Sherry. Sitting in for brother Lyle.”

Jon nodded and kept nodding. “Yeah. I sure do. And I don’t think she’s going to like it.”

“You don’t.”

“She may be a little slut, but she didn’t strike me as a bad kid. She didn’t strike me as somebody who’d get much of a kick out of playing jailer, either.”

“She’s a Comfort.”

“Yeah, but she’s disenchanted with her family, with her old man. And tonight they made her an accomplice in a kidnaping. She isn’t stupid. She’ll figure that out.”

“What are you saying?”

“Let’s not snatch her. Let me try to link up with her tomorrow and, shit, try to get her on our side.”

“I don’t know.”

“I think I can get it out of her.”

“You mean you can get it in her.”

“No, I mean I can get it out of her—where Sherry’s being kept.”

Nolan thought about it. “We could also just grab her and trade her to her father even up for Sherry.”

“If that’s the way you want to go, I’m in. But you were right—on our worst day we’re not as bad as that evil cocksucker. And that evil cocksucker knows it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he knows that he’s capable of killing your girl. And he also knows you’re not capable of killing his daughter.”

“I’m capable of cutting off her fingers one at a time and sending them to him.”

“No you aren’t.”

Nolan drank some of the whiskey.

Then he said, “We’ll try it your way. Talk to her. Fuck her again. When she’s coming, ask her where Sherry is.” He let some air out. Finished the whiskey. “Come on. Fisher’s probably invented a black box by now to open my garage door.”

And Jon went out to the van, and Nolan to his silver Trans Am. Nolan wishing he had it in him to kill Comfort’s daughter, knowing he didn’t.

Part Three

15

JON HAD STARTED
the stakeout midmorning. As late as the meet last night (this morning, technically) had broken up, he didn’t figure Comfort would be going anyplace at the crack of dawn. Nolan hadn’t argued with Jon’s logic on that point, and over a breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage, which Nolan prepared, Jon asked Nolan what the game plan was if Sherry’s whereabouts could be ascertained.

“We go in with guns and take her back,” Nolan said.

That didn’t seem like much of a plan to Jon, but on the other hand, until the exact circumstances of how and where she was being held were known to them, coming up with anything more elaborate was a waste of time.

Jon shrugged. “Well, how hard can it be, with only that lunkhead Lyle guarding her?”

“Hard,” Nolan said. “Lyle may be a lunkhead, but he’s also a Comfort. That makes him a dangerous lunkhead.”

Jon was, as usual, impressed by Nolan’s businesslike attitude, even in the face of something as emotionally wrenching as the kidnaping of a woman Nolan may well have loved. There had been a moment, last night, in the back room at the restaurant just before the meet, when Nolan betrayed some emotion bubbling under that stoic surface; and Jon sensed the rage behind Nolan’s occasional quiet remarks about what he would do to Comfort if Sherry were harmed. But mostly Nolan seemed to be sublimating his emotions and anger into working on those two conflicting goals—planning/organizing the heist, and getting Sherry back.

Now it was Thursday afternoon, a little after two, and a light snow was dusting the Holiday Inn parking lot, powdering the immediate world, making it look better and not so real. Jon sat in the parked light blue van in his ski mask and navy coat, his Thermos of hot chocolate between his legs. No paperback today. His full attention was on Comfort’s red pickup truck. The Leeches were apparently staying at the Holiday Inn, as well, as Jon had spotted their yellow, racing-striped Camaro parked alongside a room on the west side of the motel. If the Leeches and/or Comfort left in the Camaro, they would have to drive through the parking lot past where Jon sat in his van. So he had it covered.

Butterflies were aflight in his stomach, however; time was running out: the mall heist was set to go down in a matter of hours—a little over eight hours. Before that time, if things went well, he and Nolan would rescue Sherry, very possibly in a blaze of gunfire and dying Comforts. And that was if things went well. He’d been in situations where he liked the options better.

He thought about Sherry. He hadn’t let himself do that, much. He liked her—he was attracted to her, no question, but it was an attraction he’d never do anything about. A stunning-looking woman, and no dummy. He’d never seen anyone handle Nolan better. She didn’t exactly have him wrapped around her little finger, but close. Surprisingly close.

What sort of hell was she going through? He’d been there himself—he’d been held hostage before, and knew firsthand of the helplessness, the hopelessness, the all-pervasive fear it engendered. And her captors were Cole and Lyle Comfort—he shivered at the thought, and the cold day.

Presumably Comfort would keep her alive and well till tonight’s heist, at least, to keep Nolan playing. Comfort’s own reputation was so rotten it had obviously forced him to call on people who’d worked with Nolan—Fisher, Winch, Dooley—pros who would put their misgivings about working with Comfort aside when they heard Nolan was aboard. (The Leeches were another matter.) This put Nolan’s importance beyond providing inside information and planning; Comfort had—no doubt reluctantly, but of necessity—made Nolan the linchpin of the heist.

Without Nolan, the mall haul simply would not go down. If Nolan failed to show, Fisher, Winch and Dooley would walk.

What Comfort didn’t know, of course, was that those three already knew the real score; Fisher, like Winch and Dooley before him, had last night promised to follow Nolan’s lead, even down to aborting the job (in favor of Nolan kicking in a fifteen-grand payoff—business was business).

At just after four o’clock, Jon decided to take a chance. He pulled off the ski mask and replaced it with a gray beret and wrapped the black muffler around his neck up higher, so that it covered the bottom of his face, like a stagecoach robber. He tucked a square flat brown-paper-wrapped package under his left arm, locked up the van and walked across the snowy parking lot and into the Holiday Inn. His gloveless right hand was on the snub-nose .38 in the deep pocket of his coat.

Cindy Lou had mentioned, yesterday, that her father and the Leeches had spent a good deal of time together, in the lounge, which was off the restaurant, and Jon peeked in. It was just a bar and some booths and a few small tables and a middle-aged mustached pianist playing “Just the Way You Are.” A couple sat at the bar, and some businessmen sat in one of the booths. But in another of the booths the Leeches and Cole Comfort were sitting, countless bottles of beer before them. They were going over one of Nolan’s photocopied maps of the mall. Right in front of God and the pianist and everybody.

Jesus Christ, Jon thought, ducking out before he was seen. Finding them confabbing there meant he’d hit pay dirt; but he couldn’t get excited about it because he was too struck by the notion that he just might possibly be pulling a job with these morons in a few hours
.

He walked the halls till he found 714—the numbering system seemed to apply to wings, not floors—and knocked on the door. He knocked with his left hand, brown-paper package still tucked under his arm, his right hand still clutching the revolver, which remained in his pocket but pointed toward the door, because if Lyle Comfort answered it, Jon just might have to shoot the fucker.

No answer to his knock.

He sighed. He was trembling. He simply was not cut out for this life. What was he doing, hanging around with a guy like Nolan. What the fuck was he doing with a
revolver
in his pocket.

He knocked again.

The door cracked open and Cindy Lou’s faintly freckled face peered out, and broke into a lovely smile, the small, childlike teeth whiter than outside. She was lovely, but seemed a little haggard. Was it the light of day, and lack of makeup—or had she had a rough night?

In any event, she was dripping wet, except for her reddish-blond hair, which was pulled back from her face. She was wearing a white towel.

“Hi, Cindy Lou.”

Her smile disappeared, and the door chain was still between them. “You shouldn’t oughta come here,” she said, big blue eyes going smaller as she tightened her expression.

“I brought your record.”

The eyes got as large as they were blue again, and she smiled; but then the smile faded, and her eyes became merely huge. “
Daddy’s
around. It’s dangerous.”

“I think I spotted him in the lounge. He seemed settled in.”

Her brow crinkled. “How would you know which was my daddy?”

“Let me in, Cindy Lou. I got to talk to you.”

Her face tightened further, in thought; under those remarkable eyes she had dark circles. Then the chain was drawn aside, and she opened the door; he stepped inside and chained the door behind him. He handed her the brown package and she opened it greedily, saying “All
right
!” as the towel dropped to the floor.

Her body, in the light of day, looked just fine. Very pale flesh, very pink, very erect nipples, peachlike breasts, her strawberry-blond pubic hair trimmed into a heart shape, something he hadn’t seen in the near-light of the back of the van last night. His dick said boy, howdy, and he told it, down boy.

And she just stood there, not caring a whit about her nudity, jiggling, bouncing as she grinned and looked at the cover of the Nodes album, front and back.

“I
remember
some of these songs,” she said, “from hearing you play!”

“Maybe you better get dressed,” he said.

She stood there with her weight on one hip, a hand on one hip, holding the album in her other hand like it was a tray and she was an amused but bored carhop at a topless drive-in.

“Or maybe not,” he said, and took her in his arms and kissed her; she immediately began taking his coat off, even as she was putting her darting tongue in his mouth, and the coat dropped to the floor like the dead weight it was, the gun-in-pocket clunking. Her hands worked on his zipper and she went down on her knees in front of him.

Jon stood there, shaking his head, wondering how he lost control of the situation so fast, and he was in her mouth, but only for a second when he pulled away and said, “No.”

Still on her knees she looked up at him with utter confusion. “No?” she repeated, as if she didn’t understand the meaning of the word.

Certainly in this context, the word seemed out of place, but Jon forced himself back in his pants and said to her, “Get dressed. We got to talk, and I can’t talk to you when you’re like that.”

She smirked humorlessly and got up and picked up her towel and dried herself off a little, and he watched her, every cell of his body aching with regret, as a beautiful naked teenage female, as yet a stranger to cellulite, put on panties and jeans and a loose-fitting red sweater with a scoop neck that showed just enough cleavage to make him simultaneously wish he were dead and could live forever.

She stood there, weight on one hip again, both hands on her hips this time, smirking, but good-naturedly now, challenging him to find something to talk about that was more important than her giving him the best goddamned blowjob the state of Missouri had to offer, in Iowa yet.

He put his coat back on, put his hand on the .38 grip within the pocket, and looked around the room. The signs of Cole Comfort living here were few; his clothes were apparently either in the dresser and closet or still in suitcases. There was a half-empty bottle of Old Grand-Dad on the dresser. Her clothes were also put away, and her personal items must have been in the bathroom, because there was no particular sign of Cindy Lou, either, except her denim jacket slung over a chair, and on a table a
Hit Parader
magazine with heavy-metal groups on the cover, a publication he didn’t figure was on Cole Comfort’s subscription list.

The side wall of the room was orange-vinyl-curtained sliding doors, leading out to the pool area. Jon reached behind there and unlocked one of the sliding doors; the swimming pool (like Nolan’s) was covered with plastic and a fresh layer of white powder, shimmering in the daylight like a vast coke-covered mirror.

“Sit down,” he told her, pointing to the nearest bed.

She did. He sat next to her.

“Can I trust you?” he asked.

“To do what?”

“To keep a confidence.”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“It’s not going to be that easy. Last night you talked a lot about you and your father not getting along. You talked around it some, but that’s the general drift.”

She sighed heavily; the dark circles under her eyes weren’t the whole story—she seemed weary, troubled.

“It isn’t that simple,” she said.

“He’s hitting on you, isn’t he?”

She said nothing for a moment; looked at the floor. Nodded.

“Was it worse last night?”

She nodded. She shook her head. Pointed toward the bathroom. “I spent four hours locked in that goddamn toilet. He started pounding on the door. He was crying, after while . . .”

Jon couldn’t quite picture Cole Comfort crying.

“Was he sorry?” Jon asked.