Lemons Never Lie

Two thirty-five. A slight drizzle had started, polka-dotting the surface of the road. Grofield, up in the hayloft, looked at his watch, looked out the opening in the wall at the road, and wondered if he'd made a mistake somewhere. Could Myers really have meant to go back to that farmhouse? But he'd stashed a car here that none of the others had known about; he'd arranged to split the group into two cars with the profits in his; he had to be planning to come here.

Of course, it was also possible they'd been caught. The operation Myers had worked out was so full of speed and explosions and terror and boldness that it ought to work, at least long enough for them to make their initial getaway, but it was always possible something had gone wrong and they'd all been caught. Particularly with the semi-pros Myers had been reduced to working with. And particularly with Myers being the unpredictable wild man he was.

Poor Perry, Grofield thought, looking out at the drizzle. He really will get pneumonia, the poor bastard.

If nothing happens by three o'clock, he told himself, I'll go over and listen on the Chevy's radio and see what I can find out. Listen to the three o'clock news.

A car was coming. Grofield glimpsed it a long way off, rounding a curve two or three hills from here; up here in this hayloft he had a pretty good view of the countryside, and one small pie slice of distant road could be seen down past a farmer's field in that direction.

The right car? It had been moving fast, and it seemed to be the right color. The uncertain drizzle didn't affect vision the way yesterday's downpour had, but the distance, the car's speed, and the narrow slice of visible road all combined to make him less than completely sure.

It was the right car. It came around the final curve less than half a minute after his first glimpse of it, and it was being driven very very hard. The curve topped a rise, and the beige Buick came off the rise with all four tires for one split second off the ground, as though a stunt driver were at the wheel. When it hit, it slued badly, rocking from side to side on its springs as the man at the wheel fought to keep the thing under control. He wasn't really a stunt driver after all.

No, he was just a fool. The way he took the turn off the road toward the barn, the Buick really should have tipped over. It wanted to, it hung for a long streaming second on the very edge of imbalance, and then it slammed down on its right side tires again and headed full-speed for the barn.

Grofield fully expected the damn thing to crash into the barn like a bowling ball into the pins, and he braced himself to try to leap clear of the wreckage when the barn collapsed. But then the Buick's brakes squealed, the car slued badly again to the right, and it came to a stop sideways to the barn door, no more than two feet from a collision. Despite the light rain, the arrival managed to raise a cloud of dirt, which slowly settled on the Buick's windshield and hood.

Meanwhile, the driver's door burst open and Harry Brock lunged out, yelling at the top of his lungs: '- think you're so damn smart, you can drive it yourself! Drive the goddam Rolls yourself! Do every goddam thing yourself! You're smart, you are!'

The Buick was so close to the barn that when Myers jumped out the passenger side he wound up within the barn doorway and out of Grofield's sight. But Grofield could hear him: 'You got blood on me, you lunatic! Driving like that!'

'You had to kill him in the car! Smart again!'

Myers came running around the front of the Buick, not to attack Brock physically but to shout at him from closer range. 'Now everything's my fault! I did my part!'

'Yes, you did. You're full of hot air, Andy, nothing but hot air.'

Myers was obviously trying to get control of himself. 'Harry, we can't stand around here arguing with each other. There'll be roadblocks up, there'll be police all over the place. Harry, we've got to switch the plates and put the Buick in the barn and blow it up, and we don't have time for all this.'

'Do it yourself,' Brock said, and turned his back on Myers to walk away across the grass, paralleling the road. 'I'm done taking orders from a jerk like you.'

'Harry, we need each other!'

'I need you like I need a hole in the head,' Brock said, turning around to put his hands on his hips and glare at Myers. It was a strangely womanish gesture, making him look like a fishwife in a street brawl.

Myers went running after him again. 'Harry, we can't waste the time!'

Brock made a disgusted pushing-away gesture with both arms, and turned his back again.

Myers caught up with him, and reached out to grab his arm. 'Harry, listen to me, we can't-'

Brock spun around and punched Myers in the face. Myers staggered backward, lost his balance, and fell heavily on his rump. He sat there, obviously dazed, and Brock stood over him and said, 'You don't touch me, you big-talking jerk. What are you good for, anyway? You just screw everybody up. And I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave you right here. Give me my half of the money, I'm taking the Rolls. You can keep the Buick, with the plates. And you can have George, too, and do what you want with him.'

Grofield was very interested in that speech. The way they'd been bickering, he'd been afraid the robbery hadn't worked out after all, they hadn't managed to breach the brewery gate with their fire engine. But with Brock demanding his share of the money, the argument had to have some other cause.

Could it just be tension, nervousness, no real reason to fight at all? Grofield had seen people get into deadly arguments over nothing at all just after a difficult job, this could be the same thing.

Down below, Brock had decided to help himself to whatever Myers was carrying on his person. He stood over Myers, bending down to poke his hands into Myers' coat pockets, and all at once Myers moved, a sudden