McNally's caper

your way out of that?’

‘Snookered,’ Dick said softly, closing his eyes.

I may have dozed off myself. Shock, booze, fear. I know I went over Donohue’s scenario again and again, looking for a way out, a weakness Dick and I could exploit, something to throw the bad guys off guard long enough to escape. I couldn’t see anything in our favor but chance and accident. I fell asleep hoping they wouldn’t hurt Noel Jarvis, and wondering if I should ask Donohue about that passport, and whether he thought the real name of the manager, Antonio Rossi, had any particular significance. Black Jack would know all about fake names and assumed identities. He was a professional thief. I knew what I was: a professional klutz.

My eyes opened, I glanced at my watch. About 7:00 A.M., the morning light beginning to creep through my east windows. There was a dull weight on my left shoulder: Dick’s head; he was sound asleep. So were Angela, the Holy Ghost, Smiley. But Hymie Gore was awake, cleaning his fingernails slowly and meticulously with a pocket nailfile. Clement was awake, holding my Beretta in his lap, looking at me gravely. Donohue was awake — or was he? His eyes were hooded, half-closed. But I had the feeling that if I made a sudden movement, his eyelids would fly up like roller shutters and he’d be at my throat before 1 took a step.

So I looked at Clement, returned his stare boldly, wondered if there was some way I could grab that pistol. He was a dapper black man in his establishment clothes. Still unwrinkled, calm. He seemed carved, like a basalt statue.

I jerked my chin toward him.

‘What’s with the IBM suit?’ I asked in a low voice.

He looked down at his wingtip shoes, black hose, precisely pressed dark flannel suit, button-down collar and regimental striped tie.

‘Cool chick,’ he said. ‘You go into the lion’s den and want to come out alive, you dress like a lion. You dig?’

‘You’re full of shit,’ I said flatly, it’s envy. Jealousy. Imitation. Your lousy try at upward mobility. Forget it. It won’t work. You look like a clown.’

‘You think?’ he said, looking down at his clothes.

‘I know,¹1 said. ‘I tried a disguise. It didn’t work for me.’

‘You weren’t so hot at it. Me, I got it down right. The threads, the walk, the talk; I can pass. I could stroll into the P/w-dential and be greeted like a brother.’

if you chalked your face maybe,’ I said cruelly.

His eyes lifted slowly. As slowly as the muzzle of the gun lifted.

‘Easy, Clement,’ Jack Donohue murmured, his eyes still half-closed. ‘She’s just trying to rile you into making a stupid move. Can’t you see that?’

‘Yeah,’ Clement said, relaxing, the gun drooping again. ‘Yeah, that’s what it was. The little lady was getting to me.’

Donohue opened his eyes wide, yawned, stretched.

‘Let’s you and me go into the kitchen, little lady,’ he said to me. ‘Put some coffee on.’

I was tempted to refuse. Why the hell should I wait on those bastards? But if I didn’t make the coffee, Angela or someone else would. And I might not get any. So I slid carefully from under Dick Fleming’s head, propped him against a soft pillow, and preceded Black Jack into the kitchen.

He leaned against the counter, watching me put water on to boil, set out cups and saucers.

‘Nice place you got here,’ he offered.

I didn’t answer.

‘Still trying to figure out how to beat me?’ he said. ‘Like maybe throwing boiling water in my face? Forget it. When I have to, I can move so fast you wouldn’t believe it. That was a nice try with Clement, but I was awake, I was listening.’

‘I’ll find something else,’ I said, not looking at him.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘You or Fleming. I still don’t know what’s between you two, but if one of you sees an opening, maybe you can queer this whole deal and take your chances with the cops. But if you do, just remember we still got the other one. That’s why I’m keeping you in separate cars. One of you fucks up, the other one gets it. Remember that.’

Lovely phrase: ‘gets it.’ I didn’t want it. But I realized what a smart apple this Black Jack Donohue was. He didn’t know what the relationship was between Dick and me. And if he had known, he wouldn’t have understood. But he was shrewd enough to know that I wouldn’t endanger Dick or Dick me. Donohue’s entire plan was based on that perception.

Checkmate.

The coffee was ready; Jack called into the other room. They came straggling in, two at a time, to get their cups. I brought Dick’s to him. We sat side by side on the sofa, sipping the hot brew, listening to the Donohue Gang.

Donohue let them go on until the coffee was finished. Then he glanced at his watch.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s put this show on the road. Sorry we can’t help you wash up, Jannie, but first things first! Now you all know how we’re going to move out. Not fast, not running, but brisk. Like we’ve all got jobs to get to. We meet anyone in the hall or on the elevator, and it’s smiles all. round, and “Good morning” and “How are you?” Everyone pleasant, everyone easy. No strain, no pain. We get any questions, let me handle it. Down to the garage where we split up. We meet again in the 47th Street garage. All set? Everyone ready? Let’s go!’

I had hoped that Donohue might forget my manuscript. But no, he went into my office for a big manila envelope, tucked Project X inside, and put it under his arm. He saw me watching him, and winked at me. That son of a bitch!

Then, hatted and coated, we all filed out. My legs were trembling, heart pumping, and I felt as though I might throw up any minute.

If that was realism, I wanted no part of it.

THE BIG CAPER

I was participant. I was observer.

I went stumbling along, conscious of Angela close behind me, snickersnee at the ready. Felt watery knees, faintness, a looseness of the bowels. I did what I was told, allowed myself to be herded, pulled, pushed into the car.

I wasn’t thinking straight; I admit it. I couldn’t concentrate on my plight or how to escape it. Images and notions appeared, flashed by, disappeared: a speeded-up film. It all went so fast. I saw the familiar scenes of midtown Manhattan: streets, traffic, storefronts, pedestrians. But I was not part of it; it was all strange to me. I was a traveler in a foreign land. As participant, I played my role like a zombie. I could have been drugged. I remember making weird, squealing sounds until, in the car, Jack Donohue gripped my arm fiercely. Then I was still.

And all the time, acting. I’m sure, like a goddammed somnambulist, I was observing Donohue and the others. I was watching their reactions, making mental notes, telling myself to remember. Everything. Every detail. The writer at work. So, at the moment of my own death, I might note: ‘Now I am weakening. Everything growing dim. Darkness closing in. There. That’s it.’

Now the thieves were all business, sober and intent. In the rented Ford with me were Donohue, Angela, Hymie Gore, and the Holy Ghost. Angela watched only me, but the heads of the others swiveled constantly, a slow wagging back and forth. They were only watching the traffic about us, but those oscillations had a sinister, mesmeric effect, the deliberate movements of snakes about to strike.

I saw that, noted it, and marveled at their nerve and resolve. All the crimes I had plotted in those sad, fictional novels of mine were as nothing compared to this. I could imagine criminal projects, but this was the real thing. I began to grasp the purpose it required, the resolution to take step A, which led to step B, which led to step C, and so on.

I had another vagrant thought on that trip to the West 47th Street garage. It will probably make me sound