like a snob, a prig, an elitist, whatever, but if this is to be a true and honest account, I must record it.
I thought Dick Fleming and I were superior to these creatures. We were better informed, better educated, more intelligent, more sensitive. It was a matter of breeding, of class; yes, it was. We would never have chosen to associate with any one of them if it hadn’t been for our harebrained scheme. Quite simply, they were beneath us.
Yet there we were, in the power of those inferior beings. Because they had shrewdness, strength, vigor, and determination that could not be denied. Most important, they were not daunted by action. I tried to recall an instance in my life in which I had planned and carried out a project of moment. I could not think of a single one. A fitting irony that the superior, well-bred, upper-class Jannie Shean should find the first significant act of her life to be a criminal enterprise controlled by denizens of the deep with few brains, fewer social graces, but With the desperate courage to challenge fate and defy society. It was a depressing, humbling thought.
The other car arrived at the garage before we did. The doors were opened for us by Clement, and quickly closed. Inside were now Dick Fleming’s VW, my XKE, the rented Ford, and the stolen Chevy.
Everyone went about the assigned tasks with a minimum of talk and confusion. The men donned the Bonomo coveralls, including poor Dick, who was urged on by either Clement or Smiley, their guns prominently displayed. I admired Black Jack’s attention to detail, for each man had been issued a pair of coveralls that fitted reasonably well, from the skinny Holy Ghost to the squat Smiley and mountainous Hymie Gore.
Grease was smeared on the license plates of the VW and the rented Ford, the final getaway cars.
‘Not too thick,’ Donohue cautioned. ‘We don’t want to get stopped by some hot-rock cop. Just cover one or two of the numbers, enough to confuse witnesses.’
Then he ran through a checklist, making certain each man carried stocking mask, tape, a few lengths of rope. Gore, the Ghost, Smiley, and Clement carried short crowbars or pieces of pipe. Donohue also had two doorstoppers. And everyone carried at least three folded pillowcases. All were armed, of course.
Donohue inspected each member of his gang, looking for all the world like a sergeant preparing his squad for parade. Then he took a black moustache from a small paper sack, licked the pad on the back, and stuck it on his upper lip, pressing it firmly in place. He unwrapped a Band-Aid, placed it across his forehead. He inspected his reflection in a car window, not smiling. He should have looked ridiculous but he didn’t. I remember thinking that black moustache did something for him, gave him dash, and he should grown one.
He looked at his watch, then took a final glance around. The VW and my rented Ford had been backed into the garage, ready for a quick exit. The keys were left under the floor mats.
‘All right,’ Black Jack said. ‘Put on your gloves. Wipe down the Chevy and the XKE, and I mean really scrub them.’
They worked swiftly, rubbing door handles, steering wheels, door frames, interior armrests.
‘That’s enough,’ Donohue said. ‘Time to get going. Me, Jannie, Angela, Hymie, and the Ghost in the Chevy. Jannie, here’s a pair of gloves for you; you’ll be driving. You other guys travel in style in the Jag. Let’s go.’
His commands were terse, hard, toneless. No joking. No banter. It was all business, strictly business.
We rolled out. I drove the Chevy, Angela sitting beside me, her knife a few inches from my ribs. Donohue sat next to her, on the outside. Hymie Gore and the Holy Ghost were in the back seat. I glanced in the rearview mirror long enough to see my bottle-green Jaguar follow us out, Dick Fleming driving. The XKE paused just long enough for Clement to hop out and close the garage doors.
Then we were on our way. My Big Caper was going down.
On the drive over to Madison Avenue, I wondered if Jack Donohue hadn’t been right. He had told me he felt his luck had finally changed, that this robbery would go off exactly as planned, an enormous success. So far it had certainly gone smoothly. No hitches, no accidents. There hadn’t even been any witnesses in the elevators or garage of my apartment house to note our departure. Perhaps, I thought, gamblers and thieves had an instinct for these things, the way hunters sense game in the vicinity or experienced soldiers sense an opportunity for a kill.
The trip to the antique shop was uneventful. That knife point held unwaveringly near my ribs was a constant reminder not to try anything foolish, like a contrived stall or a deliberate crash.
‘Slow down a bit,’ Donohue commanded. ‘Let the Jag catch up.’
I obeyed. I slowed until the XKE was directly behind us. Then, in tandem, we went crosstown to Madison, made a left, and headed uptown. I drove carefully, heeding every stoplight.
‘Smart girl,’ Black Jack said tensely. ‘Keep it up; you’re doing fine.’
We came to 53rd Street and glanced ahead. No Bonomo truck parked in front of the antique shop.
‘No sweat,’ Donohue said. ‘A slow turn around the block.’
I went over to Park Avenue on 54th Street, drove south, came back to Madison on 53rd, then turned north again. The Jaguar was right behind us.
Still no truck.
Donohue glanced at his watch. ‘They’re a few minutes late,’ he said lightly, and I admired his nerve. I was ready to pee, aching to pee. ‘Another turn around the block, Jannie.’
We made the circuit once more. The streets were heavy with early-morning traffic. The sidewalks were clogged with workers hurrying to offices and stores. It took us almost five minutes to work our way around the block onto Madison Avenue again.
And there was the Bonomo van, doubleparked near the antique shop.
‘Bingo,’ Jack Donohue said with great satisfaction. ‘And look — how’s that for luck? They’re parked a door down so they won’t be able to look out the windows and see what we’re doing.’
He was right: The Bonomo truck wasn’t doubleparked directly in front of the antique shop. I began to wonder if the gods of crooks, if there are such, hadn’t decided to throw in with Black Jack Donohue.
‘Pull up in front of him,’ he directed me. ‘Back up until you’re about five feet away. Keep the motor running.’
I did as I was told. I watched in the mirror as Dick Fleming pulled up behind the van. The three vehicles were in a tight group.
‘Good, good,’ Donohue murmured. ‘Doing fine, doing fine. Now we wait …’
We waited, silent and motionless, for almost ten minutes. A squad car rolled by on the other side of the avenue, but the two cops didn’t even give us a glance. I didn’t see any foot patrolmen.
Donohue turned to the men in the back seat.
‘It’s time,’ he said.
They nodded, got out of the car slowly. Went to the back of the van, walking in the street, not on the sidewalk, keeping parked cars between them and the Bonomo cleaning crew inside the antique shop.
I watched in my rearview mirror as Dick Fleming, Smiley, and Clement got out of the XKE, moving leisurely. As far as I could observe, none of the hurrying pedestrians noticed a thing. The five coveralled men disappeared inside the van and closed the rear doors.
‘Beautiful,’ Donohue breathed. ‘Isn’t that beautiful, Jannie?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Just like you planned it,’ he said. ‘You should be proud.’
I wasn’t proud; I was numb. I knew what was going on inside the van: The five men were pulling on their stocking masks, poor Dick Fleming being urged on by the prodding of Clement’s gun.
‘Here they come,’ Donohue said suddenly.
I looked up. The Bonomo cleaning crew was coming out of the antique shop.
‘My turn,’ Black Jack said. He opened the door on his side, if she gives you any trouble,’ he said, ‘kill her.’
He was speaking to Angela, but he was looking at me when he said it.
I hope I never see eyes like that again. Holes. Empty. Deep, deep pits.
I watched him go. He timed it just right, hesitating on the traffic side of the doubleparked cars until the Bonomo crew had gone to the rear of their van and opened the doors.
They stood frozen. Then Donohue was behind them, hands at their backs, shoving them forward. Other hands from inside the van reached out, yanked them in. No shouts. No screams. No shots. It had been done.
I let out a long, quavering sigh. Angela hadn’t been watching the action. She had been watching me. And that knife blade never wavered, never drooped.
