could understand how a guy like him could be shocked, excited, almost exhilarated by the events of the past twelve hours. It was a new world for him. A mild, gentle editor of children’s books finds himself in a hypercharged scene of armed robbery, violence and sudden death.
I had been wrong about him; he wasn’t about to crack up. But an earthquake had shaken him, changed his perceptions. There was a life he hadn’t even envisioned — except once removed in books, movies, television. But this was the real thing. And now he was in the middle of it, part of it. It was raw, sweaty, dangerous. Hadn’t he opted for risk and adventure, sensing the lack in his own life?
The thrilling robbery, the careening escape, the deaths of men close to him — all had given life a savor it never had before. He was feeling now, feeling deeply. Fear, courage, love, hate. Things he had never really felt before. They had been words with dictionary definitions. But now, only now, he knew what they meant.
And there was something else. I wasn’t sure about it, but I had to find out.
I put up a hand, stroked his fine hair fondly.
‘Dick,’ I said in a low voice, ‘do you want to make love with Jack Donohue?’
He didn’t answer for a long time, and I thought perhaps he hadn’t heard me. But finally he turned. He looked into my eyes.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, puzzled, troubled. ‘Maybe.’
‘Then you’re going with him?’
He nodded.
‘Then I’m going too,’ I said.
‘Jannie,’ he groaned, ‘please. Not for my sake.’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘I have my own motives.’
‘Like what?’
‘First of all, I want to stay close to my manuscript. I spent a lot of time and work on that thing and I’m not going to give up without a struggle. Second, I want to see how it comes out.’
‘What? You’re crazy!’
‘No, no-Sol Faber claims readers want neat, tidy endings. I can’t see how this caper can possibly end tidily, but God knows I’ve been wrong up to now. So I’m coming along. In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, there’s the matter of ego. I don’t like being manipulated, and that’s what Black Jack has been doing: manipulating us. I want to see if I have the wit and energy to beat him at his own game.’
‘You voluntarily go now,’ he reminded me, ‘and your duress defense goes out of the window. You become a full-fledged accomplice.’
‘I can always plead insanity.’
‘You should have done that three months ago,’ he said. But he was smiling, and leaned forward to kiss the tip of my nose. Then we marched back to stand side by side in front of Donohue.
‘We’re going with you,’ I announced.
Jack let his breath out in a long sigh.
‘Biggest long-shot gamble I’ve ever made,’ he said, grinning. ‘It’s nice to have a winner.’
‘Would you really have turned us loose to go to the cops?’ I asked him.
‘Sure,’ he said cheerfully.
I didn’t believe him for a minute. I hadn’t told Dick Fleming one of the reasons I had decided we should go with Donohue: I was afraid that if we didn’t he’d kill us both. He was capable of it.
‘I’ve been figuring our best bet,’ Donohue said, standing and pacing around the room. ‘We’ve got a day or two before that thing in the closet begins to stink up the joint. But I think we better get out of here tonight, after dark. They won’t have very good descriptions of us. Me, Hymie, and Fleming were in coveralls. They had masks, and I had the fake cookie-duster and the Band-Aid. You’re the problem, Jannie.’
‘Me?’ I protested. ‘Why me?’
‘Get with it,’ he said disgustedly. ‘They find the Jag, trace your apartment, get an accurate description and a photograph from your sister or friends. You’ll be all over the front pages of the tabloids and on the TV news shows by tomorrow. So you’ve got to become Bea Flanders again.’
‘Not again!’ I wailed. ‘I thought I was finished with those goddamned falsies. Besides, all Bea’s stuff is at my apartment.’
‘Not to worry,’ Donohue said. ‘I’ll go out, pick up enough junk for you to change your looks. A red wig, a-’
‘Not red,’ I said. ‘I hate red hair.’
‘Will you use your fucking brain?’ he snarled at me. ‘The cops get to your apartment, they’ll know what Jannie Shean looks like. The Corporation traces me to the Hotel Harding, they’ll make the connection with the blonde who lived next door to me. So now you’ve got to be a redhead. So I’ll pick up a red wig, tight skirt and sweater, a trenchcoat — whatever. Make me out a list. While I’m out, I’ll buy some food and booze, enough to keep us going until we get out of town.’
‘How are you going to pay for all this?’ I asked suspiciously.
He flashed one of his 100-watt grins and jerked a thumb toward the pile of stolen jewelry.
‘Hock a couple of things,’ he said. ‘Rings, watches, earrings — like that. There’s no way,
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘what about the insurance-’ I stopped suddenly. ‘Forget it. It was a dumb idea. It’s not likely Brandenberg and Sons would have taken out insurance on hot jewelry.’
‘No,’ Donohue said dryly, ‘not likely. While I’m gone, Fleming, you get into some clean clothes. That stuff you’re wearing is a mess.’
Dick looked at him gratefully.
‘Another thing,’ Jack said. ‘You got any suitcases?’
‘A couple,’ Dick said. ‘Two leather, and some canvas carryalls.’
‘Good,’ Donohue said, smiling at him. ‘Pack up all the ice. Put some shirts and towels around it so it doesn’t rattle. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours, maybe more. I’ll take your phone number, and if there’s any problem, I’ll try to call. I’ll let the phone ring twice, then hang up. Then I’ll call again. That one you answer. But don’t answer any other calls. Got it? And don’t open the door for anyone. Don’t play the radio
or TV. And try to move around quiet. And don’t worry about me: I’ll be back.’
Strangely enough, I was sure he would. ‘I’ll take the Ford,’ he said. ‘I’ll gas up. We’ll leave about midnight. Get some sleep — if you can.’ ‘Where we going, Jack?’ Hymie Gore asked him. ‘South,’ Donohue said. ‘Miami.’ ‘We’ll never make it,’ I said. ‘Sure we will,’ he said. ‘Dead or alive.’
ON THE RUN
We came through the Lincoln Tunnel, worked our way in and out of horrendous holiday traffic, got onto the New Jersey Turnpike and headed south. Dick Fleming and Hymie Gore were snoozing in the back seat. I was driving. Jack Donohue sat beside me, bending over a Gulf Oil map, trying to read it in the light of the dash.
‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ I asked him.
‘When it’s time,’ he said absently. ‘I love this traffic. Safety in crowds, babe.’
I was wearing my new wig — a cross between fire-engine red and life-preserver orange. It was a mass of tight curls. I looked like Little Orphan Annie after she had been picked up by the heels and dipped in a bucket of tangerine Jell-O. Jack had done well with the trenchcoat, though. It had a zip-in fleece lining, which was welcome considering that the outside temperature was a few degrees below zero. He had also bought me a tweed skirt and pink angora sweater. The pink went with my orange wig like milk goes with pickles.
‘We’ll pick up some better stuff along the way,’ he had assured me. ‘Also, I’ll need clothes, and Hyme and Dick, too. Some more suitcases. Maybe a thermos for coffee, and one of those plastic picnic chests so we can carry food on the road.’
‘You think we’ll make it, Jack?’ Hymie Gore asked.
‘Can’t miss,’ Donohue had said as he crossed middle and index fingers of both hands and spun around three
