‘Have a nice day?’ he asked, flashing his dazzling smile.
‘About seven grand between us,’ I told him.
‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Beautiful. Much better than I had hoped. A couple of ripe ones, you two are. What nobblers! Hymie and I did all right, too. Unloaded almost everything and were invited to hurry back with more. But we won’t be greedy. Not in this town.’
‘How much?’ I asked him.
‘I figure we’re carrying close to twenty. What a sweet payday this has been! Well, tomorrow’s Sunday, and on the seventh day we rest. Let’s go back, stash the green, and get cleaned up. We’ll find us a nice, classy, expensive restaurant, have a steak and drinks, and relax for a few hours before we hit the road. How does that sound?’
We all agreed that sounded just right.
But the stores and boutiques of the shopping center were still open, and I asked Donohue to give me thirty minutes, no more, for a quick and necessary shopping trip. He agreed to thirty minutes, no more.
So about an hour later I hurried back to the Ford, burdened down with boxes, bags, packages. I had made a whirlwind tour and picked up things I needed: cosmetics, tampons, sweaters, skirts, two simple shirtwaist dresses, a fleece-lined jacket, a velour bikini (for Miami), and even a nylon wig in a strawberry shade a little less frightful than the one Donohue had bought for me.
I thought he’d be furious at my tardiness, but Hymie Gore had had the foresight to bring along the bottle of scotch, and it was obvious the three men hadn’t been bored during my absence. They were in a festive, almost roistering mood, and we headed back to the motel with the firm conviction that God was where He should be, and all was right with the world — or at least our small part of it.
Showered, the men shaved, and me dressed in new duds and new wig, we prepared to sally forth to the banquet Jack Donohue had promised. It was then close to 8:00 P.M.
‘Hey,’ Dick Fleming said, ‘if we’re going to hit the road tonight, why don’t we pack now? If we get tanked at dinner, we won’t feel like it when we come back. The rocks and the guns will be j ust as safe inthecarasthey are here.’
Donohue thought that over for a few seconds.
So all the new suitcases were filled with our purchases and stacked in the Ford’s trunk, along with the old suitcasies and the loot. The carryalls went into the back seat, the guns under the seat, and we piled in.
Jack got behind the wheel and pulled up to the motel office. He beeped his horn twice and the clerk came out. He was a tall, shambling gink with no chin. But to make up for it he had an Adam’s apple that looked like an elbow. A fine figure of young louthood.
‘We’re checking out,’ Donohue said, smiling and holding the keys out his opened window. ‘Many thanks for your hospitality. Nice place you got here.’
‘Yeah?’ the clerk said in great surprise. ‘Well, you come back again, y’hear?’
‘We certainly will,’ Black Jack said, and he said it as though he meant it. I mean, you could
The clerk hesitated.
‘That would be Uncle Tom’s Tavern,’ he said. ‘On the road to Camden. Not real fancy, but real good. Take a left on the highway. It’s about two miles. You’ll see the neon sign on your right.’
‘Much obliged,’ Donohue said politely. ‘Keep up the good work.’ Then, after we had pulled out and turned onto the highway, he said, ‘Uncle Tom’s Tavern? Jesus, can you believe it?’
But it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Larger than we expected. A big parking lot, well filled, and a rambling, one-story building that someone must have thought looked like a colonial tavern. The interior decor carried out the theme: exposed beams in a whitewashed ceiling, two brick fireplaces with lighted gas logs, and oak tables set around with captain’s chairs. There was a long mahogany bar down one side, antiqued mirrors behind it and stools in front upholstered in red vinyl. The bartenders and all the waitresses wore colonial costumes, and the maitre d’ was dressed in knee breeches and a powdered wig. He looked abashed, as well he should.
‘Jeez,’ Hymie Gore said, beaming, ‘this is cute!’
The food was not bad. Not great, but not bad. We all ordered the same thing, figuring it would take less time. The Little Neck clams were fresh and cold (Hymie had a dozen), the salad was crisp, the French bread hot and crusty. When the entrees were served, there was plenty of sour cream and chives for the baked potatoes, the ribs of roast beef (bone in) were reasonably tender, and the string beans had been cooked with bacon. Ersatz bacon, of course, but who cared? Warm apple pie for dessert, with a slice of American cheese on each wedge. A big pitcher of hot coffee set in the middle of the table.
It wasn’t the Four Seasons, but for Camden, NJ, it was a pleasant surprise. Or maybe we were all in a mellow mood from the drinks: two rounds before we ordered, another with the clams, two bottles of California burgundy with the beef, cognac with the coffee.
By this time Hymie Gore was burping like a maniac, tapping a knuckle constantly against his lips, and muttering, “Scuse. ‘Scuse. ‘Scuse.’
‘And now,’ I said, ‘if you gentlemen will pardon me. Nature calls.’ They looked at me blearily. ‘No, no,’ I said, ‘don’t get up. I’ll manage.’
I found the women’s lounge, peed, repaired my makeup, resettled my wig, and headed back to our table. The restrooms were up two stairs at the rear of the dining room. As I came down the steps, I glanced towards the noisy bar. Almost every stool was taken; the bartenders were hustling.
In the mirror behind the bar I spotted a familiar face. A man sitting at the far end. I almost stopped. But if I could see him in the bar mirror, he could see me. I continued my slow walk back to our table, looking at my companions and smiling. I was so goddamned nonchalant, it hurt.
I slid into my chair, pulled closer to the littered table, picked up my napkin. Jack Donohue was seated on my right. I leaned close to him, smiling, put a hand on one of his.
‘Jack, darling,’ I cooed, ‘we may have trouble. Come towards me, smile and laugh like everything’s okay.’
I didn’t have to cue him twice; he responded immediately. He slid his free arm across my shoulders, pulled his chair closer.
‘You two guys go on drinking,’ he said to Fleming and
Gore out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Don’t look up. Don’t stare at us. What is it, Jannie?’
And all the time he was laughing, nodding. To an observer thirty feet away, everything would look copacetic: a nice friendly, somewhat drunken dinner for four.
‘Don’t look now,’ I said. ‘A guy at the far end of the bar. Standing. Youngish. Baldish, wearing a black patch over his right eye.’
Donohue took his arm from my shoulder, still smiling. He shook a cigarette from a pack on the table, lighted it, put his head back to blow a plume of smoke upward. I saw his eyes dart.
‘Got him,’he said.
‘Know him?’
‘No. Looks like a fink. Who is he?’
‘Owner of the last jewelry store I hit. Didn’t haggle. Paid what I asked immediately. In cash. Asked if I had any more merchandise like that. Very anxious that I should return.’
‘I see,’ Donohue said slowly. ‘I see.’
Dick Fleming and Hymie Gore had been busy with their coffee and brandies. But they had been listening.
‘It could be a coincidence,’ Dick said. ‘Maybe he’s waiting for a date. Maybe he’s just here to have Saturday night dinner by himself and is waiting for a table.’
‘Oh sure,’ Jack said. ‘A Philadelphia jeweler drives across the bridge, through Camden, just to have Saturday night dinner by himself in Uncle Tom’s Tavern. Some coincidence! What did you do after you left his place, Jannie?’
I thought back, trying to remember.
‘It was the last place 1 hit. After I left, I walked two blocks, caught a cab, went back to the parking lot.’
