we go out, and on the road. Jannie, you and Fleming know how to use these things?’
‘We can learn,’ Dick said.
‘Sure you can,’ Jack said. ‘Hymie will show you how. It’s easy. Hymie, give them the automatic pistols. Just put off the safety and pull the trigger; that’s all there is to it.’
So that night, before we all went to bed, Dick and I were issued loaded pistols and shown how to use them. You switched that little dingus up, pointed the gun at what you wanted to hit, and kept pulling the trigger until the pistol was empty. You held on tightly because the gun would jerk in your hand, and also you had to be prepared for the loud noise and not be startled by it.
‘It seems simple enough,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ Hymie Gore said. ‘Nothing to it. You’ll get the hang of it right off.’
Later, Donohue and I in our separate beds, lights out, I called softly, ‘Jack? You asleep?’
‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘My brain’s churning. So much to figure. We’ll have to ditch the Ford.’
‘Why is that?’
‘It’s got that goddamned sticker of a rental car on it. And maybe the license plate. Can the cops make a rental car from the license plate like they can a cab?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Anyway, the Feds will have your photograph sooner or later. It’ll probably be in the papers and on TV. The rental agency guy might spot it. You rented under your own name, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So then they’ll get out a bulletin on the car. That’s why we’ve got to ditch. We’ll pick up another heap in Baltimore and just walk away from the Ford. Then we’ll make tracks.’
Silence in the darkness. I saw him light a cigarette, so I lighted one.
‘Jack,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Something I’ve been wondering about: Why did you bring Smiley into the deal? I thought you owed him money?’
‘That’s why I had to bring him in,’ he explained. ‘I told him I was going to score big and he’d get his five G’s. But he wanted to protect his investment, so he declared himself in. It was the only way I could stall him. The bastard didn’t trust me.’. ‘Oh.’
‘Well, he got his,’ Donohue said vindictively. ‘I hate people who don’t trust me.’
The aggrieved plaint of the confirmed liar, con man, cheat: People don’t trust him. What was so unbelievable, even to me, was that knowing this, I still trusted him. And so did Hymie Gore, and so did Dick Fleming.
I wondered if we loved him. It was possible. You never love people for their virtues. It’s their shortcomings that make you lose control.
After a while we put out our cigarettes. We lay awake in the darkness. I could hear him stir restlessly. I thought I heard a groan.
‘What is it, Jack’?’
‘I been on the con all my life,’ he said, as if speaking to himself. ‘I admit it. A grifter since I was ten years old. I had to be to survive. Listen, I worked hard at it. Lost my cracker accent. Learned how to wear clothes, order from a menu, who to tip and who to grease — like that. You know?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘So, being on the hustle as long as I can remember,’ he went on, ‘it’s become my whole life. I mean, I could have been someone else. I keep thinking that with the breaks I could have been someone else. I mean, I’m not a monster, I know how to behave and I got a brain. I know I got a brain.’
‘I know you do, Jack.’
‘So, with a break or two I could have been something. Instead of busting my ass on the con every minute. Hitting and moving on. Always moving on. Jesus, what kind of life is that? But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is that the con, the hustle, the scam has become such a big part of me that it’s a habit. I mean, when does it stop? Am I conning myself? That’s what’s worrying me. Is this the biggest hustle of my life — swindling myself?’
I thought about that a moment. Then I said:
‘You mean about getting to Miami? Getting out of the country with the ice and living happily ever after?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, sighing, ‘that’s what I mean. What do you think?’
I didn’t answer. He kept stirring restlessly. I stared out of the window, and in the light from the motel sign I saw that it had started to snow. Big fat flakes were coming down slowly, like petals.
‘Jack,’ I said finally.
‘What?’
‘Want me to come into your bed?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That might help.’
The Donohue Gang didn’t do much on Sunday, just mooched around, went out for breakfast and lunch. Armed. Then we repacked the suitcases and carryalls, dividing up the Brandenberg loot so if one or two cases were lost or stolen, we’d still have plenty. Hymie Gore cleaned the guns that had been fired during the wild getaway. He used handkerchiefs and a package of pipe cleaners he had bought.
‘Jack,’ he said, ‘we’re going to need more pills.’
‘I know it, Hyme,’ Donohue said. ‘I figured we’d wait till we get a little farther south. Easier to buy ammo down there, and no questions asked. We got enough to see us through, don’t we, Hyme?’
‘Oh sure, Jack. But, you know …’
Late in the afternoon we were all sitting around in the room occupied by Fleming and Gore, watching a football game on television and drinking vodka. The snow had stopped — only an inch or so had fallen — but it was cold enough so that it wasn’t melting. We knew we’d have to hit the road again soon, but it was warm and cozy in there: no one wanted to make the first move.
A short news broadcast came on: the usual about the Mideast situation, a famine in Pakistan, a plane crash in Poland, a fire in Bombay that killed 196. All swell stuff. Then the expressionless announcer said:
‘New York police admit they have no leads in a particularly gruesome double homicide discovered this morning in an abandoned butcher shop in the South Bronx. The bodies of a man and a woman were found hanging from meat hooks. Both victims, said the police, had obviously been tortured before they died. Identification has not yet been definitely established, but it is believed the woman was of Hispanic extraction. And now, back to today’s football scores …’
‘ Black Jack Donohue got up slowly. He switched off the TV. We watched him walk to the window. He stood staring out at the snow-covered scene.
‘Jack,’ Hymie Gore said falteringly. ‘You hear that?’
‘I heard it, Hyme.’
‘Youthink …?’
‘Yeah, Hyme, that’s what I think. Angela and the Ghost. They didn’t make it.’
‘Uh …’ Dick Fleming tried. ‘Uh …’
Donohue whirled on him.
‘You mean did they talk?’ he demanded. ‘Is that what you’re wondering? Did they talk?’
Fleming hung his head.
‘Goddamned right they talked! So would you, so would I, so would anyone. Now they got our names, descriptions, everything. Jesus Christ, we got to dump that car!’
‘How did they get to the Holy Ghost?’ I asked, hoping to calm him down. ‘You said he’d play it smart.’
‘Who the hell knows?’ he said, shrugging. ‘Maybe Angela gave a ring to a relative, a Christmas present, and they flashed it around. It could happen a dozen ways. Oh, those bastards! They didn’t have to cut them up. The Ghost would have sung right away. He’d know I’d understand. But no, they had to hurt them. You know why? A warning to us. Oh, yes. An example. You rip off the Corporation, that’s what you get. They knew we’d hear about it or read about it. They want us to know what’s in store for us.’
‘Oh God,’ I said faintly, remembering the finger-tapping, foot-tapping Holy Ghost, the skinny little Angela wrapped around with yards and yards of knitted wool.
‘Want to take off now?’ Donohue said harshly. ‘You and Fleming? Turn yourselves in? Go ahead. I wouldn’t
