the cops. Robbery in progress. Three bad guys are holding up the joint. Send in the Marines. If it works, in about five or ten minutes this place will look like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Hyme, you and Dick stay right here, drinking and talking. Don’t make a move. We’ve just gone to pee, that’s all. Come on, babe; let’s get the show on the road.’
I did just what he said. I sauntered ahead of him toward the back of the room, smiling and talking to him over my shoulder. Through that grotty kitchen. Into the hallway. I stepped into the old-fashioned wooden telephone booth.
That’s when I saw the sign: ‘Out of Order.’
I must have gone white and begun to sway, because Jack stepped close and grabbed my shoulders.
‘You cave on me now,’ he spat out, ‘and I’ll slit your fucking throat, I swear to God.’
Still holding me, he peered into the other booth. No sign there. He thrust me into the booth.
‘Make the goddamned call,’ he said furiously. ‘If they ask your name, just keep sobbing and yelling.’
He squeezed into the booth with me and pulled the door shut. It wasn’t, I guessed, the first time a man and a woman (that nubile waitress?) had been together in that phone booth in the back of the Game Cock.
I got the coin into the slot with slippery fingers. I dialed Operator. It rang three times, then:
‘How may I be of service?’ a languid voice inquired.
‘Fire Department!’ I yelled. ‘Emergency! Oh my God! The fire department. Quick!’
‘Just a moment, please,’ she sang pleasantly, ‘and I will connect you with your party.’
A clicking, and then a man’s voice came on, heavy and rasping.
‘This is-’ he started.
‘Fire!’ I screamed, my mouth close to the handset, it’s terrible!
‘Where?’ he barked. ‘Where are you calling from?’
‘The Game Cock!’ I yelled. “The tavern. Near Route 95. Hurry! Oh God, please hurry! The whole place is on fire! People are burning and-’
‘What’s your name?’ he shouted.
‘Please hurry,’ I begged piteously, getting into the role. ‘The flames are snapping, and-’
Donohue’s hand clamped down on the hanger, disconnecting.
‘Beautiful,’ he said with a thin grin. ‘I never realized what a ham you are. Now get out and give me a chance.’
He wrestled the folding door open, stepped out into the hallway. I got out of the booth. Then Jack reentered. He fished in the coin box, picked out the coin I had used, returned by the operator. You’ve got to admire a man who thinks of that at a time like that.
I leaned into the booth, listened to his call. He had the operator put him through to the local police department. He put his mouth close to the phone.
‘Listen,’ he said in an urgent whisper. ‘I can’t talk any louder; they might hear me. Three guys holding up the Game Cock roadhouse. You know where it is? Good. They’re doing it right now, got everyone lined up against the bar. Yeah, that’s right: three guys. Listen, be careful; they’ve got these guns. Yeah, right now it’s going down. The Game Cock. For God’s sake, get here as soon as you can. Yeah. My name is-’
He hung up suddenly. He didn’t forget to reclaim the dime. He didn’t give it back to me.
‘How’d I do?’ he asked, grinning.
‘I think I gave the better performance,’ I said loftily.
‘Keep your fingers crossed, kiddo,’ he said, and took me by the elbow.
We walked steadily through the kitchen, across the main room.
‘Sorry I got shaky,’ I said.
‘You did fine,’ he assured me. ‘Just fine.’
We rejoined Dick and Hymie. We picked up our drinks, took deep gulps.
‘How’d it go?’ Fleming asked in a low voice.
‘Okay,’ Donohue said tersely, it went okay. With luck we may get out of this. Now here’s what we do: The moment we hear the sirens, finish your drinks. We stand around talking for a minute or so. Very relaxed. Very casual. Near the windows. We don’t make our move until the fire engines and squads pull into the parking lot. Whichever comes first. The moment they stop, and cops or firemen start toward the place,
‘They’ll follow,’ Fleming fretted. ‘North or south on the highway — what’s the difference? Why don’t we try the backroads?’
‘Because we don’t
‘I’ll shake ‘em, Jack,’ Hymie Gore said, nodding vigorously. ‘Put your money on it.’
I’ve got to hand it to the local public service departments. Less than five minutes after Jack and I made our calls, we heard the distant wail of sirens. We finished our drinks. Chatting and laughing, we moved toward the front windows. The sirens were louder now, and we could distinguish the distinctive hoot of buffalo whistles.
‘Fire engines,’ Donohue said quietly. ‘They’re beating the cops.’
The sirens were screaming now, close by. Several customers rose to their feet, looked toward the windows. A few started moving to the door.
Then the ear-piercing wail seemed right in the room with us, and that weird, warbling whistle. A red light flashed through the windows as the engines came swinging into the parking lot, spraying gravel.
We went out the door, other customers crowding after us. There were three trucks — pumper, hose cart, a short hook-and-ladder. The firemen started dropping off even before the trucks came to a complete halt. A chiefs car, red rooftop light revolving, turned into the parking lot.
Firemen trotted toward us, carrying axes, extinguishers, hook-poles. The sirens were suddenly loud again as two police cars came careening in from the road.
Now all the customers from the Game Cock were spilling out into the parking lot. Firemen and cops tried to push their way through, shouting and cursing.
Donohue looked quickly to right and left.
‘Now!’ he said urgently.
Hymie Gore led the way, bulling his way through the jostling mob. The big man used his hands, pushing and shoving, and his heavy shoulders. We ducked behind him, rushed along in his wake. Jack Donohue’s hand was on my back, hurtling me forward.
We made the car, unlocked, scrambled inside. Hyme got the engine started, pulled away before the doors were closed. He rammed the Buick toward the road, narrowly missed the rear of a fire truck, cut across the path of a third police car just entering the lot, swerved down into a shallow culvert, came up the other side, bounced across a bumpy verge, got onto the pavement, put the car into a tight spin with a squeal of tires, headed toward the entrance to Route 95, accelerating, whipping the Buick around turns, his broad back hunched over the wheel, trees flickering by, a blare of horns from startled motorists as we cut them off, sliced around them, their brakes squealing, our car roaring as we went sailing up the ramp, knifed into southbound traffic, angled across to the lefthand lane, went flying down to Miami, Gore staring ahead, the rest of us craning back and seeing no signs of pursuit.
‘We made it!’ Jack Donohue yelled, with something between a sob and a cry of exaltation. ‘Made it, made it. made it!’
A HEAVY LOSS
Our euphoria lasted all of five minutes, with loud talk, jokes, hysterical laughter. Then we fell silent. I saw my hands trembling uncontrollably.
‘Jack,’ I said in a small voice, ‘I’m cold and scared. Can I have a drink, please?’
