you.’
. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll stick with you. But if we don’t go for this Costa Rica deal, then what?’
‘You know what,’ he said grimly. ‘We go on the run again, maybe across country to L.A. Never staying more than a few days in one place. Trying to keep a step ahead of Rossi and the Feds. Prying out stones and peddling them when our cash runs out. Is that what you want?’
I had a sudden dread vision of what that life would be like.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t stand that. There’s no chance at all that way. The Feds or the Corporation would catch up with us eventually; I know they would. All right, Jack. Call Garcia and tell him it’s on.’
‘It’ll be okay,’ he said, patting my cheek. ‘You’ll see.’
‘Sure.’
Donohue called the Paco number in Miami. He spoke a short time in guarded phrases. That day was Tuesday. The meet was set for 3:00 P.M. on Thursday. That would give us time to have passport photos made. After we handed over the necklace, and received our new identification papers, Garcia would give us the details of where and when to board the plane for the flight to Costa Rica.
After Jack hung up, we started on a bottle of vodka. Neither of us felt like eating. I suppose we were too keyed up. Read ‘frightened’ for ‘keyed up.’ Anyway, we drank steadily, talking all the time in bright, hysterical voices, laughing sometimes, choking on our own bright ideas.
What we were trying to do was to imagine every possible way Manuel Garcia could betray us and what we could do to prevent it. We devised what we thought were wise precautions and counterploys. We had no intention of crossing Garcia. We would play it straight. All we wanted to do was stay alive.
When we finally fell into bed around midnight, we were too mentally and emotionally exhausted to have any interest in sex. All we could do was hold each other, shivering occasionally.
We listened to the storm outside, heard the lash of rain and the smash of thunder, saw the room light up with a bluish glare when lightning crackled overhead.
That’s the way we fell asleep, hearing the world crack apart.
The next day the thunder and lightning had ceased, but the sky was low and leaden. Vicious rain squalls swept in from the southeast. Even when it wasn’t raining, the air seemed supersaturated. My face felt clammy, fabrics were limp and damp. Water globules clung to the hood of the Cutlass, and all the cars on the road had their headlights on and wipers going.
We got rid of all the last possessions of Hymie Gore and Dick Fleming. We found a place that took passport photos and waited there until they were processed and printed. We bought a few things we thought might be hard to find in Costa Rica: aspirin, vitamin pills, suntan lotion, water purification tablets — things like that. We really had no idea of what the country was like, where we would be living, what modern conveniences might be available. We were emigrants setting out for an unknown land.
In the evening we continued our packing, trying to discard everything not absolutely essential. Winter garments from up north were eliminated: gloves, scarves, knitted hats, wool skirts and shirts. We set aside the necklace we would deliver to Manuel Garcia and selected another we thought of equal value. It was about then we got into a brutal argument. It was about time; our nerves were twanging.
On the following day, Thursday, when we left for our meeting with Garcia at the deserted hotel, Jack Donohue wanted to take all our luggage (including the Brandenberg loot) in the Oldsmobile, checking out of Rip’s.
I said that was foolish. If we were bushwhacked at the hotel, we stood to lose everything. The smart thing to do, I said, was to go armed, taking only the single necklace we had promised. If everything went according to plan, we could then return to Rip’s and load up before we departed to board the plane.
‘Listen,’ Donohue said, ‘we’ve got to allow at least an hour for the trip from here to the hotel. What if we deliver the rocks and Garcia says we’ve got to get on a plane right away? Then where are we? No time to come back here and pick up our stuff.’
‘Then we’ll stall,’ I said. ‘Tell him no deal. Tell him we need at least two hours to get our luggage.’. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said angrily, ‘you think they run these Micky Mouse flights on a regular schedule? We get on the plane they’ve got lined up at the time they say or we don’t go at all.’
‘Then we don’t go at all!’ I said, just as furiously. ‘We’re not walking into that lion’s den carrying everything we own. That’s just plain stupid. We’ll go down there with-’
‘In a pig’s ass you do!’ I yelled, spluttering in an effort to get it all out. ‘You really did a swell job of calling the shots, you did! Heading for Miami when every cop in the country knew it was your home base. Getting Hymie and Dick killed because of some nutty dream that you’d be treated like King Tut once you got to Miami. And then you discover they don’t want to know you.’
‘You think I couldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for you?’ he screamed, white with fury. ‘Fucking woman! I had to nurse you along, hold your hand while you jumped a roof a ten-year-old kid could have stepped across. You’ve been a goddamned jinx. You and Fleming. All the way. Without you two schmucks, I’d have been out of the country right now, living high off the hog. What an idiot I was! I should have known better. I should have ditched the two of you in New York. Left you for Rossi to take care of. You’ve been nothing but trouble. You junked me up. And now you’re telling
‘You shithead!’ I said. ‘You’re going to get yourself killed. Go ahead. I couldn’t care less. You’ve got no goddamned brains. Go on. Take all the stuff to Garcia and just hand it over. “Here it is, Mr Garcia, and I hope it’s enough.” And don’t forget to kiss his ass. But include me out, you fucking …
We stood there trembling, glaring at each other. I think if one of us had said another word, we would have been at each other’s throats. Perhaps we both knew it, because we said nothing. Just bristled. Then Jack turned away. He walked to the window. He thrust his hands into his pockets. He stood there, staring out at the rain- whipped night.
I slumped into a chair, leaned back. I stretched out my legs. I lighted a cigarette with shaking fingers. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t thinking at all. Just trying to regain control. Telling myself it was nerves. That’s all: just nerves. But I hadn’t cried, I reminded myself grimly. I was proud of that: I hadn’t wept.
Jack Donohue spoke first. He was still staring out the window, his back to me. And he spoke in such a low voice I could hardly hear him.
‘That week at Mrs Pearl’s,’ he said. ‘You and Dick and me. Together. That was the happiest time I ever had in my whole miserable life.’
I stubbed out my cigarette. I rose and went to him. I took him by the shoulders and turned him so that we were facing. Close. Staring into each other’s eyes.
it was the happiest time for me, too,’ I told him. ‘Absolutely the happiest. No matter what happens we had that, didn’t we?’
‘Yes,’ he said wonderingly. ‘That’s right. We had that. No matter what happens.’
He sighed deeply. ‘We’ll do it your way, Jan. Weil go down there tomorrow with just the one necklace. Fuck ‘em. Weil get on that goddamned plane when
‘Whatever you say, Jack,’ I said gently. ‘You’re the boss.’
The rain had stopped by Thursday morning, but a clumpy fog had moved in. It was like living in a murky fishbowl. We could hear the ocean but couldn’t see it. When we walked down to Atlantic Boulevard for a pancake breakfast, we saw a dead pelican on the road, all bloodied and muddied. A great way to start the most important day in our lives.
Back at the motel, Jack cleaned and reloaded the guns we’d take: a pistol in his raincoat pocket, a revolver in his belt. Another pistol concealed in the car. I would carry a pistol in my raincoat pocket and a small revolver in my shoulder bag.
‘Babe,’ Jack said, ‘if you have to blast — you won’t, but if you
