Dead End

course, but certainly not as hard as the local police. If Syracuse looks safe, we may hole up there for a few months, then go to Canada. Once in Canada we can lay low in comfort, explore the setup for taking a boat to the West Indies, or any place where we won't need a passport. We can take it very slow, perhaps see what the deal is about buying forged Canadian passports. But we'll cross that bridge once we're safe in Canada. Any more holes in my plan?”

     “I still think it's crazy! We'll have a million dollars out of our hands, riding around the country in packages!”

     “It's a bold plan, but simple, and it will work. The fact that the money is out of our hands is the smartest move we can make. The only way we could take the money with us would be to first stay in this hole for another five or six months, and that is risky. Who will stop a couple of poorly dressed working slobs, traveling empty-handed, or with a small bag or a shopping bag?”

     “But if one of those packages or baskets comes open, we're done!”

     “That's right. So we have to wrap them very well. But remember if this Harris made you, or if a gas man comes to check the meter here a few times and doesn't get any answer, we're done, too.”

     I thought furiously, was absolutely against letting the money out of our hands. “Suppose the hotel clerk gets interested in the packages?”

     “First, he hasn't any reason to. It's our fishing gear and clothes we're waiting for. After all, we're not sending the packages registered mail, or anything that would make the clerk suspicious. And that's exactly why we have to be there before any package arrives. By train we can reach Syracuse in eighteen hours, perhaps a few hours longer by bus, and even less time if we get a car and drive. We can do it easily.”

     “Suppose you get picked up, get sick, or hurt—what happens to Gil Jones?”

     Doc nodded thoughtfully, started another cigarette working. “Good—that's using your head, kid. I never considered that angle. I didn't want us to be together, thought we'd be safer acting as strangers, but you raise a good point. We'll send the packages to Gil Jones, in care of Ted Brown. That way, whoever gets there first can take the packages and wait for the other. We'll set a deadline: The first one there will hang around for exactly six days. By that time he'll know something has gone wrong, one of us has been bagged, and take off. However, if one of us gets sick or hurt in an accident—long as he's in the clear—he'll wire the other to wait. Buy it now, Bucky boy?”

     We argued most of the night. I still saw a lot of holes. If one of us was collared it would be silly for the other to wait a week; in a week's time the cops would have beaten all the details out of the one bagged. But I didn't tell that to Doc. I argued against buying cars without a license; if we were even stopped for passing a light in any town, or for anything in some hick speed trap, we were finished. I didn't like the idea of the money leaving our hands, nor of Doc getting to Syracuse before me. (Although I didn't tell him that.) The more we talked, the more I began to go for the idea. I wanted to get out of this bug-joint, and seeing Shep Harris had given me a bad jolt. Doc was clever; who would bother a couple of stiffs in old clothes, empty-handed? I had to admire Doc's brainwork, and also I had a few ideas of my own.

     Toward morning, after we'd gone over and over it, I gave in. We finally decided—at my insistence—that we would each carry a hundred thousand with us, say in a paper package. After all, a hitchhiker would be carrying something, like a paper bag or small canvas bag with his clean shirt. And if anything happened to the packages, we'd at least have getaway money. Doc was against the idea, felt if one of us was in an accident, for example, how could he possibly explain all that money? But he finally gave in.

     I couldn't sleep much that night, and early the next morning we rummaged around the stinking cellar. Luck was with us again. We found a couple of strong baskets, big ones, like apples come in. After lining them with old clothes, we carefully packed one with ten- and twenty-and fifty-dollar bills, and were easily able to put in $231,200. Doc said that was too much and we repacked it with less dough and more clothing. Doc was sharp; he even left part of an old coat sticking out of the top so there wouldn't be any doubt as to the contents. We found some clothesline in a kitchen cabinet—God knows why Molly had bought it: Washing was the last thing ever on her mind—and tied the basket good, real good.

     We decided I would express the basket that afternoon, and buy wrapping paper, plenty of gummed tape, cardboard, twine, and a pack of labels. I'd mail the packages the following day, along with expressing another basket. We would then take off tomorrow night.

     As I was ready to leave with the basket, Doc said, “Now remember, first you make the long-distance call to the hotel, then get the wrapping paper and stuff in several stationery stores. Get plenty of it, and more clothesline. Also another can of lighter fluid; I misplaced the one you got the other day. And I'd like a chocolate bar.”

     “Yes, Daddy,” I wisecracked, but the thought of walking out in broad daylight had me far from a wisecracking mood. Still, I knew it had to be done.

     Strolling down the sunny street with almost a quarter of a million bucks in a basket in my arms made me sweat. If I was stopped, I was a goner. But then, if I was stopped at any time, for any reason, I'd be a burnt cookie.

     Like the first night I'd been out, after I'd walked a block I felt okay. One part of Doc's plan worried me: It was important we know if the market and the trucks were being watched before we started anything. I considered taking a cab down there, or even walking, but it would be a big chance. Besides, at this hour the market would be empty. I was pretty sure I could get a ride out of town.

     I purchased two books of labels and a pen in a candy store, then made the long-distance call. The hotel was still doing business in Syracuse, of course. I wrote out a label for the basket, made certain it was on good, and headed for the express office.

     The bored clerk weighed the basket, asked, “What's in here?”

     “What you can see—old duds. My brother got hisself a job out there and wants his old work clothes.” *

     The clerk wrinkled his veined nose. “Didn't you ever hear of the invention of the washing machine?”

     “Do tell? They really got such machines? What will they think of next?” I cornballed, almost enjoying myself. “Tell you, let him wash it. I don't know why he wants this junk—they been laying around the cellar all year. He must have a dirty job, like in the oil fields, needs these clothes.”

     “Want to insure it?” he asked, starting to write.

     “Naw, only old stuff that... Yeah, insure it for, the smallest amount, just to say I did it.”

     “How much you value this junk?”

     “Guess about ten bucks,” I said calmly, wondering how this jerk's face would look if he could see the “junk.” “Is that label on good? Maybe I ought to write out the address again on—”

     “It's on okay. Don't worry about it.”

     On the way back to the house, I bought wrapping paper, cord, picked up some old cardboard boxes and plenty of gummed tape. I went into a store to get Doc's lighter fluid and noticed they were selling cheap wrist watches. I thought about buying one, for it suddenly occurred to me that quite a few guys on the force had noticed my boxer's watch at one time or another, and I ought to throw it away. But I knew I couldn't part with it, so I merely took it off and stuck it in my pocket.

     I stopped at another store to buy Doc's candy bars, and had a soda myself. Now that the money was on its way, or at least part of it, I felt tense but also relieved—the chips were really down now.

     Doc and I spent the rest of the day packing the other basket and the packages of big bills. Then Doc picked out some old clothes to wear. I told him to take a shave—not even a bum would be seen with his whiskers. He said he'd do it just before we took off; maybe shave off all his hair as part of his disguise. After supper we made a list of the main towns within a hundred miles, decided on which city we'd each try to hitch to, what the probable bus and train connections were. Doc even lectured me on the wholesale produce business. He was such a bug for details, I felt confident things would work out okay. But I hardly slept that night, my brain spinning, my insides knotted—another day or two and I'd be rich, free of this dump.

13—

     I must have fallen off in the early hours, for I awoke this morning when Doc felt of my wrist, looking for my watch. When I pulled it out, it was nearly noon. I explained why I was hiding it and Doc thought it was a smart move. I washed and took the second basket to the express office, my heart beating like a fast drum, wondering if the police would be waiting for me. I'd left my pen at the house, and I had to stop and buy another one. The same clerk was working the counter and he didn't say a word. I told him I'd found more clothes to send my brother.

     On the way back to the house I even walked into a ratty- looking bar for a fast shot to quiet my nerves. There was some loud jerk working off an all-night binge and feeling very gay for himself. He started kidding about my blond hair reminding him of the faggy wrestlers he saw on TV and I got out of the bar fast—before I clipped him.

     The big money was packed in four