The Jugger

'I'll be back,' Younger promised him. 'And you'll be here. If you know what's good for you.'

SEVEN

'ONE million, eight hundred and seventy-six thousand dollars.' Younger said it slowly, in rich, round tones, enjoying the sensual feeling of the numbers in his mouth. 'You made an awful lot of money, Joe,' he said. 'An awful lot of money.'

They were sitting in the old man's living-room, three days after the list had been made up. The old man seemed thinner than before, and more lined, and more hopeless. He was getting ripe, slowly getting ripe, but Younger was in no hurry. When he made the final move, he was going to know the old man was ready.

Besides, anticipating was half the pleasure. There was no need to hurry the chase to its conclusion.

'Tell me about it, Joe,' he said. He was being affable again today, letting a little slack in the line, not wanting the old men to get so desperate he'd do something stupid, like leave everything behind and run away. He said, 'Tell me how these robberies are done. Tell me about, say, the Cleveland robbery, the one in '53.'

The old man looked at him. 'Why?'

Younger shrugged and smiled and said, 'I'm interested, that's all. You're the first man in your job I've ever met. Tell me the whole thing, Joe. First the Cleveland job in '53, and then the Des Moines robbery in '49, and then… well, just start.'

The old man said, 'I don't understand you. I can't figure you out.'

'Don't even try, Joe. Just tell me the story of your life.'

The old man started, talking hesitantly at first, with long pauses, trying to find the words and trying to understand why he was supposed to talk now. But gradually the tempo speeded up as the old man got into the story, and all the details began to flow; how a robbery was set up, what each man did, what was done in this particular job and that particular job, what went wrong here and what went right there.

From time to time he mentioned a name, and each time, Younger quietly wrote the name down, just to have.

The old man talked, and Younger listened, and slowly the old man was relaxing, was getting interested in the process of telling his stories, treating them like anecdotes, like conversation. Younger was interested, too, enjoying listening as he had earlier on the train enjoyed telling his own anecdotes.

Afternoon lengthened, and the room turned semi-dark, and the old man's voice droned on. Younger smiled and nodded and listened, making his interest obvious. In some strange way it was a good afternoon, one of the best either of them had ever lived.

When it was over, the old man said, 'I don't understand you. You're a policeman, you know all this about me, but you don't arrest me. You push me and push me, but then you don't do anything about it. I just can't figure you out, I can't figure out what you want.'

Younger, at the door, turned and smiled. 'What I want? That's easy. Half. See you soon.' He put on his cowboy hat and left.

EIGHT

'BUT I don't have that much!'

'Sure you do, Joe.' Younger was being patient, as patient as a saint. 'I showed you the figures, and that's the way it's got to be.'

The old man sat there on the sofa, wringing his hands. 'You know where all my money is,' he said. 'It's in banks and mutual funds; it's all invested. I wouldn't have money around in cash like that. Why would I do something as stupid as that?'

'Half a million, Joe,' Younger said, enjoying the phrase, liking to say it. 'Half a million at least, at the very least. And I want half of it. And my patience is wearing thin, Joe.'

'I swear to God, I swear I don't have that much, I don't have anywhere near that much. I swear to God.'

Younger sighed and shook his head 'Every one of these sessions I have to wind up slapping you around. I hate to do that, Joe, honest I do. Now let's quit fooling around, for good and all.'

'Wait! Wait, please!'

Younger stood over him, hands bunched.

The old man said, 'I'll give you what I can, what I have… I have a thousand dollars in the house, I'll give you that. And I'll get the rest, of it, everything I have.'

'A thousand? Let's see it.'

Younger smiled at the old man's back as they went out to the kitchen. A thousand, one measly thousand? It would lead to the rest, at last.

But it didn't. In the kitchen, the old man took a pouch from the flour canister and there was the thousand dollars. But no hint about the rest of it; a half a million couldn't be hidden in flour canisters.

The old man gave him the money, saying, 'I'll get you what I can, I'll close out my accounts, sell back my mutual funds-'

'Never mind that stuff, quit talking about that stuff!' Younger slapped the wad of money down on the kitchen shelf, really irritated now. 'You think I give a damn about your mutual funds? It's the cash I want like this thousand bucks. This is the first thousand, Joe, now where's the rest?'