Rico went over to the cashier. “Turn around. Put your palms against the wall.” Then he patted pockets till he found the key.
They marched the cashier and the customer into adjoining stalls and made them kneel down. The cashier was silent, but the customer kept babbling they could have his wallet without killing him. Rico and Terry sapped them and lowered them gently to the tile floor. If there were no killings and no injuries needing hospital care, there would probably be no official squawk from this job. The club wouldn’t be making any reports to the law if it could avoid it. And the customer would probably be paid off if he raised a stink on his own. If the job was clean and quiet, the law would never hear about it at all.
They closed the stall doors and went to the private door. Rico unlocked it and led the way through. They had the guns in their pockets now, their right hands tucked into the same pockets.
To the right was a long table. Felt-lined boxes full of chips were stacked up on the table, and empty ones were under the table. To the left was another table which held adding machines, telephones, and a few single-drawer filing cabinets for three-by-five cards. Beyond that table was the door to the office. In front stretched the counter and the wire cage. All but one of the cashiers had their backs to them. This one sat at the table to the left, running an adding machine. He looked over when Rico and Terry came through the doorway, and his eyes widened. He was the only one who could see the masks; the other cashiers were facing away and the customers and stickmen beyond the wire mesh were too far away to see what was happening. Anyone looking through the wicket towards the dim area by the back wall wouldn’t realize that those pale expressionless faces weren’t faces at all.
Speaking softly, Rico said to the man at the adding machine, “Come here. Be nice and quiet.” There was a steady flow of noise from beyond the wire, the rustle of conversation and the clatter of chips. None of the other cashiers heard Rico’s voice.
The man at the adding machine slowly got to his feet. He understood now, and he was terrified. He was blinking rapidly behind his glasses, and his hands gripped each other at his waist. He came over slowly.
Rico said, “Stand in front of me.” Rico pulled out the gun and showed it to him. “My partner has one, too.”
The man nodded convulsively.
“What’s your name?” That was part of his pattern. Rico always wanted to know the name. He said it was psychological, it calmed the victim down and made him less likely to do something stupid out of panic, but that was just an excuse, something Rico had thought up. He wanted to know the name, that was all.
“Stewart. Rob Robert Stewart.”
“All right, Bob. We’re cleaning this place. We want to do it quiet, we don’t want your customers all shook up. And we don’t want the cops coming down here and seeing all the wheels and everything. You don’t want that either, right?”
Stewart nodded again. He was staring at Rico’s mouth, watching his lips move behind the rubber mask, making it tremble.
“Now, Bob, the three of us are going to walk into the office. Smile, Bob. I want to see you smile.”
Stewart stretched his lips. From a distance, it might look like a smile.
“That’s the way. Now keep smiling while we go into the office.” Rico turned the gun away into his pocket again, but kept his hand on it. “Here we go, Bob.”
Stewart turned around and led the way to the left, Rico following him, and Terry bringing up the rear. They walked into the office, Stewart smiling his strained smile, and Terry closed the door and leaned against it. Rico pulled his gun out again, shoved Stewart to the side and said, “I’m looking for heroes.”
A man was squatting in front of the safe, his hands full of stacked bills. A second man was at the desk, a pencil in his right hand, his left holding a telephone to his ear. A third man was at a table entering figures on a ledger. They all looked up and froze.
Rico pointed the gun at the man holding the phone. “Something just came up. I’ll call you back.”
The man with the telephone repeated the words and hung up. The man at the safe kept licking his lips and glancing at the safe door. He was trying to build up the courage to slam the door. Rico pointed the gun at him. “You what’s your name?”
“What?” He’d been concentrating on the gun and the safe door, and he couldn’t understand the question.
“Your name. What’s your name?”
He looked over at the man at the desk, appealing to him. The man at the desk said, “Tell him.”
“J-Jim.”
“All right, Jim. Stand up straight. That’s good. Take two steps to your left. Very nice Jim.” Rico took two canvas sacks from under his coat and handed them to Stewart. “What you do, Bob,” he said, “you go over and empty that safe. Put all the loot in these sacks, Jim, you give Bob that money you’re holding. You” he pointed the gun again at the man at the desk. “What’s your name?”
“Fred Kirk.” He was a heavy, florid man, probably the manager, since he was the only one who didn’t seem to be frightened.
“All right, Fred. If that phone rings, say you can’t talk now. You’ve got a problem here. You’ll call back.”
“You won’t get three miles.”
“Quiet now, Fred.”
“Don’t you know who runs this place? You guys are crazy.”
“No more talk, Fred. Don’t make me put you to sleep. You” He turned to the man at the ledger. “What’s your name, partner?”
“Kelway, Stanley Kelway.” His quavering voice was high and thin.
“Now, don’t get upset, Stan. You just keep making them entries.”
“I can’t.” Kelway was perspiring heavily. He kept moving his hands, shifting the pen back and forth from one to
