Richard Stark
(Donald E Westlake)
Slayground (1969)
PART ONE
One
PARKER JUMPED out of the Ford with a gun in one hand and the packet of explosive in the other. Grofield was out and running too, and Laufman stayed hunched over the wheel, his foot tapping the accelerator.
The armored car lay on its side in a snowbank, its wheels turning like a dog chasing rabbits in its sleep. The mine had hit it just right, flipping it over without blowing it apart. There was a sharp metallic smell all around, and the echo of the explosion seemed to twang in the cold air, ricocheting from the telephone wires up above. Cold winter afternoon sunlight made all the shadows sharp and black.
Parker ran to the rear door of the armored car, slapped the packet of explosive against the metal near the lock so that the suction cups grabbed, then pulled the cord and stepped back out of sight. The armored car’s right rear tire turned slowly beside his head.
This explosion was short and flat and unimpressive, with a little puff of gray smoke that lifted into the air. Parker stepped out again where he could see, and the door was hanging open. There was nothing but blackness inside.
Grofield had been up at the cab and now he hurried back to say, “He’s on his phone in there and I can’t get at him.”
There were no sirens yet. They were in the middle of a large city, but it was the most isolated spot on this armored car’s route, a straight and little-traveled road across mostly undeveloped flats from one built-up section to another. At this point the road was flanked by high wooden fences set back on both sides, the gray fence on the left being around the ball park and the green one on the right being around an amusement park. Both of them were closed at this time of year, and there were no private homes or open businesses within sight.
Parker rapped his gun against the metal of the armored car. “Come out easy,” he called. “We don’t want anybody dead, all we want is money.” When there was no response, he called, “Make us do it the hard way, we’ll drop a grenade in there with you.”
A voice called from inside, “My partner’s unconscious.”
“Drag him out here.”
There was a shuffling sound from inside, as though they’d uncovered a mouse nest. Parker waited impatiently, knowing either or both explosions might have been heard, knowing there’d be traffic along this road eventually, knowing the driver was up there on his radio-phone.
The blue-coated guard backed out, finally, bent over, pulling his partner by the armpits. The partner had a bloody nose.
As soon as they were out, Parker took the satchel from Grofield and went in. He knew which part of the load he wanted, and he moved fast and sure in the semi-darkness inside. Outside he could hear Grofield say, “Put some snow on the back of his neck. You want to make sure he doesn’t strangle on his blood.” His words were muffled by the mask he wore.
A siren, far away. Parker had the satchel full. Green bills littered the sideways interior of the armored car like confetti after a St. Patrick’s Day parade, but Parker had most of the big bills. He zipped the satchel shut and climbed out into the sunlight again. The conscious guard was kneeling over his buddy in the snow like a battleground scene. Grofield was watching them, and looking up and down the road. The siren was still far away, it didn’t seen to get any closer, but that didn’t mean anything.
Parker nodded, and he and Grofield ran back to the Ford. They climbed in, Grofield in front next to Laufman, Parker in back with the satchel, and Laufman stood on the accelerator. Wheels spun on ice and the Ford slued its rear end leftward.
“Easy!” Parker shouted. “Take it easy, Laufman!” He knew Laufman was a second-rate driver, but he was the best they could find for this job and he did know this city.
I Laufman finally eased off on the accelerator enough so the wheel could grab, and then they started moving, the Ford lunging down the road. It was like hurrying down the middle of a snowy football field with a high gray fence on the left sideline and a high green fence on the right and the goal posts way the hell around the curve of the earth somewhere.
Far away ahead of them they saw the dot of flashing red light. Laufman yelled, “I’ll have to take the other route!”
“Do it, then!” Parker told him. “Don’t talk about it.”
They’d worked out three ways to leave here, depending on circumstances. The one behind them they’d ignored, the one ahead was no good any more. For the third one, they should take the right at the end of the green fence, go almost all the way around the amusement park, and wind up in a neighborhood of tenements and vacant lots where they had three potential places laid out to ditch the Ford.
They had plenty of time. The end of the fence was just ahead, and the flashing red light was still a mile or more away. But Laufman was still standing on the accelerator.
Grofield shouted, “Laufman, slow down! You won’t make the turn!”
“I know how to drive!” Laufman screamed, and spun the wheel without any deceleration at all. The side road shot by on an angle, the car bucked, it dug its left shoulder into the pavement and rolled over four times and wound up on its right side against a chain-link fence by a snow-covered empty parking lot.
Parker was thrown around the back seat, but wasn’t knocked out. When the Ford finally rocked to a stop he got himself turned around and looked past the top of the front seat, and Laufman and Grofield were all balled up together down against the right-hand door. Grofield’s head had hit the windshield, he had a red sunburst on his temple now. Laufman had no visible mark on him. Both were breathing, but both were completely out.
Parker stood up and pushed up over his head to shove the door open. It kept wanting to slam again, but he
