Parker pulled out the two white legal envelopes stuffed with cash. ‘I believe this is four thousand two hundred dollars,’ he said. ‘Is cash all right? That’s the way the donations come to us.’
‘Of course,’ the banker said. ‘Cash is fine.’ And under five thousand dollars meant that none of it would be reported to the Feds.
Parker handed over the envelopes, and the banker briskly counted the bills: ‘Four thousand two hundred fifty dollars,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Parker said.
There was a form to be filled out: ‘In what name do you want the account?’
‘Church of St. Ignatius. No, wait,’ Parker said, ‘that’s too long. Signing the checks
‘
The banker smiled in sympathy. ‘Just St. Ignatius?’
‘All right,’ Parker said. ‘No, make it C. O. Ignatius, that’s the same as “Church of.”’
‘And the address?’
‘We’ve opened a post office box for donations, so let’s use that.’
‘Fine.’
A little more paperwork, and Parker was given a temporary checkbook and deposit slips. ‘My deposits will be in cash, of course,’ he said.
‘We recommend you don’t mail cash.’
‘No, I’ll bring it in.’
‘Fine,’ the banker said, and they shook hands, and Parker went on to the next bank.
That day, he opened accounts in nine Houston banks, never going to more than one branch of the same firm. When he was finished, thirty-eight thousand dollars was now in the banking system, no longer cash, with nearly eighty thousand still in the side panels of the Taurus.
After the last bank, he drove on down to Galveston and spent the night in a motel with no view of the Gulf. In the morning, he rented a post office box under the name Charles Willis, for which he carried enough ID for any normal business scrutiny, then went to a bank not related to any of the ones he’d used in Houston. As Charles Willis, and using checks from two different St. Ignatius accounts, he opened a checking account with fifteen hundred dollars and a money market account with four thousand, giving the post office box in Galveston as his address. Then he took the free ferry over to Bolivar Peninsula and headed east.
9
The six theaters at the Parish-Plex out at St. Charles Avenue had a total seating capacity of nine hundred fifty, ranging from the largest, two hundred sixty-five, where the latest Hollywood blockbusters showed, to the smallest, seventy-five, where art films from Europe alternated with kung fu movies from Hong Kong. When Parker put down his eight dollars for the final screening of Drums and Trumpetson Sunday night, it was the fourth time he’d paid his way into this building this week; it would be the last.
Three runs per movie Friday night, five on Saturday, and five on Sunday. First thing Monday morning, the weekend’s take would be delivered to the bank, but right now it was still in the safe in the manager’s office. The entire multiplex had run at just under eighty percent capacity this weekend, which meant that, once Parker’s eight dollars and the rest of the final intake were added, there would be just under seventy-eight thousand dollars in the safe, which was opened only when the cashier brought her money tray up from the box office.
The first time he’d come here, Parker had watched how the system worked for moving the money. When the box office closed, the cashier brought that low flat open tray full of cash upstairs to the manager’s office. The manager then closed and locked the door, and about five minutes later she unlocked and opened it again; that would be the time the safe in there stood open. Tomorrow, the cashier would bring starter cash for change back down to the box office in that metal tray.
His second visit, coming to an early show, Parker had waited until the manager left on one of her rounds, then tried the four keys he’d brought with him against the lock in the office door and found the one that worked. The third time, he’d watched the ticket-taker at the door, the only other employee in here except for the concession- stand girl. He was a college kid in a maroon and gray uniform; what did he do when the money was in motion?
Nothing, or nothing that mattered. Once the box office closed, the kid crossed the lobby, went through an Employees Only door and down a flight of stairs to change out of his uniform. So the cashier and the manager were all he had to think about.
Tonight, he stood looking at a poster for a coming attraction, mounted on the wall down the corridor from the manager’s office. He read the names and looked at the colored drawing of an exploding train going over a cliff, as the cashier went by behind him, carrying the metal tray. Farther down the hall, the manager stood in the open doorway. She and the cashier had been doing this routine for years. Neither of them was wary, neither of them looked at the customer reading the poster. The cashier went into the office, the manager shut the door, and Parker heard the sound of the lock as it clicked shut.
He waited just over a minute, then slipped on the surgical gloves and moved quickly down the hall. The key was in his right hand, the Sentinel in his left. He opened the door with one quick movement, stepped into the office, and shut the door.
The manager was on one knee in front of the open black metal box of the safe in the corner behind her desk. The cashier had put the money tray on the manager’s desk and was just starting to hand the cash to her. They both had stacks of bills in their hands. They looked over at Parker, and neither of them was yet alarmed, just startled that somebody had come through that door.
The manager’s name was on a brass plate on her desk. Stepping forward, showing the Sentinel, Parker said, ‘Gladys, keep that money in your hands. Turn toward me. Turn toward me!’ He didn’t want her thinking about hurriedly slamming shut the safe.
Gladys merely gaped, thinking about nothing at all yet, but the cashier, a short stocky round-faced woman, stared at the gun in openmouthed shock, then sagged against the desk, the stacks of bills falling from her fingers.
