A World of THIEVES
A Novel
James Carlos Blake
The jury, passing on the prisoner’s life, May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two Guiltier than him they try.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, MEASURE FOR MEASURE
Howsoever a man’s nature be bent, be it even to thieving and violent mischief, he must hold true to it or be miserable in his soul.
—ANONYMOUS
Pike: I’d like to make one good score and back off. Dutch: Back off to what?
—WALON GREEN AND SAM PECKINPAH, THE WILD BUNCH
All the trouble I ever was in was caused by getting caught.
—CORMAC MC CARTHY, CHILD OF GOD
I
A steeple bell rang the noon hour as Buck and Russell tugged their hatbrims low over their sunglasses and went into the bank. I watched from the car, the engine throbbing into the steering wheel under my hands. We’d nabbed the Packard in Baton Rouge and would abandon it down in Plaquemine, where we’d left Buck’s Model A parked beside the police station. Buck said it was the safest place for it. “World’s full of damned thieves,” he’d said, grinning big. “A man can’t be too careful.” I said I’d always wondered if that meant a man could never be careful enough or that he couldn’t be excessively careful. Buck looked at me like I was speaking Chinese. Russell said he only hoped the car didn’t have a red light on the roof and “Police Department” painted on the sides by the time we came back for it.
Verte Rivage, Louisiana. A hot July day. The sky pale blue and streaked with thin clouds. Mockingbirds squalling in the oaks. Spanish moss tilting in a weak breeze carrying the smell of the bayou from the edge of town, the tang of fresh-cut grass. Cajun music fiddling faintly from a radio in a screen-door barbershop. The headline in the newspaper rack heralding William Varney’s nomination for president by the Prohibition Party. More people on the sidewalks than you’d expect at dinnertime, but hardly any street traffic. According to Buck’s informant the town had a sheriff and two deputies, one man for each shift, but we’d seen no sign of the day cop. The informant also said the bank was holding five thousand dollars in farmer’s market receipts. We figured it for an easy score.
But as Buck and Russell never got tired of telling me, you never know. They hadn’t been in the bank two minutes when the sudden howl of a siren made my heart jump and my gut clench like a fist. In the backview mirror I saw a sedan with a flashing red light come around the corner two blocks away. Behind it came another one with its light and siren going—and then another. I had the top-break .44 in my hand before I was aware I’d picked it up from the seat. I knew Buck and Russell could hear the sirens—the whole parish must’ve heard them. Cars kept turning onto the street and joining the row of red lights and adding to the caterwaul. I couldn’t believe all the cops. I thought we were had. I put the Packard in gear, everything in me saying Go!
The rule was, if a job went to hell it was every man for himself. That’s what they’d told me. But the way I saw it, as long as they hadn’t gone down, the job hadn’t gone to hell. Besides, I knew damn well they’d never in the world run out on each other or on me. So I stayed put—clutch to the floor, .44 in hand, eyes on the mirror—and watched the line of cars coming down the street.
That’s when it struck me something wasn’t right. They were coming too slowly, hardly faster than a jog. For all the flashing and wailing, they were in no hurry to get anywhere. And nobody looked alarmed. More people were out on the sidewalks now, most of them smiling and waving at the cops. The barber stepped out of his shop, spat a brown streak, grimaced at all the hoorah and went back inside.
Now the lead car came abreast of me and I saw four men inside, none in uniform except for the sameness of their white skimmers, all waving back at the folk. The side of the car said “Ascension Parish Sheriff”—though we were in the parish of West Baton Rouge. The next car was from St. John the Baptist. Whatever was going on had nothing to do with us, but still, it was unreal. Of all the possibilities you plan for in a heist, a slow parade of friendly smiling cops driving by with their lights going and sirens howling isn’t one of them.
Buck and Russell didn’t come out of the bank until the lead car went past it, which must’ve been when they realized the police weren’t there for us. Then they were both at the door, still wearing the dark glasses. Buck had one hand in his coat pocket and the other holding his valise. His face fixed on me for a moment, then he walked off down the street as casually as a businessman going back to the office. Russell put his little fingers in his ears and screwed up his mouth to get a laugh from a couple of kids who had their ears covered against the screeching sirens. He smiled at them and tipped his hat to their mother and strolled off after Buck.
I watched as they went down the street and around the corner, then tucked the .44 in my waistband.
But I couldn’t pull away from the curb while the parade was still passing. I cursed its slowness under my breath and kept an eye on the bank. There were only a few cars left to go. That’s when a bald guy wearing a teller’s visor peeked out the door and in the direction Buck and Russell had gone—then ran out into the street, flapping his arms and shouting something nobody could make out for the sirens. A car braked sharply to keep from hitting him, and the one behind it banged into its rear and shattered a taillight, and the two last cars behind them stopped short too. Now I was really blocked in.
The halted cars cut their sirens and their doors slung open and the cops came out, some looking pissed and some of them laughing. One grabbed the teller by the shirtfront, but the baldy was talking fast and pointing down the street. Then the cops were pulling pistols and running for the corner where Buck and Russell had vanished, yelling at the onlookers to get out of the way. Now the cars up ahead had stopped too, and more sirens were shutting down and more cops getting out and asking what was going on. Bystanders were hollering and gesturing at the bank.
Any second now somebody was going to take notice of the stranger in the Packard. I had to quit the car fast. The barbershop was twenty feet away—I’d go in for a haircut, a guy passing through, all big-eyed and curious about the to-do in the street….
“Say, young fella, you happen to see—”
He’d come up on my blind side. Coatless and burly, brown vest with a badge, big cowboy hat over quick black eyes that spotted the .44 against my belly. He stepped back and yanked up a revolver. “Freeze!”
With that Colt muzzle not two feet from my face, I didn’t even think to do anything else.
“What’re you, boy, seventeen?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
That was about all the truth I gave them. They’d sent my prints to Baton Rouge and New Orleans but they wouldn’t get anything.
I said I was Lionel Buckman from St. Louis, where I’d been a bookkeeper for a shoe company till the place burned down. I’d come to Louisiana looking for work but hadn’t had much luck finding a position that paid enough to hold me. Yes sir, I did have papers to prove who I was, but wouldn’t you know some sorry pickpocket stole my wallet down in the French Quarter? The .44? Strictly for protection, should the need arise, knock wood. I was headed for Opelousas on a tip about a good job and stopped to get a bite. When I heard all those sirens I figured something awful serious was going on, so I grabbed the gun from under the seat in case I could help the police in some way. The car?—stolen? Sweet Baby Jesus, don’t tell me. No wonder that fella gave me such a fine deal on it. Just yesterday in Baton Rouge. My rattletrap Model T and forty dollars. Said he was in bad need of the cash. It about broke me but was too good a bargain to pass up. Wrote me a bill of sale on a café napkin and promised to mail me the proper papers care of general delivery in Baton Rouge. Seemed a right enough fella so I trusted him. Lord only knows what I did with that napkin. Damn me for a careless fool.