He kept trying to make himself so big with her that she’d come to him all the way and forget the whammy. He’d come to know that she had this thing about danger and excitement, and he went along when she prodded him to chancier and chancier jobs, like snatching billfolds inside an elevator, and practically under the eyes of cops, and in banks, and removing jewels from ladies in theaters. He’d developed a certain kind of thrill in it himself, and there was the kick of her admiration as she watched, and afterwards — but there came a time when Stanley had to add it up.
Nothing had helped the whammy; it was still there. His stunts didn’t satisfy her for long. She kept wanting bigger and better, and it scared him to think how he might finish. Something else would have to be done.
“I’m taking you to a shrink,” he told her.
“You are what? I ain’t nuts.”
“Who says you are? Shrinks ain’t only for nuts, they’re for anything with heads. The whammy’s in your head, right? So maybe a good head-doctor could chase it.”
“Hmm,” Iris said, looking speculative. “I ain’t never been to a shrink. Might be exciting.”
So Stanley asked around and made an appointment with a head-fixer. Nine times he took her there — nine big bills he paid.
She still had the whammy.
“How much longer, Doc?” he asked the shrink.
The shrink removed his pipe from his chunky, eyeglassed head and said, “Can’t tell. Two, three years, perhaps.”
“Wh-what?” Stanley said.
“Her case is complex. I don’t believe that hypnotic suggestion is involved; her fixations are more deeply rooted than that, twisted. I find an excessive need for male domination coupled with an obsessive resentment of the male. I’d say that these fixations continually require a male object to focus upon, as now; yet the very depth of the resentments precludes the devotion of a permanent relationship. Rather, a succession of such male objects, with possible destructive terminations, is indicated.”
Stanley looked at the shrink. He wasn’t paying for double-talk. “So what about the whammy, Doc?”
“There is no whammy, in the sense you mean, as I’ve just explained.”
If a shrink couldn’t tell a whammy when he saw one, who needed him? If a shrink couldn’t fix a plain, ordinary whammy, what good was he?
“I was getting tired of him, anyway,” Iris said. “I had to do all the talking. He should have paid me, that’s what I decided.”
“I will figure something else,” Stanley said.
“We better say good-bye,” Iris said. “For keeps.”
Stanley’s heart turned into a doughnut, with a hole right through it. “Whaddya mean, good-bye?”
“I get bored,” Iris said. “You’re cute, but you’re still small-time. You pulled some tricks, but you’re still only a dip. I need nerve. I need power. It takes a man with fangs to reach me.”
“Oh, yeah? I got fangs.”
“Do you? Show me. Pull a heist, at least.”
“A heist? But this ain’t my line, Iris.”
She laughed scornfully. “That’s what I just said. You’re not in that class. Big Boy Hogan would think nothing of it.”
“Big Boy Hogan, Big Boy Hogan.”
“If you had the nerve, we’d have a blast, Stanley. We’d pull it together. But you won’t. Goodbye, Stanley.”
“Okay, we’ll pull a heist,” Stanley said.
Her eyes pinpointed again. She drew a sharp breath. “I know where I can get the rods.”
The liquor store was on a side street in the Village area. They’d settled on it because it wasn’t always crowded like a main-drag store, but still did heavy business. They hit it just before closing time. Two customers were still in the store.
Their movements were planned. As soon as they were in, Iris put her back against the door and Stanley went down the side, along the bottles, both pulling their rods. So located, they could cover the counter and the occupants, but the guns could not be seen from outside. Also, at this hour, the chances that anyone would try to peer in were small; the street had turned quiet.
“This is a stickup,” Stanley said. “Don’t move your hands and do what you’re told and no one will get hurt.” He waved the two customers to the rear section of the counter. Stanley was astonished at how cold he’d become. A moment before hitting the store he’d been shaking inside like a cocktail; now he was calm. Maybe, after all, he had a talent for this, too.
A glance at the customers and he’d figured they wouldn’t give trouble; one was a tall, skinny guy who looked like a rumpot, the other a middle-aged citizen, and they’d both come on scared. There were two store guys behind the counter; the young, dark-haired clerk, who’d gone white-faced, didn’t worry Stanley either. The other one — they knew he was the owner from casing the place — was something else. He was short and pudgy and didn’t look like a fighter, but his fat face had turned red and his eyes were bulging and glaring behind his glasses.
Stanley tossed the canvas bag onto the counter. “Fill it,” he ordered the owner. “Clean out the cash register.”
For an instant, the owner didn’t move. Then Stanley saw the flicker in his eyes and the twitch beginning in his hand. What Stanley couldn’t believe was that he knew he would shoot if the guy went for a gun under the counter. He’d never hurt anybody in his life, aside from swiping money, but he was ready to kill this guy, he was anxious to kill him, right on the brink. “Don’t.” Stanley heard himself whisper, hoping the guy wouldn’t listen and would make his move so he could shoot.
The pudgy man met his eyes, saw his death. He clinked open the register and hastily began filling the bag.
Stanley ordered them all to lie down on the floor away from the door window, and they made their getaway in Stanley’s car, clean and easy. In his apartment, they counted over $1200.
Iris was looking at Stanley in a new way. “You’ve got it,” she said. “I never thought you did, but you’ve got it. You were going to kill him, weren’t you, Stanley?”
“Yes,” Stanley said. He felt sick, he felt sad, thinking about it now. That couldn’t have been himself, crazy to kill, that one instant back there. He hadn’t known he’d had that in him, or maybe everybody had it if that certain time came; but he was sorry for it, sorry to know. He wished he’d never pulled this heist; he wished he could go back — but there was Iris, looking at him in this new way, hopped up.
“Satisfied?” Stanley said. “This could help you forget Big Boy Hogan? And that stinking whammy?”
Iris looked at him a long time, smiling a small smile. She said, finally, “No, Stanley, the whammy’s still got me. That whammy ain’t never left my head. Big Boy’s got me and I can’t break loose. I hate him, but he’s got me. Nothing you can do can break the whammy — except one thing.”
“What’s the thing?” Stanley asked, afraid to hear, but knowing, as somehow he’d known for a long time.
“Kill Big Boy Hogan,” Iris said.
It was out, and they both grew very calm. Iris’ eyes were narrowed and pinpointed.
“Oh, sure,” Stanley said.
“Help me,” Iris said. “I never asked you because I didn’t think you were man enough. Now I see different. Help me.”
“Okay,” Stanley said nonchalantly, nothing seeming important now except Iris. “I’ll kill him.”
“Face to face, like a man, Stanley, so I can respect you. No sneaking.”
“Okay, like that.”
“I want him to know why. Say my name to him when you do it.”
“Okay,” Stanley said stonily. “I knock him off, I tell him, ‘Iris.’ ”
She laughed, low and wild. “That’s it. The last thing he’ll hear. Iris. Me. End of whammy. He’ll know.”