“We go in,” Papa Bear decreed. “Hup.”
They marched as if a sergeant were chanting cadence up the eight steps of the Taugus National, one behind the other, and went into the bank.
Ellen witnessed the performance through the slats of the town hall window. She saw the Chrysler pull up at the bank the wrong way, she saw Papa Bear get out, she saw her Baby Bear get out, she saw Goldilocks push Barbara onto the walk and grab her and squat with the knife against her throat. Dear Jesus even if she comes away from this alive she’ll need a psychiatrist or at least a good psychologist maybe years of therapy oh I don’t care just let her stay living.
Ellen saw Papa Bear and Baby Bear make their single-file march into the bank.
That was the beginning of the worst. Because the filming stopped. No, that was wrong, they had already shot the film, it was the projection that stopped, cold dead in the machine. The whole scene was the film including the invisible director and cameraman, they were invisibly part of it along with the visibles. The whole picture froze on the screen outside Fairhouse’s window.
Maybe I’m part of it too. And Selectman Fairhouse. And these other people. And the troopers. And the Bears. Maybe we’re all part of it, everyone and everything, the Green, the bank, the uneven rooflines of the two-story buildings north south east and west, even the sky and that sun hanging in it like a prop.
It was all frozen on the screen.
Do the images on the frozen screen know about time? Time had simply stopped along with everything else. When she heard the shots and things began moving again she glanced at her wristwatch for the sake of her sanity and saw that thirteen minutes had passed since the two Bears had marched into the bank.
Shots.
Shots?
They had been faint but sharp reports from across the Green, like a sound effect, a drumstick on the rim of a snare drum. Shot shot-shot.
Shots no.
Why would Furia be shooting oh he wouldn’t shoot Loney why should he shoot Loney Loney went over to him John Secco told me so…
“Loney.”
As the wail came from her throat Ellen saw the man in the Brooks Brothers suit and the Papa Bear mask burst out of the bank and race down the steps. He had the revolver in his gloved right hand and a bulging canvas bank bag in his left. He ran bent over, almost double.
It was funny how the troopers remained frozen on the film. Couldn’t they see him? He was in front of their noses.
Papa Bear flung the canvas bag in the direction of Goldilocks. She threw up an arm in an instinctive grab but it sailed over her head into the rear seat of the Chrysler and she yanked the door open and scrambled in clutching for it.
Papa Bear scooped up the child as if he meant to break her back.
That was when Ellen Malone heard the casting call.
Wesley Malone in the Baby Bear Mask with Furia at his heels in the Papa Bear mask marched into the bank. The pressure on Malone’s spine increased while Furia looked the situation over. But the bank was a ghost town, he could see that at a glance, no vice-presidents behind the executive desks, no tellers at the windows, no office girls in the rear, everything put away neatly. Like for Sundays.
“Wide open like a broad,” Furia said. “They follow orders good. It’s a crime.” The muzzle prodded. “Don’t you want to know what’s a crime?”
“Whatever you say,” Malone said.
“A wide-open bank. All that bread laying around. Who needs safe deposit boxes with a sweet setup like this?”
“You won’t find any money here,” Malone said.
, “What are you, on the Board of Directors?”
“I know the big squeeze, Bagshott. And Chief Secco. They’re not about to let you walk off with the assets. The cash boxes have been emptied and all the cash is in the big vault, the one with the time-lock.”
“Stay right there.” Furia edged around and got into the tellers’ section. He opened one drawer after another. He banged the last one and came back.
“I can dream, can’t I?” Furia shrugged. “Not a plugged subway token. I’ll have to make out with that twenty-four grand. Okay, fuzz buddy, where’s the safe deposit vault?”
Their steps made lonesome sounds across the floor.
On the desk before the vault lay two keys, one to the steel-barred door, the other to the safe deposit boxes.
“You know something?” Furia said. “I’m going to let you open it.” He stepped back a few feet, Colt and Walther at waist level.
Malone picked up the vault key and unlocked the steel-barred door. He swung it in and stepped aside.
“Not on your fuzz life,” Furia said. “You open the box, pal.”
Malone took the bank’s master key from the desk and went into the vault.
“You’ll need Goldie’s key, too,” Furia said. He had the key in his left glove. He holstered the automatic and jiggled the key down into his palm. He tossed the key to Malone and leaned against the entrance to the vault. “Box number 535.”
Malone began looking for Box 535.
“I’m getting a charge out of this, you know that?” Furia said. “I mean watching a cop pull a bank job. Never thought you’d be doing a no-no like this, huh, Malone? Makes you like one of the bad guys, know what I mean?”
“Here it is.” Malone inserted the bank’s key into the left keyhole and turned it. Then he used Goldie’s key in the right-hand keyhole. He pulled. The narrow door swung open. He drew out the flat black box and turned to Furia.
Furia was watching him with what was surely enjoyment. Behind Furia stood John Secco. John Secco’s arm was raised. It held a billy club.
The billy club landed over Furia’s ear with a waterlogged thunk. Everything fell, the Colt Trooper, the hunting rifle, Furia, his hat. The Colt and the rifle struck the floor first. Secco stepped over Furia’s body and picked them up. While Malone was getting his mouth in working order Secco plucked the Walther from the holster. He tossed the three weapons to the desk outside the vault and removed Furia’s mask. He took a black cloth out of his pocket, held it by opposite corners, and twirled it several times. He stuffed the fat part in Furia’s mouth and tied the ends three times at the back of Furia’s neck.
Then he straightened up and they stared at each other.
“I thought you could use some help, Wes,” the chief said. He sounded quite serious, as at morning report.
Malone tore off the Baby Bear mask. He tried to speak and failed. Finally he made it. “You know what you’ve just done with your help, John? You’ve cut Barbara’s throat. You had no right, you had no goddamned right. I ought to kill you for this.”
“Kill me later,” Secco said. “We’ve got Furia in the bag, now the problem is the woman outside, there’s a way it can be pulled off or I’d never have started this. You’re not a whole lot bigger than Furia, Wes, especially with these built-up heels he wears. Put on his clothes and mask and hat and the gun belt and the rest. The clothes will be a tight fit but with his mask on and if you run crouched over it ‘11 happen so fast the woman won’t have time to realize it isn’t him.” He stooped over the unconscious gunman. “Take your clothes off while I strip him. Don’t stand there, Wes. Get cracking.”
Malone stood there.
“You going to stand there till she gets suspicious? Undress.”
He found himself undressing at the same fast tempo at which Secco was undressing Furia. At first all he could think of was the process. The way you do it first the jacket then the pants then the shirt. Like at night but you keep your shoes on, both pairs are black, maybe she won’t notice, I pray she won’t notice. That my feet are bigger. Then the other thoughts started in, like why am I doing this and it’s all wrong. Or is it. I made my bed and I was lying in it and along comes John Secco and pulls it out from under me. I’ll kill him, I meant it, anything goes wrong. But then why do I feel groovy all of a sudden like I’m swinging for the first time in my life. Like we’re socking it to ‘em.