Furia immediately said, “So?”
“The watchman can’t finger you, you hit him in the dark. Nobody saw us at the plant except Howland, and he’s dead.”
“That’s why I hit him. That and the extra cut. But you got to make out like I’m a dumdum.”
“If we’d worked it the way I said,” Goldie said, “he’d have cut his throat before he fingered us. But I’m not going to argue with you, Fure. The big thing went sour was the manager driving past the plant. So now we’re hung up here. For a while they’re going to stop every car trying to leave New Bradford.”
“I know,” Hinch said brightly. “We bury it.”
“And have the paper rot or be chewed up? Or somebody find it?” Goldie said.
“We sure as a bitch ain’t throwing it away,” Hinch growled.
“Who said anything about throwing it away? It’s got to be put somewhere safe till they stop searching cars. The shack would be good, but we’re cut off from there till they get fed up and figure we made it out before they set up the blocks. Meantime-the way I see it, Fure-we need help.”
“The way she sees it,” Hinch said. “Who’s fixing this match, Fure, you or her?”
But Furia said, “What help, Goldie?”
“Somebody to keep it for us.”
“That’s a great idea that is,” Furia said. “Who you going to ask, the fuzz?”
Goldie said, “Yes.”
Hinch jiggled his bowling-ball head. “I tell you, Fure, this broad is bad news. Some joke.”
“No joke,” Goldie said. “I mean it.”
“She means it,” Hinch said with disgust.
Furia picked a sliver of steak out of his teeth. “With a far-out idea like that there’s got to be something in it. What’s on your mind, Goldie?”
“Look,” Goldie said. “I’ve been keeping in touch with my family off and on through my kid sister Nanette-”
“That is absolutely out,” Furia said. “I ain’t stashing no twenty-four grand with a bunch of rubes.”
“Are you kidding? They’d break a leg running to Chief Secco with it. Ma’s the big wheel in her church, and my old man thinks having a bottle of beer in your car is a federal offense.” Goldie laughed. “But Nanette’s no square. She’s looking to cut out one of these days, too. I know from her letters. She does a lot of babysitting nights and one of her steady jobs is for a couple named Malone, they have a kid Barbara. The Malones live in a one-family house on Old Bradford Road. It’s one of the original streets of the town, never any traffic, and the neighbors pull their sidewalks in at nine o’clock. Well, Wesley Malone is a cop.”
“There she goes again,” Hinch said.
“On the New Bradford police force.”
“What gives with this dame?” Hinch demanded of Taugus County. “Some idea! We should park our loot with the town cop!”
But Furia was heavily in thought. “How old did you say their kid is, Goldie?”
“Must be eight or nine by now.”
“You got yourself a deal.”
“But Fure,” Hinch protested.
“That’s the beauty part,” Furia said. “A cop’s got to know the facts of life, don’t he? He ain’t going to panic and try something stupid. Okay, Hinch, get going.”
“Where to?” Hinch asked sullenly.
“This Old Bradford Road. Direct him, Goldie.”
Goldie directed him. They went back into the cloverleaf and across the bridge, past three blocks of midtown, and sharply right into a steep road called Lovers Hill, Goldie said, because there was a parking strip on top where the town kids necked. Halfway up she said, “Next right turn,” and Hinch turned in grudgingly. There were no street lights, and towering trees. It was a narrow street, almost a lane, lined with very old two-story frame houses in need of paint.
The road swooped and wound in an S. At the uppermost curve of the S Goldie said, “I think that’s it. Yes. The one with the porch lit up.”
It was the only house on the street that showed a light.
“Almost,” Furia said, sucking his teeth, “like they got the welcome mat out.”
Ellen began praising the film the moment the house lights went up.
“Not that I approve of all that violence,” Ellen said as her husband held her cloth coat for her. “But you have to admit, Loney, it’s a marvelous picture. Didn’t you think so?”
“You asking me?” Malone said.
“Certainly I’m asking you.”
“It’s a fraud,” Malone said.
“I suppose now you’re a movie critic.”
“You asked me, didn’t you?”
“Hello, Wes,” a man said. They were being nudged up the aisle by the crowd. “Good picture, I thought.”
“Yeah, Lew,” Malone said. “Very good.”
“Why is it a fraud?” Ellen asked in a whisper.
“Because it is. It makes them out a couple of heroes. Like they were Dillinger or somebody. In fact, they used some stuff that actually happened to Dillinger. You felt sorry for them, didn’t you?”
“I suppose. What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything. Nobody felt sorry for those punks at the time it happened. Even the hoods were down on them. The truth is they were a couple of smalltime murderers who never gave their victims a chance. Clyde got his kicks out of killing. His favorite target was somebody’s back. Hi, Arthur.”
“Great picture, Wes!” Arthur said.
“Just great,” Malone said.
“It got the nomination for Best Picture,” Ellen sniffed. “You’re such an expert.”
“No expert. I just happened to read an article about them, that’s all. Why kid the public?”
“Well, I don’t care, I liked it,” Ellen said. But she squeezed his arm.
The Malones came out of the New Bradford Theater and made for their car. Ellen walked slowly; she knew how tired he was. And how stubborn. Loney had insisted on following their Wednesday night ritual, which involved dinner at the Old Bradford Inn in midtown and the movies afterward, even though he had not slept eight hours in the past ninety-six. It was the only recreation she got, Loney had said, flattening out his chin, and she wasn’t going to lose out just because the flu hit the department and he had to work double shift four days running. He could get a night’s sleep tonight, Mert Peck was out of bed and Harry Rawlson was back on duty, too.
“How about a bite at Elwood’s?” he said at the car. It was a beatup Saab he had picked up for $650 the year before, their old Plymouth had collapsed at 137,000 miles. The big Pontiac special he drove on duty belonged to the town.
“I don’t think so,” Ellen said. “I’m kind of worried about Bibby. Nanette had to leave at ten thirty, her mother’s down sick, and I said it would be all right. But with Bibby home alone-”
“Sure.” He was relieved, she knew every pore in his body. Then she saw him stiffen and turned to see why.
One of the New Bradford police cars had torn past the intersection of Grange Street and Main along the Green, siren howling. It was being chased by several civilian cars.
“I wonder what’s up,” Malone said. “Something’s up.”
“Let it. You’re coming home with me, Loney. Get in, I’ll drive.”
Malone got in, and Ellen went round and took the wheel. He was looking back at Main Street and she saw him feel for the gun under his jacket. Ellen hated Chief Secco’s rule about his men carrying their revolvers off duty.
“Lay off the artillery, bud,” Ellen said grimly, starting the Saab. “You’re going nowhere but beddy-bye.”
“It’s something big,” Malone said. “Look, Ellen, drop me off at the stationhouse.”
“Not a chance.”
“I’ll only be a couple minutes. I want to find out what gives.”
“I’ll drop you off and I won’t see you till God knows when.”
“Ellen, I promise. Drop me off and go on home to Bibby. I’ll walk it up the Hill.”
“You’ll never make it, you’re dead on your feet.”
“That’s what I like about you,” he said, smiling. “You’ve got such confidence in me.”