I couldn't sleep much that night, and early the next morning we rummaged around the stinking cellar. Luck was with us again. We found a couple of strong baskets, big ones, like apples come in. After lining them with old clothes, we carefully packed one with ten- and twenty-and fifty-dollar bills, and were easily able to put in $231,200. Doc said that was too much and we repacked it with less dough and more clothing. Doc was sharp; he even left part of an old coat sticking out of the top so there wouldn't be any doubt as to the contents. We found some clothesline in a kitchen cabinet—God knows why Molly had bought it: Washing was the last thing ever on her mind—and tied the basket good, real good.
We decided I would express the basket that afternoon, and buy wrapping paper, plenty of gummed tape, cardboard, twine, and a pack of labels. I'd mail the packages the following day, along with expressing another basket. We would then take off tomorrow night.
As I was ready to leave with the basket, Doc said, “Now remember, first you make the long-distance call to the hotel, then get the wrapping paper and stuff in several stationery stores. Get plenty of it, and more clothesline. Also another can of lighter fluid; I misplaced the one you got the other day. And I'd like a chocolate bar.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I wisecracked, but the thought of walking out in broad daylight had me far from a wisecracking mood. Still, I knew it had to be done.
Strolling down the sunny street with almost a quarter of a million bucks in a basket in my arms made me sweat. If I was stopped, I was a goner. But then, if I was stopped at any time, for any reason, I'd be a burnt cookie.
Like the first night I'd been out, after I'd walked a block I felt okay. One part of Doc's plan worried me: It was important we know if the market and the trucks were being watched before we started anything. I considered taking a cab down there, or even walking, but it would be a big chance. Besides, at this hour the market would be empty. I was pretty sure I could get a ride out of town.
I purchased two books of labels and a pen in a candy store, then made the long-distance call. The hotel was still doing business in Syracuse, of course. I wrote out a label for the basket, made certain it was on good, and headed for the express office.
The bored clerk weighed the basket, asked, “What's in here?”
“What you can see—old duds. My brother got hisself a job out there and wants his old work clothes.” *
The clerk wrinkled his veined nose. “Didn't you ever hear of the invention of the washing machine?”
“Do tell? They really got such machines? What will they think of next?” I cornballed, almost enjoying myself. “Tell you, let him wash it. I don't know why he wants this junk—they been laying around the cellar all year. He must have a dirty job, like in the oil fields, needs these clothes.”
“Want to insure it?” he asked, starting to write.
“Naw, only old stuff that... Yeah, insure it for, the smallest amount, just to say I did it.”
“How much you value this junk?”
“Guess about ten bucks,” I said calmly, wondering how this jerk's face would look if he could see the “junk.” “Is that label on good? Maybe I ought to write out the address again on—”
“It's on okay. Don't worry about it.”
On the way back to the house, I bought wrapping paper, cord, picked up some old cardboard boxes and plenty of gummed tape. I went into a store to get Doc's lighter fluid and noticed they were selling cheap wrist watches. I thought about buying one, for it suddenly occurred to me that quite a few guys on the force had noticed my boxer's watch at one time or another, and I ought to throw it away. But I knew I couldn't part with it, so I merely took it off and stuck it in my pocket.
I stopped at another store to buy Doc's candy bars, and had a soda myself. Now that the money was on its way, or at least part of it, I felt tense but also relieved—the chips were really down now.
Doc and I spent the rest of the day packing the other basket and the packages of big bills. Then Doc picked out some old clothes to wear. I told him to take a shave—not even a bum would be seen with his whiskers. He said he'd do it just before we took off; maybe shave off all his hair as part of his disguise. After supper we made a list of the main towns within a hundred miles, decided on which city we'd each try to hitch to, what the probable bus and train connections were. Doc even lectured me on the wholesale produce business. He was such a bug for details, I felt confident things would work out okay. But I hardly slept that night, my brain spinning, my insides knotted—another day or two and I'd be rich, free of this dump.
13—
I must have fallen off in the early hours, for I awoke this morning when Doc felt of my wrist, looking for my watch. When I pulled it out, it was nearly noon. I explained why I was hiding it and Doc thought it was a smart move. I washed and took the second basket to the express office, my heart beating like a fast drum, wondering if the police would be waiting for me. I'd left my pen at the house, and I had to stop and buy another one. The same clerk was working the counter and he didn't say a word. I told him I'd found more clothes to send my brother.
On the way back to the house I even walked into a ratty-looking bar for a fast shot to quiet my nerves. There was some loud jerk working off an all-night binge and feeling very gay for himself. He started kidding about my blond hair reminding him of the faggy wrestlers he saw on TV and I got out of the bar fast—before I clipped him.
The big money was packed in four packages, each a little bigger than a good-sized box of candy. I carried them in a shopping bag. Doc gave me the addresses of the two post offices, reminded me to bring back food for a last supper. He said he would be shaved and dressed by the time I returned, and we'd take off for the market at around ten. Doc had even managed to find a couple of dirty old canvas bags in Molly's room, big enough to carry most of the hundred grand we were each going to take, and the kind of a bag a working stiff would be carrying his few belongings in.
I felt jittery as I walked toward the first post office. However, Doc had this down pat. It was a drugstore with a one-window post office in the rear. There was a girl clerk. I took out two of the packages, made out labels for them, gave her one as I said, “Parcel post.” To my surprise, my voice sounded calm.
“Anything breakable in here?” she asked, weighing it.
“Nope. Just some old notebooks and letters my brother wants.”
“Then—you mean it contains writing?”
“Only a lot of pencil writing. You know, school notebooks.”
“Pen or pencil doesn't make the slightest difference. It's still writing and must be sent first class. This will cost you a dollar and eighty cents.”
I could have won an Oscar, the doubtful way I stared at the five-dollar bill I was fingering. After the proper hesitation, I muttered, “Sure is a lot of money for nothing. I thought I could ship it parcel post. What would that cost?”