The driver looked at me like I was crazy when I showed him the gun and told him to pull over at the scenic overlook. “I was planning to,” he said.
I waved the gun at Jane too, for show. She flashed her eyes in mock panic, but I could tell she was working to suppress a grin. I would have bet good money that her nipples were as hard as the bullets in my Glock.
When the bus stopped, I told the driver to hand over the keys. I pointed the gun at Jane again and told her to pass me the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to try something a little different today.” A murmur of curiosity ran the length of the bus. Jane shielded her mouth with her hand.
“There’s some lovely scenery off to the east, but what I’m more interested in seeing is everything green and shiny you own.” That brought confused silence.
“You see, this is what’s known as a stickup. Lovely Miss Jane is going to make a couple of trips down the aisle with these pillowcases. I want each and every one of you to hand over your wallets, purses, credit cards, traveler’s checks, watches, rings, necklaces, cell phones, money belts, earrings, BlackBerries, MP3 players, anything of value. I’ll be watching in this big mirror here.” I indicated the parabolic reflector above the driver’s head. “Please don’t make me go back there. Cooperate and this will all be over before you know it.”
I kept an eye on the driver in case he wanted to be a hero while Jane filled first one pillowcase and then the other. During her second pass down the aisle, I winnowed out the junk that wasn’t worth carrying. I emptied the wallets and purses and tossed them into a pile. Some of the jewelry was crap but several pieces were worth serious coin. The growing stack of cash astonished me. I couldn’t believe people carried that much money.
Bless them, every one.
I called a couple of passengers by name and reminded them of specific items. Mrs. Carmody’s emeralds and Mrs. Dreyfus’s jewels had to be worth forty grand alone.
The bus got so quiet you’d think everyone was watching a movie. Shocked by the unexpected turn of events, I suppose. Trying to figure out how they could have been taken in by such a nice young man.
Jane uttered calming words as she moved among them, playing her part to the end, but no one else said a thing. In ten minutes I was ready to go. I glanced at my watch — my ride would be along shortly.
That’s when the New Hampshire State Police showed up. I never found out whether they’d been following us all along or had responded to a signal from Jane. One car pulled in front of the bus, lights flashing, and another boxed us in from behind. Standing in those big plate windows at the front, I was the perfect target.
I briefly considered taking a hostage, but I’m not a violent man and I didn’t want to end up on the business end of some sniper’s rifle. The jig was up. I raised my hands so the gun-wielding cops could see them. I still had the Glock in my right hand, dangling loosely from my index finger.
El Gordo would have to wait for the rest of his money.
The bus driver popped the door open and cops swarmed up the stairwell. They relieved me of the gun and forced me onto my stomach while they cuffed and searched me. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Jane tucking a thick wad of cash under her jump seat. Good for her. The rest would end up in evidence, so it would be a while before anyone noticed the shortfall.
While the cops were dragging me off, I heard her call my name. The name I was using, anyway. I dug my feet into the loose gravel to slow us down and turned as far as I could to see Jane standing beside the bus.
“Make sure they wake you up for meals,” she called. Her eyes shone more brightly than any gem I’d ever held in my hands. I chuckled and would have flashed a finger pistol at her if my hands hadn’t been cuffed behind my back. I had to settle for a knowing wink.
“Enjoy your retirement,” I called to her before the cops wrestled me into the back of their car and slammed the door.
©2009 by Bev Vincent
Dummy
by Brian Muir
Brian Muir may have been in L.A. for two decades, working in movies (as production assistant to Roger Corman and as a writer of screenplays), but he has not forgotten his home state of Oregon. In fact, he began a series in EQMM in 2004 about a Portland private eye whose sex is never explicitly mentioned and he’s now completed a novel-length case for her.
The idiot. I told him to stay away from her. I said, ‘You’re an idiot if you keep seeing this girl. A Grade-A dummy.’ But did he listen? That was a rhetorical question, by the way.”
“Thanks,” came the sarcastic reply from Detective Stockel. He’d seen the blood spatters on the wall.
Stockel and his superior, Detective Perrone, questioned their witness, seated before them as they stood.
“He was infatuated with her,” she continued.
Stockel shot a weary look to Perrone, “Come on, man. The paperwork on this case is going to bury me. How long do we got to stand here and listen to this?”
“Just let her talk,” said Perrone, and that was that.
The woman nodded to Perrone. “Thank you, Detective,” making a “hmph” sound in her throat, muffled as if by too much phlegm.
“I’d like to talk,” she said, pointy chin chittering away. “I want to talk. I’ve kept this bottled up way too long. I realize perhaps I should have come to someone sooner, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. I should have told someone about my son. He’s had ugly thoughts for some time now.”
She blinked large eyes, blue as bird eggs behind round glasses.
“Forgive me for being indelicate,” said Perrone, “but would you say your son has been... unbalanced for some time now?”
She stared up at him without saying anything.
Stockel, impatient: “He means did you always know your boy was a nutjob.”
“You’re a rude man, Detective.”
“Maybe. But I never killed anybody with a screwdriver.”
“Perhaps your mother should have taught you proper manners.”
“Like you did with your boy, you mean?”
“That’s enough, Ray,” chastised Perrone.
Stockel took a breath through his nose.
“Jimmy was a good boy, when he was young,” she continued, hands folded in her lap. “But he was never the sharpest knife in the drawer. His father and I had an act long ago: Mr. & Mrs. Santoni; a little comedy routine, witty banter and such. We played Caesars, did USO tours in the Seventies. We were even on The Mike Douglas Show. See those photographs on the wall over there? See us, posing with Mike and Dinah Shore?” Her head rose on her thin neck, proud.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Perrone. “I think I saw you and Mr. Santoni on Douglas when I was a kid.”
“You should understand that Jimmy’s father and I weren’t married. That was merely our act. He was married to a woman named Margaret, a lovely woman, Jimmy’s mother. I’m not proud of it, Detectives, but Jimmy’s father and I, working together as often as we did, spending so much time alone... we grew quite close, if you catch my meaning.”
Stockel gave another sidelong glance at Perrone, but the older detective didn’t acknowledge it. “We hear this type of thing often, ma’am.”
“Well, that doesn’t make it right, of course. But he and I were in love and he eventually left Margaret for me. I don’t think Jimmy ever forgave him for that. It took the boy and me a long time to reach an understanding, but that’s the way these things go.”