“But maybe our meeting, our luck, was too good to last.”
“Don't even say that, it's going to last—it has to! Elma, I have a... a hunch... things will work out. But you have to stop all this damn worrying, getting yourself sick.”
“Marsh, I can almost lean on your words. Your strong arm seems like a great wall protecting us,” Elma said, kissing the muscle of my arm.
I flexed the muscle, like a kid showing off. “I'd like to get my arm around Mac for a few seconds! Honey, we'll outwit him. After all, we have two minds against his—a crummy little storekeeper...”
You know how it is—you can think and think for days and never get any place, then one word suddenly sets your mind in order. Soon as I said “storekeeper” a brace of bells went off in my brain, as if I'd hit the jackpot in a pinball machine. All the time I'd been thinking of killing Mac and here.... Outside of a natural death in bed, how do storekeepers die? What's an almost occupational hazard for them?
A hold-up!
“Marsh, I'm such a pest and you're so good and...”
“Get some sleep, honey, and relax,” I said, kissing her, and so wide awake I wanted to spring out of bed.
Elma turned until she was comfortable, began breathing evenly. I stared up at the darkness. A stick-up would be simple... and nobody would connect me with it.
An “unknown thug” enters the store and shoots Mac during a hold-up. I might be able to hire a thug, but that would be risky, and I hadn't the slightest idea how to go about that. No, the thug would have to be me—in disguise. A good disguise so that if he was seen—in fact I wanted “him” to be seen—he would look entirely different from me.
Now I had a plan. First the disguise. It would be impossible to make myself taller, but if I wore a lot of padding, then my shoulders would be lost, I'd merely look like a short, dumpy, clown. I'd dye my hair black with one of these new washable dyes. This was it. I'd make sure Elma took a pill late, then leave here at about four in the morning. She wouldn't come to till noon. I could be over in Newark by eight, shoot Mac as soon as he opened and be back before...
Shoot? Where would I get a gun?
How the hell does one get a gun? Must be a hundred or more places in New York where guns were sold under the counter... you read about kid gangs getting guns... but where? I could stab him, but that would be clumsy and maybe I didn't have the guts to cut a man to death. It would be nothing to buy a rifle... saw off the barrel. I had a dull hacksaw. Tony had a better one that.... I smiled up at the dark ceiling.... Tony's Luger!
I'd steal it, shoot Mac, and put the Luger back. Tony would never miss it. Then a day or so later, I'd borrow it... ask him for it... I wanted to use it as a model or something. Then I'd lose the damn thing, throw it in the ocean. He'd raise hell and I'd say I was sorry, offer him money for a new gun.
I sighed. The gun part was simple.
The big thing was the get-away. I'd have the car parked near the store and after I'd shot Mac, made it look like a robbery, I'd drive away, stop some place to take off my padded suit, wash the dye out of my hair. I'd put a plug in my nose, a wad of cotton, to distort my face, place a wart on my face with make-up. I had to be seen... so the cops would be hunting for a fat, dark-haired man with a wide nose and a wart on his face.
This was it, all right. There were plenty of holes in my scheme. Suppose Tony knew the gun was missing? What if Alice came over in the morning, to see about Elma, knew I wasn't home? What if I couldn't make a quick get-away, had to shoot it out with a cop? What if somebody saw me get into the car, remembered my license plates? Jesus, maybe Mac had a clerk working with him? Maybe Mac had a gun, and shot me!
I couldn't find the answers to these questions. A perfect crime depends upon a great deal of luck... and luck would either be with me or against me. I'd have to push my luck to the limit, hope it held.
When night slowly changed to dawn, I was in the bathroom, still thinking like mad. I had a few answers. I'd buy a can of this house paint that has a water base, paint one fender to make the car noticeable, then wash it off before I came back to New York. Maybe I could steal some New Jersey license plates? No, that would be too much risk... I'd muddy up my own.
I dressed and had some coffee. Elma was still sleeping. At nine I went over to the Alvins. Alice was in the kitchen, a robe over her nightgown. She told me, “You look like you tied one on, Marsh.”
“Didn't sleep. Elma had a rough night. Look, I have to go into town. Could you stay with her this morning?”
“Of course. Do my writing at your place. I've rewritten this one chapter three times now. Gee, Elma is certainly having a time. I don't understand it, always seemed so calm and healthy and then...”
“Doc says some women have it rough with the first one. And I forgot to give her a pill last night. Tonight I'll be sure to give her one, so don't come over tomorrow morning.” And my heart beat faster at the casual way I'd decided it would be tomorrow! Within twenty-four hours I would take a man's life.
I went back and changed from my sweat shirt and dungarees to a suit and shirt and tie. Alice came over about an hour later and Elma was still sleeping. I told her to tell Elma I had to see my agent, would be back before supper.
I drove off, then quickly circled back to their house. Nobody locked their doors in Sandyhook. I found the Luger hidden in a drawer and a full clip of bullets. That was another chance I had to take. Tony mustn't notice there was an empty shell or more, in the clip... if he should look at the gun. I'd stripped a .45 during army basic and I prayed I could do the same with a Luger, get the cordite stink out of it.
As I drove to New York I had another nightmare. What if I got a flat in New Jersey, had motor trouble? Only insurance against that would be to have Len check the car.
Now and then I felt of the Luger in my pocket. The very feel of the gun gave me a kind of stupid confidence. The fact that I had death in my pocket gave me a feeling of strength, of power. It didn't make sense—I had a gun in a world full of guns, yet I almost felt as though mine was the only one.
I drove directly over to Newark, found Mac's shop. It was a small store, off the main street. I walked by several times—slowly—and looking through the window, I saw only this big fat slob behind the counter, recognized Mac from Elma's description. Getting in the car, I cruised around till I found several places—none of them far from the store—where I could park. Then I practiced driving to the highway, back to the Lincoln Tunnel, to make sure I knew the route by heart. I kept thinking that some little dumb mistake would throw me.
A couple weeks before, there was an account in the papers of some characters who had gone in for gold smuggling. There was a lot of money involved and they'd worked out plans, here and abroad. They were caught when they parked in a No-Parking street in midtown Manhattan, to split up the dough. A cop came over to see why they were parked... and that was that. Overlooking a lousy little thing like a No-Parking sign.
Coming out of the Tunnel at 34th Street, I stopped at Macy's and bought one of those hair dyes that are a part of a comb. I also purchased a small can of blue house paint.
Driving over to the Bowery, I bought a second-hand suit, size 48, stout and short, got a ragged padded quilt at another second-hand store. The suit was a blue pin stripe, just loud enough—and worn enough. Passing a tool store, I got a real bright idea—purchased one of these baling hooks longshoremen use. I stopped at a drugstore in Times Square, said I was from a little theatre group and bought a make-up kit, including a large, ready-made wart with two crazy black hairs sticking in it. I threw the rest of the kit into several garbage cans, walking back to my parked car.