About six-thirty Devers came in, in civilian clothing, with three other young men about his age. They sat in a corner table and drank beer and talked urgently together. Devers never looked toward Parker nor the other table, and he drank much more slowly than his friends.
A little after eight, Parker paid the check and he and Fusco left. Devers had showed them on the map how to get from the NCO Club to the movie theater, and they strolled in that direction now.
The problem was, the rush-hour confusion around five o’clock was the best time to bring the bus in—and any arrival much later than seven would have caused suspicion anyway—but that meant they had a long time to kill before they could go after the money and leave the base again. Part of it could go to dinner, and now some more of it would be spent in a movie.
The base theater had two showings of its feature, one at eight-fifteen and one at ten-fifteen. There was a line when Parker and Fusco reached the theater at eight-ten, and they joined it. When they got their tickets and started inside they saw Webb and Stockton and Kengle just getting on the end of the line.
There was a cartoon and then the feature. It was a musical comedy, and Parker sat there and looked at the bright colors and listened to the sounds and paid it all only the slightest attention.
They cleared the theater after each showing, so they had to get back on line and pay a second time to see the movie again. This time the other three were ahead of them in the line.
Parker paid just as little attention to the movie the second time, hardly recognizing it as something he’d just seen. When it was done and the lights went on, his watch read five minutes past twelve.
It was a six-block walk back to the bus. Parker and Fusco got there first, and stood waiting for the others to come and unlock it. The Officers’ Club was going strong, and where the parking lot had been almost empty before now it was full. A white MG squatted beside the bus, which was almost invisible now, its bright blue of the daytime now blending with the darkness.
The others showed up a minute or two later, and Webb unlocked the door. They climbed aboard and kept the bus in darkness. Parker changed out of his tie and jacket, putting on the long-sleeved high-neck black sweater in its place. Around him the others were putting on similar clothing, black and clean-lined, with no extraneous lapels or flaps.
Parker broke out the guns. There were two machine guns, stripped-down Stens, partly disassembled to fit into their boxes. Parker reassembled them in the dark, handed one to Kengle and one to Stockton, and then got out the pistols, all snub-nosed .32s, two Smith & Wesson, one Firearms International and one Colt. He took the Colt, gave Fusco the FI and Webb one of the S & Ws, and put the other S & W aside for Devers.
Next he got out and handed around sets of rubber gloves, the kind women use when they wash dishes. These were pale blue, which were less bright in the dark than either the yellow or the pink that were the only other choices. It was advertised that with these gloves on you could pick up a dime. You could also hold a gun and pick up four hundred thousand dollars.
There was a quick knock at the door. Webb opened it and Devers swung up and in. He too was in dark clothing, and when Parker handed him a revolver and a pair of rubber gloves he whispered, “Stage fright gone.”
“Good,” Parker said.
Next came the hoods, black cotton bags made from dyeing pillow cases and cutting out eyeholes. Each man stuffed his hood under his sweater, to keep it out of the way until it was needed.
Last were an Air Force fatigue cap and fatigue jacket. Webb put these on, everybody else sat out of sight on the floor, and Webb started the engine. He drove out of the parking lot and made his way slowly across the base.
It was ten minutes to one when he came to the finance office. The street was fairly well lit, and empty. There were lights on the second floor of the building, and an AP in a white helmet was marching back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the building with a carbine on his shoulder.
Devers, peeking out the window, whispered, “Is that a dumb way to guard a place? If they had him stand in front of the door they’d make a lot more sense.”
Webb whispered back, “That isn’t the Army way, my boy.”
They were almost even with the marching AP now. When they reached him, Webb hit the brakes. The building and the AP were on the right side of the bus. Webb opened the door from the handle by the steering-wheel, leaned far over, and called, “Hey, buddy! Which way to the Motor Pool Receiving Depot?”
There was no such thing. The AP looked, saw a blue bus—like any Air Force bus, if somewhat brighter and cleaner than most—saw a driver in Air Force fatigues leaning over toward him, gripping the steering-wheel for balance, and saw nothing else to make him wonder or question. Still with the carbine on his shoulder, he took a step closer and said, “What was that?”
“The Motor Pool Receiving Depot,” Webb said, slurring the last words. “I got to deliver this goddam thing sometime tonight. The stinking snowtop at the gate gave me the wrong directions.”
“Snowtop?” That was a slang word for Air Policemen, because of the white helmets they wore, and most APs didn’t like it. This one was no exception. Taking the carbine off his shoulder and holding it at a loose port arms, he came another step closer, almost to the curb, and said, “Maybe you heard him wrong, my friend. The motor pool isn’t anywhere around here.”
“I don’t want the motor pool,” Webb said, being angry now. “You as dumb as that other one? I want the Motor Pool Receiving Depot.”
The AP was now bridling. Coming all the way to the bus door, he said, “You got any orders on you, smart guy?”
Parker was out of sight just beside the door. Now, softly, he said, “I’ve got one. If you’re smart, you’ll step up into the bus.” As he spoke, he extended his hand out so the AP could see the revolver in it, aimed at his forehead. The AP blinked. “What?”
“Come up here,” Webb said, speaking more quietly himself now. “Just like there’s nothing wrong.”
“This isn’t the war to be a hero in,” Parker said.
“I don’t—” The AP was squinting, trying to see up the arm past the gun. “What is this?”
“Just money,” Webb told him, “We’re just taking the payroll. Don’t worry about it, we’re not spies or saboteurs or anything.”
“The payroll? You’re going to steal— You’ll never get away with it!”
“If you raise your voice again,” Parker said, “your buddy on the other side of the building is going to hear a car backfire. Now get in here.”
“But—”
“One,” said Parker. “Two.”
The AP didn’t know what the top number was. He put his foot up on the bus step before Parker could say three. Webb said, “Hand me the rifle.”
The AP came up the steps, and anger was struggling with fear in his eyes. He was being humiliated, and he hated it, and he suspected that if he tried to do anything about the humiliation he would lose his life, and he hated the cowardice that weighed those factors and opted for cooperation. He was calling it cowardice now, in his mind, but what it was was intelligence.
Webb took the carbine from him, and Parker prodded him to move on down the aisle into the bus. His uniform was stripped off him, and Devers put it on, took the carbine from Webb, and got out of the bus.
“Thanks, buddy,” Webb called, and shut the bus door, and started away.
Devers began to march up and down in front of the building. He looked bulkier than the other AP because, although he was about the other man’s size, he was wearing another complete set of clothing under the borrowed uniform, complete to a snub-nosed .32 revolver in the hip pocket of the trousers. But to anyone passing by, or to either of the APs inside the building upstairs who might decide to look out a window, he would pass.