Parker shook his head. “I wanted to, but I didn’t. When she found she hadn’t done me, she killed herself.”
Handy grunted. “Saved you the trouble, huh?”
Parker shrugged. He’d wanted to kill her, to even things, but when he’d seen her he’d known he couldn’t. She was the only one he’d ever met that he didn’t feel simply about. With everybody else in the world, the situation was simple. They were in and he worked with them or they were out and he ignored them or they were trouble and he took care of them. But with Lynn he hadn’t been able to work that way.
He’d felt for her what he’d never felt for anybody else or anything else, not even himself, not even money. She had tried her level best to kill him, and even that hadn’t changed anything, the way he felt about her or his helplessness with her. He didn’t want that to happen again, ever, to feel about anybody that way, to let his feelings get stronger than his judgment. Oddly enough, he missed her and wished she were still alive and still with him, even though he knew that sooner or later she would have found herself in the same kind of bind again and done the same thing.
Ahead of him, the green Dodge turned into a driveway next to a small faded clapboard house. This was an old section here: all the houses were small and faded — most of them with sagging porches.
There was no garage. The green Dodge turned into the backyard and stopped, Parker pulled up beside it, and he and Handy got out. Alma and Skimm were waiting for them, by the back door. There were three warped steps up, and a small back porch half the width of the house. The kitchen door had masking tape over a break in the window. Skimm lived in places where broken things were patched with masking tape.
They all went into the kitchen and Alma told Skimm to open up some beer.
“Sure,” said Skimm. He wasn’t nervously happy anymore, he was sullen now.
Alma told the others to come on into the living room. She’d argued most of the belligerence out on the drive. She was sure of herself now, and in charge.
They went through the dining room, going around a scarred table. The house was one story high, with a living room and a dining room and a kitchen and two bedrooms. One bedroom was off the dining room and the other one was off the kitchen. The bathroom was off the kitchen on the other side, next to the steps to the basement.
Alma clicked a wall switch and a ceiling light went on, four forty-watt bulbs amid a cluster of stained glass. Alma led the way into the room. “Look at this lousy place. Just look at it.”
It wasn’t very good. The sofa was green mohair, worn smooth in some places and spiny in others. The two armchairs both rested the weight of their springs on the floor, and one of them had an old deep cigarette burn in one overstuffed arm. The rug was faded and worn, showing trails where people had done the most walking, to the front door and the dining room archway. There was an old television set with an eleven-inch screen and a wooden cabinet with a folded match-book under one leg.
Alma pulled the wrinkled shades down over the three living room windows. “Sit down.”
Parker and Handy took the armchairs. Skimm came in, carrying four cans of beer, and passed them around. Then he and Alma sat on the sofa.
Alma started. “Skimm tells me you don’t like the plan.”
“Did he tell you why?” Parker asked.
“I don’t mean the tear gas,” she said. “The rest of it.”
“Which rest of it?” Parker asked.
“We need five men,” she said. “We can’t do it with less. For God’s sake, it’s an armored car.”
“You want to lay a siege and starve them out?” Parker asked.
“Don’t be a wise guy.”
Handy didn’t have a cigarette going, he had a match poked into his mouth. He took it out and said, “Who’s running this operation?”
Nobody answered him. Parker looked at Skimm, and Skimm looked at the floor. Alma looked at Handy.
Handy pointed the wet end of the match at Alma. “You’re the finger.” He pointed the match at Skimm. “You brung us in. You running it, Skimm?”
Skimm looked up, reluctantly. “I never worked an armored car before.”
“I ain’t running it,” said Handy. “I’m not the type. So that leaves Parker.”
Parker said, “I don’t like this situation. More and more, I don’t like it. The finger sitting in, doing a lot of talking. I just don’t like it.”
“I’ve got a stake in this too, you know,” Alma said. She was getting hot again, a slow flush creeping up her face.
“Skimm, who’s running this operation?” Parker asked.
Skimm was even more reluctant to answer this time. When he finally spoke, it was to Alma. “Parker knows this kind of job.”
Alma said, “Let’s hear what he has to say.”
“It’s simple. Three men. One in a uniform like the guards wear. We get the two trucks, and one car. One of the trucks we rig up so we can lock the guards in it, keep them cooled for a while. The driver and the guard from the back go in first. While they’re in the diner, we get in position. When they come out, we grab them at the back of the armored car, where the other guard in the cab can’t see us. We wait till they open the back door. Then we grab them, and the one in the uniform takes the driver up to the cab. The guard inside opens the door when he recognizes the driver, and the other one — that’s one of us — hangs back, so the guard’ll just glimpse the uniform out of the corner of his eye. He opens up, and we’ve got him, too. We sap all three of them and lock them in the truck. Then we transfer the cash and take off in the car. We leave the trucks there because we don’t need them anymore.”
“That’s what I don’t like,” said Alma. “That’s the part I don’t like.”
Parker drank some beer and looked at her.
“They’re going to see your car,” Alma said. “It’s going to be at the back of the U, blocking vision, so they’re going to see it. That’s why I wanted the trucks to be in it, too. We’d have vehicles going off in all different directions and they wouldn’t know which way to go to look for us.”
It didn’t matter which way they went, or how many people saw them go. Parker knew that but he didn’t say anything about it. This Alma was a busher, a new fish, she didn’t know how this kind of operation was handled. Parker knew this, because this was his line of work, but he didn’t say anything about it. All he said was, “Tractor-trailers don’t outrun police cars. We leave them at the diner.”
“I still want cars going off in different directions.”
Parker nodded. He knew why she wanted it, but she didn’t know he knew. He said, “So what’s your idea?”
“My car,” she said, “my car, that’s the Dodge out there. It’ll be parked behind the diner, like always. When you get the money out of the armored car, you put it in my car. Then you take off on route 9, going south, and circle around back to Old Bridge. When I know the job’s finished, I’ll get in my car and take the back road. Then we meet at the farmhouse outside Old Bridge. That way, even if you get stopped they’ve got nothing on you because you aren’t carrying the money.”
Parker glanced at Skimm. He was studying the carpet, lines of worry creasing his forehead. Parker said to Alma, “I don’t like it. That leaves you holding the cash, and the rest of us holding the bag. I know Skimm, and I trust him, and I know Handy, but I don’t know you.”
“So one of you rides with me,” she said. “Skimm. He can ride with me. All right?”
It was bad. The whole idea was stupid. It was sloppy, it was bad business.
But Parker nodded. “That’s all right. Just so one of us goes along with the money.”
If he let her keep her original plan he could be sure of getting the money back. If he forced her to change by making the grab more sensible, then maybe he wouldn’t be able to figure out her cross in time. He’d had to argue so she wouldn’t get suspicious. The only one he had to worry about was Skimm. Skimm, if he was thinking sensibly, had to know the two-car scheme was nonsense. He would have to wonder why Parker was going along with it. If Alma had talked him into her plans, that would make him dangerous because he’d realize that Parker was onto the cross. But it made more sense that Alma was playing a lone game, that she was figuring to cross Skimm, too.