“No last-minute instructions?” I said. “Not even a pep talk?”
“They really don’t need it,” Procane said, holding the Impala to a steady fifty miles per hour about five car lengths behind Wiedstein.
“They seemed a little nervous to me,” I said.
“Of course they are, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m just scared.”
Procane chuckled. “I can’t decide whether what I feel is apprehension or anticipation. Perhaps a little of both. Whatever it is, I like it. I really do.”
“Maybe you’re just a born thief.”
Procane chuckled again. “Maybe I am at that.”
We drove for nearly fifteen minutes until we came to a fork in the parkway. To the right lay Maryland; to the left, Virginia. We went left down a two-lane, one-way road that hooked sharply left again. The rear stoplights on Wiedstein’s car flashed on as he slowed down.
“The beltway,” Procane said. “U.S. 495. It goes all the way around Washington.”
It was a six-lane highway, three lanes on each side, and a sign I spotted put the speed limit at sixty-five, but nobody but Procane and Wiedstein seemed to observe it. Cars flicked by us going at least eighty or even ninety. The traffic was moderate for that time of night.
Procane drove well and I was a little surprised because not too many New Yorkers do, probably because not many of them own cars. The last car I had owned had been when I’d lived in Chicago, nearly fourteen years ago. It had been a Studebaker. They don’t make them like that anymore and I can understand why.
“I’m really surprised, Mr. St. Ives,” Procane said.
“At what?”
“That you didn’t back out. I thought you might have second thoughts.”
“I did.”
“But here you are.”
“Yes, here I am.”
“What you’re doing is really quite criminal, you know.”
“I suppose it is.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Not much. Maybe because my values are twisted.”
“You mean stealing a million dollars from drug merchants is quite different from stealing a million dollars from — say — a bank?”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
“Do you believe it?”
“Part of it.”
“Which part?”
“About the drug dealers,” I said. “It’ll hurt them. Not much, but some. I don’t want to be preachy and all that good shit, but heroin’s nasty stuff. It wrecks too many lives and the people whose lives it wrecks are usually those who have everything going against them anyway.”
“And that’s what you’ve used to justify your coming along?”
“It doesn’t justify it, but it helps explain it. I tell myself that there’s something redeeming about what I’m doing. Not much maybe, but something.”
“Of course, it might just increase the price of heroin. That means that the addicts will have to steal more to feed their habits. More crime will result. If the addicts resort to armed robbery, some innocent persons may get killed. Have you thought about it in that light?”
“No.”
“It’s better not to.”
“How do you think about it?”
“I accept what I am first. I’m a thief. But I steal only from those who’ve done something illegal. That way I salve my conscience.” He paused. “If I have one.” He seemed to brood about that for a few moments and then said, “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“When was the last time you stole something?”
“What makes you sure there was a last time?”
Procane chuckled again. “Don’t fence with me. When was it?”
“Not counting the pencils I used to take home from the office?”
“Not counting those.”
“It was 1944 in Columbus, Ohio.”
“You were a child.”
“That’s right.”
“What did you steal?”
“A magazine from a drugstore.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted it and I didn’t have a dime.”
“How bad did you want it?”
I thought about that. “I think I wanted it more than anything I ever wanted in my life.”
“And after you stole it how did you feel?”
“Scared. Remorseful. Guilt-ridden.”
“Did you enjoy the magazine?”
“No.”
Once more Procane chuckled, this time deep down in his throat as if he really found something funny. “I’ll tell you one thing about yourself, Mr. St. Ives.”
“What?”
“You’ll never make a proper thief.”
“Why, because stealing makes me feel guilty?”
“No, you could probably live with that. It’s something else.”
“What?”
“You don’t really like it. To be a good thief you’ve got to really enjoy your work.”
I remember thinking that that was the first time I’d ever heard Procane split an infinitive, but I decided that he’d probably done it on purpose.
20
We traveled the beltway for five or six miles and then turned off at Exit 17 on to State Highway 27 which turned out to be a narrow, winding two-lane asphalt road that traveled west.
Ahead of us Wiedstein cut his speed to forty-five miles per hour and we kept our five-car-lengths’ distance. I couldn’t see much of the countryside. A few lighted houses far back from the road. Some trees. An occasional bridge across a creek — or run, as they are called in Virginia. A gas station or two. Several hand-lettered signs along the road advertising “Puppies for Sale.”
I found myself wishing that Mrs. Williams had served carrots for dinner. They might have helped my night vision. When I was through thinking about that I thought about how I came to be riding down a Virginia highway, driven by a master thief, following a couple of his apprentices who were about to turn journeymen, and headed for a million-dollar robbery that was going to make some very unpleasant people extremely unhappy.
But it wasn’t going to be a simple gun-in-the-ribs heist. It was going to be something tricky because there were some others who wanted to steal the million dollars. Not only did these others want to steal it, but they also had a blueprint — stolen from the master thief himself — that told them just how to go about it. And when it was over, they could blame it all on him.
I wondered who the others were and what plans Procane had for them, but because there was no sense in either wondering or asking about that, I started thinking about Bright Bobby Boykins, a small-time con artist who had aspired to better things and had been beaten to death just for trying. I remember how Boykins had looked, trussed up and tucked away out of sight behind the laundromat’s dryers. Then I remembered how Jimmy Peskoe had looked after he had hit the sidewalk in front of a cheap hotel, his safecracking days over and whatever knowledge he had about Procane’s journals and what they contained now safely buried.
And finally I remembered the pride of the motor-scooter patrol, Francis X. Frann, who had wanted to be a plainclothes detective — or to shake down Procane — or both. I decided he had picked the wrong case and I remembered how still he had sat behind the wheel of the car, the shoulder harness holding him upright, the fatal stab wound not even showing.
Frann had known those who had had the Procane journals and whoever it was probably had killed him, just as they had killed Boykins and Peskoe.
If they had killed three, it wouldn’t matter much to them (for some reason I thought of the killer or killers as them) if they killed two more, or three, or even half a dozen. A million dollars in cash is a lot of money and many have killed more for much less.
As I thought about the three persons who had died during the past four days there was something about each death that began to bother me. There seemed to be a link and I thought I almost had it when Procane said, “We’re nearly there.”