The drive-in movie was on the left-hand side of the road. A red-neon sign said that it was called The Big Ben Drive-In, possibly because of the rhyme. Below the neon sign was the lighted marquee which boasted of presenting a “Triple XXX Feature!” The names of the films were Take Me Naked, The Daisy Chain, and Unsatisfied.
I looked at my watch and it was ten minutes till nine.
“We’re a little early,” Procane said.
“I’d hate to miss the beginning.”
“We won’t.”
He slowed down and made the turn into the drive-in.
Wiedstein was already at the enclosed ticket booth, handing some money through his car window to a middle-aged woman. Procane drove slowly, letting Wiedstein get past the booth before we stopped.
Procane rolled down his window. “How much?”
“Three bucks each,” the woman said. She was bundled in a navy pea coat whose collar came up around the frizzled gray hair that framed her chapped face. A cigarette dangled from her lips. I couldn’t tell whether the twist in her upper lip was because of the smoke or whether it was a sneer that advised her customers of how she felt about them.
Procane handed her a ten and she dug a small roll out of her pea coat and stripped off four ones. “If you hurry,” she said, handing him the money, “you’ll catch the beginning of Daisy Chain.”
Procane put a lisp and a lilt in his tone. “We wouldn’t want to miss that, would we?”
“I simply couldn’t bear it,” I said.
“Fuckin fags,” the woman said and slid the booth’s glass window shut.
The entrance road of the drive-in was lined by high board fences. The fence on the left ended after about fifteen yards but the one on the right continued all around the drive-in — to keep out the nonpaying customers, I assumed.
The screen was near the highway and the parking spaces with their individual speakers and heaters fanned out from it. In the middle of the parking space was a low, cinder-block building that housed the projection booth and the refreshment stand. As Procane drove slowly along the fence with his lights off I counted about three dozen cars. Business was slow.
At the very back row Procane drove the car up the slight parking incline and stopped.
“Where’s Wiedstein and the girl?” I said.
“The next row up and to your right.”
“I don’t see them in the car.”
“They’ve gone for refreshments.”
“Where am I supposed to be looking so that I can record all this for posterity?”
“The third row up.”
“There’s nothing there.”
“There will be.”
“When?”
Procane looked at his watch. “You’ve got about five minutes. Relax and enjoy the show.”
I looked at the screen. A woman was helping another woman take off her brassiere. Neither of them was very pretty. When the brassiere was off, a man came into what seemed to be a bedroom. The woman who was having her brassiere removed looked embarrassed and tried to cover her breasts. The other woman grinned. So did the man and then they started talking to each other and I stopped looking.
“You’d better bring the speaker inside,” Procane said.
“Okay.” I rolled down the window, took the speaker out of its wire holder, and fitted it over the edge of the window which I rolled back up.
“You want it on?” I said.
“Not unless you do.”
“No, thanks.”
Procane looked at his watch again. “In about thirty seconds a blue Dodge convertible should be arriving and parking three rows up and to our left.”
“How many in it?”
“One.”
“The South American?”
“Right.”
We waited thirty seconds, but nothing happened.
“He’s late,” I said.
“You’re nervous.”
“You’re right.”
Fifteen seconds or so later a blue Dodge convertible with a white top crept down the third row. The driver’s face was a pale blur. The car turned up the slight incline and parked. The driver didn’t bother to bring the speaker inside.
I saw Wiedstein and Janet Whistler approaching their car. Wiedstein carried a cardboard tray. It looked as though he had a bag of popcorn and two Cokes, but I couldn’t be sure at that distance. They got in the car and then melted together, apparently in an embrace. Or clinch.
“Neckers?” I said.
“That’s right.”
“It’s a pretty good place for it.”
“I can’t think of a better.”
“What are we waiting for now?”
“A car with four men in it.”
“What kind of car?”
“I don’t know.”
It was a dark-colored Oldsmobile, a big sedan, either blue or black. It rolled down the third row and then parked next to the Dodge convertible. The stand that held the two speakers separated them. There were four men in the car. They didn’t bother with a speaker either.
“Look to your left and up four rows,” Procane said. “See those two men?”
“The ones who’re carrying something?”
“They’re coming from the refreshment stand.”
“What about them?”
““They’re the ones who’re going to steal the million dollars.”
I didn’t ask him how he knew. I stared at the two men. It was still too far away to see their faces. They wore topcoats and hats. The hats were pulled down low. They were moving toward my left, walking slowly, carrying a tray each. I looked to the left. There were no cars parked there. The two men were now near the left-front fender of the Dodge convertible, the car that contained the South American diplomat.
Both of the men raised their right hands to their faces.
“Stocking masks,” Procane whispered. “They’re following it exactly.”
With an abrupt motion they threw away their refreshment trays. The first man, a little taller than the other, leaped forward and grabbed the handle of the Dodge door, jerking it open. The second man leaned inside the car for no more than three seconds. I expected to hear a shot, but I heard nothing.
“Mace,” Procane said. “They maced him.”
They left the Dodge’s door open and ran quickly around its rear. The first man headed for the far right side of the Oldsmobile. The second man darted toward the rear left side. The four doors of the sedan flew open simultaneously. Someone seemed to make a lunge out of the rear seat. I rolled my window down. There was a shout and the figure that had lunged out of the car crumpled to the ground. He rolled about.
“More Mace?” I said.
“Yes.”
The man on the left side of the Oldsmobile now leaned forward into the front seat of the car. Then he straightened up and leaned into the rear. When he came out he was carrying something that looked like a one-suiter. The man on the right side of the Oldsmobile now hurried around its rear. Both men trotted to the Dodge. One of them, the shorter one, bent forward inside the car. I could no longer see its occupant. He was probably writhing around on the front seat, clawing at his eyes. When the man who was leaning into the Dodge straightened up I could see that he was carrying something in his right hand. It looked like a suitcase, a heavy one. He handed it to the man who already was carrying the suitcase that he had taken from the Oldsmobile. He sagged under the weight of both cases. He should have if they contained what I thought they did.
The man who had lifted the suitcase out of the Dodge now lifted out another one. It looked heavy, too. The two men, carrying the three cases, began to run. There were shouts and groans from the Oldsmobile now. A man staggered out from its front seat, spun around, and sank to his knees. His hands were at his face. It looked a little as if he were praying. He may have been.