Bank Robbers Read online

  “I don’t believe this man can do to you what I do,” he said low, in a whisper.

  She looked away, knowing exactly what he meant. “He does.”

  They were both silent, and she glanced at him.

  “You’re a liar, Dorothy O’Malley.” His voice was hard.

  She remembered spreading a sneer across her face, and inside going cold.

  “You better think about what you’re saying,” he said, “because some people never have what we have, and you don’t throw it away because someone made one mistake.”

  He turned his back on her, took a step away, and for one moment she knew he was absolutely sure of himself.

  “I’ll be at the Ambassador Hotel at three tomorrow,” he said matter-of-factly.

  He took another step away from her, and stood. She could tell he was just waiting for her to reach out to him and say it was all right, that she’d be there with her son and her suitcases.

  “I won’t be there, Arthur,” she said as strong as she could and she watched him stop. He never did turn around.

  “Well, I will. And…” His voice had begun strong and then faltered, and she knew he was suffering and taking short breaths that were making his wide shoulders go up and down, almost as if he were shaking. “If you need more time, you can … you can just be sure”—his voice was harsh, and then it broke—“I’ll wait.”

  She watched him walk down to the corner and disappear.

  The following afternoon she went to see a two forty-five showing of the movie Can-Can and wept through the entire show. A man across the aisle kept glancing at her, then up to the screen puzzled, as if asking, “Are we watching the same film?”

  She wept through several weeks, stunned to realize that Nathan didn’t seem to notice. No. That wasn’t true. He’d noticed. After a week or two he even said something.

  “You upset about something?”

  “Just … I don’t know,” she’d muttered as she scrambled eggs over the stove.

  And that was it.

  Although, now that she thought about it, she realized that Nathan began to stay out of the house more and more, until he barely seemed to come in at all.

  She spent three months in this half-crying, half-furious state, and finally decided that she couldn’t live like this anymore.

  Okay, he’d lied to her once, but she would, against her better judgment, give Arthur MacGregor another chance. Because it was human nature to err, and no one should be thrown away because of one mistake, and because she couldn’t bear the thought that she’d never have him again. He had insisted that he was going to find something honest to do, and even though she read every report of every robbery in the newspapers, she’d find some way of trusting him. The fact that his name hadn’t come up in any of the news media she took as a sign that maybe he was back at work as a locksmith.

  She would track him down and tell him straight out that yes, he had her, and her son, but that if he ever pulled another stunt like that, she’d kill him. And she was not kidding.

  So she hired a baby-sitter for the following afternoon, when she knew Nathan would be out of the house anyway, and decided to start on Rivington Street, at the hotel where he had a room …

  She lay in bed all that night thinking about it and thinking about it, only pretending to be asleep when Nathan got in around five. She was surprised at how much she ached to have Arthur again.

  And at one the next day Nathan was sitting at the table reading the paper and she turned around with a plate of breakfast and dropped it on the floor.

  There was Arthur MacGregor’s face staring back at her. The headline in the Daily News read: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

  And his ensuing robbery spree confirmed that she had been absolutely right not to go with him. She felt for the flash of a moment that she had made the right decision and she was victorious.

  And then it broke her insides.

  And she hated it that Arthur’d forced her to face the fact that she didn’t love Nathan, and she hated even more that, as it turned out, he had been right about him.

  After those first couple of years the gambling did get worse, or maybe she just focused in on it more, but whatever, they were in a constant state of poverty, until at last he lost his share of the club and wound up as a waiter in a steak house on Fourteenth Street. Dottie got a job working as a secretary for a small company in Brooklyn that supplied parts for typewriters. And that was all right; the money was at least steady, and there was enough from his paycheck even after he paid his weekly into the shylock for them to get by.

  So she’d kept everything to herself over the years, and often she would think back on it. Toward the end of Nathan’s life four years ago, she’d begun to surround herself with memories of those hot afternoons with Arthur, even though she knew she’d never see him again, or maybe he wasn’t even still alive.

  And now, of all the fences Teresa knew, this was the number Dottie had to be given?

  Was God trying to drive her crazy?

  She turned off the light and walked back over to the couch.

  Well, hell could freeze over before she’d call Arthur MacGregor for anything.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “AHEM.” Dottie cleared her throat.

  The kid sitting next to her on the park bench still didn’t take any notice. She looked over at the small dots of black foam covering his ears. The music on his Walkman was turned up so loud it sounded like bees buzzing through the earphones.

  She suddenly nudged him. “Ahem,” she said louder.

  His eyes popped opened and he looked at her, startled.

  “I’m looking for something,” she said coolly, looking the other way, at several old men sitting near her on the bench. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the kid take off the headset and stare, frowning, at her.

  “What?” he asked, and moved his neck back so his chin became double.

  “I’m looking for … a piece,” she said as roughly as she could, and watched his expression turn to confusion.

  “Of what?” He looked scared.

  “You know,” she said uneasily.

  She watched his eyes dart around, and look back at her.

  “You looking for sex?” he shouted at her.

  The old men sitting next to her stopped talking. Dottie went pale and for a split second it seemed as though everyone within earshot had frozen and was gaping at her.

  “What? What!” Dottie barked at him.

  “Look, lady, what is it that you want from me?” the kid asked, staring at her.

  “A gun,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “A gun,” he said almost in relief. Then his lip turned up in an insulted sneer and exposed a set of stunningly straight and stunningly white teeth. His eyes stared at her, angrily.

  “I am a law student!” he barked. “Je-e-e-sus!”

  She watched him jump off the bench shaking his head, and he began walking away quickly.

  Dottie stiffly rose, trying to hold back tears. She stared straight ahead, trying not to look at anyone directly, and gritted her teeth. She began rigidly walking out of the park. She stared ahead of her, down the main walk in Washington Square, at a group of black men huddled around.

  They were probably medical students.

  She began to move faster and faster. She just wanted to run away. God, yelling out loud that she was searching the park for sex, that was just so humiliating. Not to mention it was the second time in twenty-four hours someone had insulted her like that, first Teresa and now that rude kid.

  Did she look desperate? Did she look that lonely? God, she could bear anything but that, to be some woman people felt sorry for. And even if she did look that way, where the hell was human decency? Where the hell was the human compassion not to make some demeaning crack about it—as if being alone were a crime! And even if she was lonely, what the hell was she supposed to do about it? As if she was going to find someone to date? It was just cruel.

  She needed a g
un.

  She looked back to the park. Maybe she should try another park? She felt herself begin to waffle about doing this again. A shot of anger went through her. No, she was going to go through with this, and Arthur, like it or not, was the fastest way to get this done with. So what was she going to do? Was she going to call him and actually speak to him this time? Would he sell her a gun? No questions asked? Like his regular clients?

  That would give him a laugh, she thought bitterly. She could see him … and then another thought occurred to her. She stopped walking and stood still in the middle of the sidewalk.

  What if Arthur looked terrible?

  Like the man who had the physical-therapy session right before hers when she was in St. Vincent’s. The man had had a complexion the color of old newspapers, and liver spots dotted his face and hands. The skin on his hands was so tissue-paper thin that Dottie could see his veins pulse. He had no hair or teeth, his eyes were all watery. They would lower the man into a wheelchair as she arrived and then they would cover him with blankets or, sometimes, more disturbingly, tether him to the chair—as a safety precaution, they told her. She would watch them wheel him off.

  What if Arthur looked like that?

  She shuddered.

  That memory her being pressed against the car by him in the dark street, and how young and handsome he had been … did she really want to see how old he’d gotten?

  Maybe she could find someone to pick the gun up for her?

  Could she trust Teresa with something like this?

  It would maybe cost her another fifty.

  She winced.

  Maybe if she had Arthur wrap it up like a steak or something, maybe Teresa would …

  And what if Teresa got caught?

  If she wasn’t popular with Teresa now … she could see her with that mouth of hers being carted off to jail screaming and cursing the name Dorothy O’Malley Weist. No, if she wanted a gun, she was going to have to go pick it up herself.

  That meant facing him.

  Did she want him to see what she looked like these days? She stopped in front of a clothing boutique and stared at the odd garments in the window.

  Clothes.

  She couldn’t show up in her old clothes. She’d lost so much weight in the hospital and kept it off with the silly exercises they had her doing with weights. They were supposed to build up her bone density or something. Her eyes looked at her reflection. She turned sideways. She stared at her hips and how the dress was belted tightly around her middle. It made her waist seem tiny.

  No, she didn’t look nineteen, but she had a pretty waist again and hips, and even her legs had gotten back some of their shape, and her skin had tightened up.

  As a matter of fact, she looked good. Damned good.

  She would need to buy a new outfit. Something light green or red. Red would put color in her face. She’d need new makeup.

  And that would make it possible for her to face him.

  She did have four hundred dollars left in the bank, and if she was going to jail, what the hell was she saving it for?

  She knew she was talking herself into this, and that it was insane to spend her gun money on clothes.

  All right, Dottie thought, clearing her head, another point in favor of getting dressed up to see him was that, if she looked good … maybe she could get him to lower the price.

  That ploy had worked on men for a millennium. Christ, it had worked for Cleopatra, for Helen of Troy, and Queen Isabella had gotten half a country out of it.

  Of course, it hadn’t worked for everybody.

  Marie Antoinette came to mind.

  No, that was too mercenary. And she’d never been the kind of woman who either thought that was proper or thought she could actually get away with it, so that idea was out.

  But if she spent the money, then she could see herself, in one of those Chanel-type suits that always made her look good, opening the door to the shop—she imagined there would be a bell that would ring. And the moment she saw that certain look on his face, the openmouthed gaze, and watched his eyes and mind wander over her body …

  Dottie felt a sad pain go through her. Her getting all dressed up wasn’t about getting him to lower the price of a gun.

  It was about him looking at her and then, once he looked at her, maybe he’d … maybe he’d …

  Stop her.

  Every once in a while over the last day that thought had charged through her. For someone to give a damn enough to stop her.

  The hell with it. If she was going to jail, she was going with her hair done.

  She began walking quickly up Eighth Street. There was something calming about finally making up one’s mind. She wasn’t going to be stuck sitting on a bench in Washington Square park like a spectator in life.

  She was going to have a wonderful day buying clothes and have her hair done and make herself feel as lovely as she could, like a female version of an ancient Greek warrior preparing himself for battle … or possibly death.

  And it was a battle she was fighting.

  And once she’d gotten her clothes and had her hair done, she was going up to the Bronx and take Arthur MacGregor by storm—or get a gun.

  * * *

  “YOU CALL me Mother Teresa one more time and I swear I’ll smack you.” Teresa crossed her arms over her chest and stared at her son-in-law. She watched his eyes dart over to Tracy, and she could tell Tracy was rolling her eyes.

  “And I ain’t your mother … Now, explain to me again why someone your age gets amnesia every time they’re supposed to buy a carton of cigarettes.”

  “It’s just that the doctor said—”

  “I been smokin’ since I was twelve and I ain’t gonna give it up now.”

  “Mother, you spent a whole month in Sloan-Kettering watchin’ Pop die, didn’t you learn nothing?”

  “Yeah, I learned they got benches out front where youse can smoke; now where the hell are my Marlboros?”

  Again the redheaded pain in the ass she called her son-in-law stared behind her. They had been standing in the kitchen of Teresa’s apartment for twenty minutes now, arguing. Teresa refused to be taken down to her doctor’s appointment until she’d cleared up this crap about her cigarettes.

  “Tracy,” he said pleadingly, and Teresa turned to her daughter.

  Tracy had Teresa’s black hair, which she kept permed and crimped and teased out into volumes. She was skinny as a rail, even under the heavily decorated sweat suit she was wearing. Her nails were long and painted a bright shade of pink to match her lip color. Her lips were now pursing and twitching back and forth the way her father’s had when he got angry. She was twisting a large diamond engagement ring around her finger. Her daughter had changed since she’d moved out to the Island. Now all her clothes were by big-name designers, and every time she talked of things it was always what brand name they were, that she and Brian had a big fancy house at some big fancy address … and East Harlem was not good enough anymore.

  “Why the hell do you wear sunglasses in the house, huh? You got a problem with your eyes?”

  Tracy’s smile twisted into a frown and she pulled off the pair of designer glasses and glared at her mother.

  “Brian didn’t forget your cigarettes, I told him not to put them in the cart, all right? You wanna blame someone for not killing your lungs for twenty-four lousy hours, you blame me.”

  There was a silence.

  “Whatsa matter, Brian don’t have no thoughts on his own?”

  “Aw, Christ! There she goes again,” she heard Brian yell out behind her. “I can’t win with your mother!”

  Teresa’s eyes narrowed.

  “The doctor told you months ago to stop smoking. What is it, you wanna get sick and die? It’s not enough we just had to watch Pop?”

  Well, maybe Tracy had changed, but, Teresa thought, she still fights below the belt.

  “You want cigarettes? You walk down those six flights for ’em from now on, ’cause we ain’t bringi
ng ’em,” Tracy said, staring straight at her.

  Teresa grabbed her purse, and glared at them.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll go out in this neighborhood for my own cigarettes. And when someone stabs me, I’ll just tell ’em it’s because my daughter couldn’t remember to bring me my cigarettes.” Teresa turned and walked into the hallway.

  “That’s another thing, you shouldn’t be living in this dangerous neighborhood by yourself,” she heard Tracy call after her, and she listened to the clacking sound of Tracy’s high heels against the stone hall floor. She was going down the stairs as fast as she could.

  The sounds of Brian locking the apartment door echoed above Tracy’s heels.

  “Now don’t start in about that!”

  “Yeah, I am startin’ in about that. Fred’s comin’ into town next week and we’re gonna sit down and discuss you movin’—”

  “I ain’t movin’.”

  “It’s dangerous and stupid to live here, especially now that Pop’s gone. Fred’s got a extra room in his house down in Florida. His wife says she’d love to have you, and you could get to see little Fred and little Joe—”

  “And neither of youse would be stuck driving in my groceries twice a week,” Teresa tossed in nastily. She heard a grunt from Tracy, who was right behind her.

  “And we’re gonna fix it up for you, nice. Really nice. You’re going to love it,” Tracy said harshly through clenched teeth.

  Teresa turned and stopped sharply. Tracy, who was right behind her, knocked into her, startled. She put her hand up to her chest.

  “Now listen to me. I ain’t moving, I ain’t giving up smoking, and I don’t care what you or that jedrool brother of yours got planned for me. This is my life, not yours, and I’m gonna live it where the hell I want, doing what I want.” Teresa gave her daughter one last look, hard, just to make sure it sank in, then turned around and started down the stairs again.

  “Now I’m gonna be late for my doctor’s appointment,” Teresa snapped, knowing full well she was the one who had held them up.

  * * *

  ARTHUR sat staring over the books and the receipts. His eyes shifted over to his watch.