Bank Robbers Read online

  Thud, thud, thud, jumping down three flights of stairs, his feet maybe landing on the center step on each flight, and he’d hit the lobby running. He could make it back to the room in ten minutes flat if there wasn’t a line at the deli.

  He’d run up the three flights, taking the steps three at a time, and he’d have to pull himself up by the banister on the last flight, he was so winded.

  Then he’d stand very still when he got to the third-floor landing to catch his breath because he still had some dignity left, and he wanted her to think he’d taken his own sweet time strolling down to the corner. So he’d stand and breathe, and make sure he wasn’t winded and his heart wasn’t pounding when he opened the door.

  He’d carry in the brown paper sack with sandwiches and beer and he’d place them on the chair by the bed and he’d kick his shoes off and begin unbuttoning his shirt. And he’d wait because he knew it would drive her crazy.

  Sharply, he’d hear, “Come here.” And he’d feel an amused grin go across his face at the cutting tone of her voice and he’d obey, and slide back down, fully clothed, into the warm sheets.

  He’d watch the top of her head, touch her soft hair, and he sometimes felt as if he were hovering back, behind his own body, staring down at her.

  She would have a serious, thoughtful look on her face, as though she were doing some sort of very delicate, close work to which must be paid extraordinary attention as she undid the buttons of his shirt.

  “Sit up,” she’d command, and again he’d obey, and she’d pull the shirt off him and toss it scornfully out of the way. Then she would unbuckle his pants, and unzip them with the same serious expression, and sometimes there would be a soft thud from his belt buckle if his pants fell on the rug and sometimes a metallic clank if his pants landed on the linoleum. And if he’d bothered to put on socks and underwear, they would get tossed aside too. She’d still pay close attention, with the serious look on her face, and smooth the sheets out over both of them. And finally, when her work was done, he’d watch a contented smile cross her face, and her head would lift and she’d gaze happily at him, as though she’d washed some unspeakable horror off his body, and he was now clean and decent and pretty.

  It was all upside down when they were in that room. Indecency seemed to become decency, and things he’d been taught to be ashamed and afraid of seemed honest and upright and something to be proud of.

  It was only when they left the room that life seemed to become one lie after another.

  But it wasn’t simply sex that he remembered, it was … details. It simply astonished him, for example, the unspoken thoughts that would cross her face. And what astonished him more was that these unspoken thoughts, which would whiz by as expressions, were something that was as plain and understandable to him as if she’d spoken them aloud.

  It was amazing that someone, a woman—a female—would feel anything about him at all, but to be so warm and honest and readable was something Arthur decided was very rare. And some days he felt that he knew he was the first man ever to have a woman like this. Just the care she gave to him and the detailed way which she seemed to feel about him from moment to moment was something extraordinary.

  He’d listen to other men speak about their women, and it always seemed impersonal. None of them really seemed to take notice of them. There were men who joked about their women, and other men who spoke of them merely as tits or pieces of ass, or the other kind who had a boiling resentment of them, almost as if women were something dark and evil and utterly untrustworthy.

  And he couldn’t figure out for the life of him why Dottie seemed so different from those women the men he knew spoke of. Some days he suspected it was just that he was in love with her and so all these moods and expressions, no matter how small, were of intense interest to him. And other days he felt, that no, maybe it was that she was extraordinary.

  It was memories like these that drove him mad for a while.

  Because she had made it matter that he was alive on this planet.

  There was someone to whom his existence was important. And no one had felt that way about him since he was seven. That was the year his mother died.

  And that was a revelation to him, after the years with his father—the drunken rages, and the watching him, from a slightly ajar closet door, as he tore the room apart looking for things that maybe didn’t even exist. And the years Arthur’d spent huddled at the bottom of the bedroom closet trying to pretend he was a box or maybe one of the shoes he was sitting on—any inanimate object—so he wouldn’t be discovered and get whacked by this madman because there was no one there to stop him.

  Until Dottie, he’d thought of himself like that. A piece of furniture, he was, not even a human being. And when he’d grabbed her that night he’d figured maybe God would let him steal a kiss. A kiss that he could have as his own.

  And she gave him herself.

  And she promised to wait.

  And she lied.

  And Arthur was thinking back on all this when the door to the shop opened and he saw her outline as she came through the glass-and-wire-mesh door.

  He couldn’t help but lean forward as she moved into the soft red light from the neon, almost looking like firelight from a fireplace, and still he didn’t let her know he was there, just like that night on the roof.

  “Hello?” Her voice was shaky, as she took several steps inside the shop.

  He wanted to hurt her.

  “Hello?” she said again, and he watched her look around. He could make out on her face that she was frightened.

  And he could make out that she still was one of the best-looking women he’d ever seen in his life, and still had a figure he could spend entire days exploring.

  Not one of his other women had ever affected him like she did.

  And that made him even angrier about what she’d done to them.

  “Is anyone here?” Her voice sounded panicky.

  He watched her blink, and then her face fell and she turned around and put her hand back onto the doorknob.

  “What do you want, Dottie?” he said loudly and sharply and he watched her jump, startled, and spin around.

  “Arthur MacGregor?”

  “That’s me, remember, Dottie?” he said harshly.

  He watched her look hurt and back herself into the wall next to the door.

  “How have you been, Arthur?” she said after a moment.

  “What do you want from me?”

  He watched her face stop looking hurt and begin to look angry.

  “A gun, Arthur.”

  That threw him. He sat still for a moment, watching her. Her eyes didn’t waver.

  He stood up and walked around the cash register and stared up and down at her, and when he looked back up to her eyes, he realized that she had done the same to him, and that her breathing was shallow as she looked over his body.

  He felt good about the dim lights at first but now he wanted to take a good look at this woman who’d thrown him over for a nobody.

  He shot one arm beside her to reach the light switch behind her, and for a split second she almost ducked, as if he were going to hit her. He played with it, as if he were having trouble, all the while making sure he was pressed up against her.

  She was shaking like a leaf.

  Snap. The lights went on and he stepped back from her a foot, and they both blinked at each other in the harsh light.

  “I liked it better the other way,” he said nastily and snapped the light off, and he leaned against her just for a second too long, just so she’d get the point, then stepped back.

  “I didn’t come here for you to appraise my looks. I want a gun, Arthur,” she repeated.

  “Why?”

  “You ask all your customers why they want guns?”

  She had him on that one.

  “No.” He walked around the counter, sat back down on his chair near the register. She walked over and placed her bag on the glass counter.

  “So?”
she prodded.

  “So why do you want a gun, Dottie?”

  “It’s dangerous where I live.”

  “It’s dangerous everywhere these days.”

  “You got a chip on your shoulder.”

  “You noticed.”

  “I never did a thing to you.” She was jittery. Her eyes were looking everywhere but at him.

  He gaped at her.

  “You said you’d wait for me. You didn’t wait for me.”

  “Are you gonna sell me a gun or what?”

  “Twenty-four months, Dottie, twenty-four lousy months, you couldn’t wait.”

  She stepped back and felt her eyes begin to fill. He could see the reflection of the water along the lower rim.

  “For what? Until the next time, Arthur? And how many years was the next time? How much time did they give you then?”

  “I—”

  “Twelve years, right? But you only did one and then you broke out and were on the lam for how many years?”

  “I—”

  “Five years, Arthur, and then they caught you and they sent you back, with another robbery conviction, which was twelve more years, plus the twelve from the sentence you never finished before, plus two for being a bad boy. Twenty-six years, out of which you served fifteen. And that was what I was supposed to wait around for? Sell me a gun, Arthur.”

  “Yeah, that was what you were supposed to stick around for. Maybe if you had, maybe—”

  “Oh, don’t even say it! I’m not stupid. You’d have given it up? You? You, who have books and articles written about you, of all the crazy things?”

  “Maybe I could have.”

  “You would’ve been worthless. And you would’ve wound up taking it out on me. Otherwise you would’ve quit when I asked you to that last time. Sell me a gun, Arthur.”

  “And I could have become a nine-to-fiver, tax-paying, voting, solid citizen, right? You would’ve lost interest in me immediately. You like what I do.”

  “No, I never did.”

  “Then how come you seem to know all about me? You followed it just for the hell of it?”

  “No.” She straightened up, and stared at him silently. He could see in her mind she was trying to come up with some explanation for her being able to recite his whole life history with such accuracy. He’d had a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist who was not able to get those facts as straight as she had them.

  “It was just … difficult not to notice; you were in the papers all the time.” She floundered.

  He gazed at her, and let his eyes meander down the suit she was wearing; he could see her straighten up her back as his eyes lowered, almost as if he were touching her.

  “I would’ve found something to do and taken care of you. And you gave your word you were going to wait.”

  They were both silent.

  “Now why would an upstanding citizen such as yourself want a gun, Dottie?”

  “I got mice.”

  “You gonna shoot some little tiny creatures?”

  “These are big, annoying mice.”

  “Don’t you think shooting them is overdoing it?”

  “Sell me the gun, Arthur.”

  He exhaled hard, and frowned at her.

  “You’re right. You don’t mean nothing to me and you never have.”

  Her face looked as if she’d just been slapped. Good. He wanted to hurt her.

  He reached behind the cash register and pulled out a small handgun. He placed it on the counter.

  She blinked at it.

  “How much?”

  He leaned forward and stared at her.

  “Don’t you want to look over the merchandise first?”

  She swallowed and picked up the gun, holding it with two fingers by the handle as if it were some rotten piece of meat.

  “Cock it.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She gaped at him.

  “The gun. Cock it. Let me see you.”

  He watched her blow out a breath and glare at him. She wanted a gun, fine. He was going to make sure at least she had some idea where the safety was.

  She turned it around and around and he finally took it from her and cocked it. He held it up to her.

  “Now it’s cocked. Now you can shoot.”

  He pulled the cock back with his thumb, listening to it click back into its original position.

  “Now the safety’s on. Now you can’t shoot it. You try.”

  “It’s okay, I know how to do it.”

  “Well, I just don’t want you to get stuck with the safety on when those mice come around.”

  She glared at him. “How much?”

  “One twenty-five.”

  She swallowed.

  “Does that include bullets?”

  He looked at her incredulously.

  “No, that includes the gun. You want bullets, you go get bullets.”

  She exhaled loudly. This was a lot more complicated than she’d imagined.

  “Well—” She shook her head. “How much if I buy bullets from you?”

  “You know in New York City there’s a one-year mandatory for carrying an unlicensed gun?”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I know. Another twelve for a box.”

  She frowned, and then looked up at him.

  “How about … if I only want six bullets?”

  He felt the corner of his mouth turn up into a grin at the naïveté of the question.

  “You’re not buying grapefruit here. Bullets come by the box. The box is twelve dollars.”

  She stared at him a long time.

  “All right, I’ll take the box.” She was angry, and she opened her purse and took out the cash.

  He took it, and then handed her the gun.

  “Don’t I get a bag with that for a hundred and twenty-five dollars?” she asked sharply.

  He glared at her, then turned around quickly to stifle a chuckle. And then he got angry again. Not only had he been thrown over for a lowlife, but Nathan was using her to get a gun on top of it? He didn’t know what Nathan was up to, but whatever it was, he wanted to slow it down. He needed something to bide the time.

  He grabbed a paper bag and spun around and tossed it at her.

  “There, now get out,” he ordered.

  “What about my bullets?”

  “Come back tomorrow night, at seven.”

  “What?” she nearly shrieked. This was barely going to leave her enough money to get back downtown. “You don’t have the bullets here?”

  “You know I don’t keep guns around for my personal use. I don’t believe in them.” His eyes were steady on hers. She grabbed the gun, pushed it into the bag with a crackle from the paper and shoved it inside her purse.

  “You want bullets, you come back at seven tomorrow night.”

  She glared at him and walked to the door. She turned around and watched his eyes staring at her legs, and she felt a small tingle go through her in the dim shop, lit entirely by red neon.

  “I hate you, Arthur MacGregor.”

  “I hate you, Dottie O’Malley, and I always have,” he answered and listened to the sound of the door slamming and the rattle of the mesh gate on the glass.

  He waited until he thought she was a couple doors away, then he quickly slipped the keys out of his pocket and went to the front door. He silently opened it and peeked out. She was down the block, almost at the corner. He slipped out, locking the door behind him, and pressed himself into the little vestibule. He watched her cross the street, and look around lost. He stayed there until she turned and walked onto Arthur Avenue proper.

  Dammit! He had no car.

  He darted across the street, keeping far back, just around the corner, keeping his eyes on her. He watched her look around when she got to the corner, and then suddenly he watched her step into the street. Dammit.

  He whirled around and looked down the street. He could see one cab. He stepped into the street and his arm shot up. He cranked his neck around, and
relaxed. She was still standing there and there were no cabs in sight. It seemed an interminable amount of time between the light and the time the cab pulled in front of him. He got in and sank down in the seat and stared at her through the window.

  “Where to?” the cabbie demanded.

  “Just run the meter and wait here a moment. Turn your ‘Vacant’ sign off.” The cabbie shrugged and obliged him.

  At last a cab pulled up in front of Dottie and he watched her gingerly get inside, clutching the purse as if it were some bomb that could go off if she loosened her grip.

  “Hey, pal,” Arthur said, leaning forward, “you see that cab the lady just got into?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Follow it.”

  “It’s your fare.” The cabbie gave a shrug and pulled the car up to the corner.

  They both watched the cab drive past them toward downtown.

  The cabbie pulled the car into the intersection and stepped on the gas.

  “Try not to be conspicuous about it,” Arthur added and was glad when he felt the cab instantly slow down.

  The lights twinkled over the river as they hit the East River Drive, and Arthur had developed a certain admiration for the cabbie’s tailing ability by midtown. He guessed he might be a cop.

  Dottie’s cab turned off on Houston Street, and they followed it across and onto Sullivan Street.

  “Slow it down and pass them,” Arthur said easily, and hummed to himself.

  His eyes bounced up to the rearview and he watched her get out, look both ways, and almost run into the building.

  Good, he thought. That little tidbit about the mandatory sentence had sunken in.

  “Stop the cab.”

  He opened the door, and the cabbie turned around quickly.

  “Keep the meter running, I’ll just be a minute,” Arthur said and threw a twenty at him.

  He kept his eyes on the front of the tenement building.

  Nathan, it seemed, had never amounted to much, and that gave him a certain smug satisfaction.

  But sending a woman to get a gun …

  He opened the front door, reached into his pocket and unzipped the monogrammed leather case. He took out a pick and in one second was inside the hallway.