Bank Robbers (19 page)

Even in the deepest sleep his hands remained magically suspended across his chest. The paper would make a crackling sound as his chest expanded and contracted with the snoring. It was kind of musical in a way.

Dottie doubted her father ever made it past the headlines without falling asleep. Sometimes he could be roused for dinner and sometimes he couldn't.

Her mother ran the house. She was a big, sturdy woman in body, with beautiful, delicate facial features and flaming red hair. She reminded Dottie of a workhorse. Stern and strong, and efficient and mirthless. The only time she smiled was Sunday in church. Dottie had inherited her hair and looks and long legs from her.

Her mother was a schoolteacher, she taught second grade on the Lower East Side. She loved reading and books. She'd actually gone to college, her mother, which was a source of pride in the family. And she was well-spoken. Dottie was always taught to speak clearly without an accent. It was her mother's theory that proper speech and good manners would take you farther than all the money in the world.

And when Dottie's father was out of work her mother would support them by teaching during the day and taking in sewing and laundry to do at night. She could sew seams with the most delicate stitches Dottie had ever seen. And she could iron anything, from a sheet to a fancy ruffled shirt, with the same expertise.

It was the end of the Depression, and everyone worked and worked and worked, and at the end of each week there was very little money.

Dottie's eyes refocused on the television suddenly as she heard the name Arthur MacGregor.

There it was. That stupid documentary on Arthur. Once in a great while Channel 13 would run a series on “Fame in America,” and for some god-awful reason, they'd chosen Arthur for one segment.

It was haunting her.

She leaned over to the set and was about to turn it off when she heard a voice-over of him talking.

His voice sounded very flat on tape. And she found herself sinking down onto the couch and listening to him. He was talking about how to rob a bank. She felt her eyes close and for a while she let the sound of his voice lull her. He was telling about how dexterously he could remove a gun from a guard's holster.

“And you walk up behind; if you bump them you can reach around, unsnap the holster and pull the gun out while they're distracted, but you have to be fast.”

And he was so proud of this.

Dottie shook her head and opened her eyes in time to see a picture of Auburn. And there you have it, she thought. Arthur's entire life.

Tomorrow morning she was going to figure out how to load that gun, and then tomorrow afternoon was going to be the end of this.

*   *   *

T
ERESA
lay in bed staring at the set. She couldn't take her eyes off it. She'd never watched much of Channel 13 in her whole life, but she'd read in a guide they were doing a segment on Arthur MacGregor, and she was glued to the thing.

She was watching in the hopes of tripping Dottie up on that ridiculous story about her and Arthur MacGregor, but as she lay still, smoking cigarette after cigarette, everything seemed to bear out the fact that the Solid Citizen had indeed been involved with him. The pictures of the house on Rivington Street matched perfectly, all the stuff about jail; if she hadn't been involved with him then she was a great liar. Teresa sucked on her cigarette and wondered if she could ask Dottie for an autograph or something.

She looked at the clock. It was almost eleven. She stubbed out the cigarette and gazed at the set. When she was little, she used to have this recurrent dream about becoming a famous person. She'd read movie magazines and the tabloids with a vengeance. It wasn't just being famous, it was that you would get to know other famous people. She watched Arthur's face, and a small tingle went through her. Jeez, what it must be like to be famous, she thought, and felt her face cloud.

Now what was she going to do about those kids, who wanted to make her move down to Florida? Teresa turned off the light and rolled over to go to sleep to the sounds of a war movie.

*   *   *

A
RTHUR
hadn't been a big drinker for years, and he now remembered why.

He was terrible at being hung over. His eyes looked like two red sunsets. He was lying face down, hanging on to the desk in his claustrophobic little office, as if he were in a hurricane and the desk were his only hope of anchor. He'd gone through two pots of Eva's coffee and a roll, and taken several aspirin.

Nothing was helping. The only reason he'd made it to the store at all was that Moe had insisted on driving.

And had berated him the entire way.

He was up to no good, and Moe could tell by the odd hours and the carrying on with this woman he knew didn't exist.

Arthur had looked over at his pudgy mouth flapping and flapping mercilessly and wondered what would happen if he simply leaned over and threw up in his lap.

“Look at you, Pop, your life is going to hell.”

“Aw, God, Moe, shut up. Turn on the radio, anything, but just close your mouth.”

“No. I will not. Whatever it is that you're up to is going to get us all in trouble.”

“I had a date—”

“Ha! At your age?”

“Why do you say things like that?”

“Because you know and I know there is no woman—”

“There is.”

“Okay, what did you do last night on this supposed date?”

“We had dinner at Gianni's.”

“Bull.”

“All right, you're right. I didn't have dinner at Gianni's with her.”

“There, you see?”

Arthur looked over at his son.

“I'll tell you the truth. I sold her the wrong-size bullets to go with a gun I sold her the night before.”

“Pop—why would you sell her the wrong-size bullets?”

“Because I think she might be planning to kill herself and I don't know what to do.”

There was a silence as Moe chewed this over in his head.

“You see, Pop, you can never be honest with me! Jesus Christ! Well, you're on your own. And if something happens, I'm not going to come to your rescue. I got a wife and kids and—”

“A dog and a cat, I know.”

Arthur sank down on the car seat and listened to his son rattle on about the whole thing.

He was still lying face down on his desk thinking about all this when the door to his office was opened.

“I'm going out on a repair, I'll be back before lunch, you want anything?” Moe's voice was gruff.

“No.” And with that the louse slammed the door.

Arthur pulled himself up in the chair and rubbed his face. He couldn't just sit here anymore. Sitting here was making him dizzy and nervous. He had to move around out in the sun and the air.

He wondered how Dottie was doing with the gun. He checked his watch. It was ten-thirty. He could slip out now, go back up to his house, get on his disguise and be back down at Dottie's in an hour and a half.

*   *   *

T
EARS WERE
streaming down her face. It was impossible. She couldn't figure out how to get these big bullets into the tiny little holes. She threw the gun and watched it skate in circles along the linoleum floor.

She'd been had!

And now she had absolutely no money left, and no money coming in, and all she had to show for it was two new outfits and a gun that didn't work.

She was at the end of her rope.

That was the only thing she could think of. She'd been screwed. She couldn't even rob the bank with the gun, bullets or no bullets. She couldn't get the barrel to snap back into place. Every time she thought she'd succeeded, the stupid thing flopped out the side.

How could this happen? She'd gotten so close and now this. So what was the alternative? Taking the train up to the Bronx and throwing the thing in his face came to mind. No, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

She wiped her eyes wondering about what to do when she suddenly got an idea. She stood up and walked over to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the ragged manila envelope. She pulled out the square of folded magazine pages, of which there were maybe twelve, and she began scanning the page for what she was looking for.

Her eyes landed on a section titled, “How I Did It.” She picked up the pages, walked over to the couch, turned off the television set, sat down and began to read.

It was Friday.

It was noon.

She had three hours to learn how to rob a bank without a gun.

*   *   *

“I
F THE PROCEDURE
is not listed on our list of approved treatments for the condition, then we do not pay for it.”

“I don't give a damn! I got this lump they're gonna cut out if I can't get this other thing done! Now, youse people are my only medical insurance. They got a experimental procedure that might save me going in for surgery. And that means youse aren't paying all them hospital costs. Now don't it make sense—”

“I told you. We do not have approval for the procedure—”

“Youse listen to me! I don't give a damn what the hell list you got, this whole program sucks!”

“I'm getting the guard—” the woman screamed at Teresa.

“You go right ahead. I paid my taxes just like everybody else. I got no other form of insurance. You pay for medical procedures and I got one here I wanna use!” Teresa was now screaming at the woman, leaning into her face so she was almost nose-to-nose to the woman.

And that was when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and she turned and looked up at a guard.

“You get your goddamn hands off me!” she yelled and in a flash she'd been lifted off the floor and was being carried through the hallway, through the crowded waiting room and out to an elevator.

By the time the guard had taken Teresa down through the lobby she was crying. She was pushed through a revolving door and stood in front of the building.

She couldn't believe it. They'd thrown her out onto the street.

*   *   *

A
RTHUR
stood in the hallway outside Dottie's door. He'd been standing there for two hours. He could hear her moving around inside under the blare of the television set. He held on to the monogrammed case which contained his picks and again debated letting himself inside.

And then what?

He could grab her and take her up to Rye and try to talk some sense into her. And then Dottie would probably whack him one right across the chin and storm out swearing she wasn't going to commit suicide.

He didn't know what to do, so he was going to wait. The fact that she was still at home maybe was a good sign. And what could she do with a gun with the wrong-sized bullets?

*   *   *

D
OTTIE
stood in her bedroom looking at herself in the full-length mirror attached to the inside of the closet door. She had made her plan, and now it had taken her an hour to choose an outfit.

She had opted for the little Chanel knock-off and a pair of black pumps with very low heels, which she could walk fast in, even run in, if necessary. She had decided not to wear jewelry on the basis that it would just be stolen from her, so she had taken off her earrings, the pendant her mother had given her that she always wore, and lastly, her wedding ring.

After digging around in her closet she found the large black straw hat she had worn to Nathan's funeral. It had a wide brim and a heavy ribbon circling the center. She'd taken a black chiffon negligee she'd never worn out of her bottom dresser drawer and with a pair of scissors cut the skirt part off. She pushed the fabric into the ribbon on the hat, making a thick veil which covered her face to the shoulders.

Somehow she thought it would be easier if her face was hidden; they wouldn't be able to see how afraid she was.

She had taken great care to put on makeup, and doused herself with what was left of a tiny bottle of My Sin perfume. A scent would be memorable and identifiable, and if the holding cell at the Sixth Precinct was smelly, it would cover it up.

She stood at the mirror giving herself one last look.

Stiffly she walked out into the kitchen, pulled out a green laminated-fabric tote bag, and slung it over her shoulder. That she would use to put the money in.

She took one last look at her apartment and slowly opened the door. In the hallway she could hear the sound of someone running up the stairs.

She locked the door and began down the stairs. It was two-fifteen.

Arthur stood pressed against the wall on the landing above, desperately trying to control his breathing so it didn't seem so loud. He'd made it up the whole flight of stairs in three steps, thanking God he was still in good-enough shape. He listened to the sounds of her footsteps as they got fainter. He waited until he heard the front door open and close, and then he made a dash for it. He ran down the flights of stairs taking the steps two at a time. He couldn't lose her.

Dottie squinted into the bright sunlight as she walked down the street. The sun was going down earlier and earlier, and there was actually a bit of a chill in the air. In the sun it was still hot, and the sky and the air were crystal-clear; it was a beautiful fall day.

She found herself walking faster and faster across Washington Place, toward Sixth Avenue. When she got to Sixth the light turned red and the heavy Friday-afternoon traffic stopped moving altogether up the avenue. She looked up at the clock on the Jefferson Courthouse one last time. She'd always loved that clock and that building.

Nathan, Jr., had always told her it was a castle. “A big magic castle, Mommy,” he'd said.

But there were no magic castles or knights errant.

She was alone.

She felt her face begin to crack, and she stared straight ahead. The light turned green and Dottie walked stiffly and quickly across the avenue. Her heart was beginning to pound as she walked up past St. Anthony's Church and saw the Chemical Bank building.