No Beast So Fierce (27 page)

“I trust Max's judgment about the guy,” Jerry said. “I'm just playing the devil's advocate.”

“If it was up to me …,” I began.

“It is as far as I'm concerned,” Aaron said; Jerry nodded.

“I'd trust him,” I finished. “It's a whole lot easier to steal a quarter or half million in diamonds than cash. Once they're out of their settings there's almost no way to trace them. Bank money—some of it—can always be traced. Say we jam that alarm. We can root around in there for fifteen or twenty minutes. Fix the alarm and we've got a cinch.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Aaron said, smiling crookedly. “It looks good, real good, if I can disengage the alarm, but if there were any quarter-million-dollar cinches in crime we'd be overrun with competitors. To me the gain seems worth the risk.”

“I'm with both of you assholes all the way to the gas chamber,” Jerry said, “if we gotta go that far. But I'm going to look around for another jug in case this doesn't get together.”

“It's agreed,” Aaron said; then to me: “I'll need somewhere to work on the equipment.”

“How's a garage?” I was thinking of Willy Darin's.

“If there's tools a garage will be fine. It'll take half an hour or so—mostly just adapting components.”

“I've got tools in my workroom,” Jerry said. “But you can't do it there. Carol. I'll give you what you need. When do you want it?”

“The quicker we get it done the quicker I'll be able to see if it works.”

“I'll get what you need from Jerry tomorrow,” I said. “I'll pick you up.”

“Good enough. I've got to buy an oscillator and get a portable telephone like repairmen use to cut into lines and dial.”

“We can find one somewhere,” I said. “We'll get on it early in the morning.”

“Have you got a plan worked out?” Jerry asked.

“Simplicity is the keynote if Aaron can do his thing.”

“I had some thoughts,” Aaron said. “There won't be many people to handle. One of us with the M16 can cover, the other one can sack it up. The problem is the getaway. I think one of us should stay outside. We can buy a walkie-talkie cheap, and attach a little transistorized receiver that'll fit in the ear. We can get a radio that picks up police frequency, too. The guy waiting to drive getaway can keep lookout. The store's blind once you're inside … can't know what's happening on the boulevard.”

What Aaron said was true. The plan was simple and direct. Yet having an automobile at the curb directly outside or in the parking lot was questionable. Either place would require turning east or south, or going a block and turning left across the flow of traffic. East would jam us up in heavy traffic along Wilshire's Miracle Mile—department stores, skyscrapers. South would take us two blocks through residential streets, which was good, but then we'd run into the heavy traffic on Olympic Boulevard. South was the direction the police would probably anticipate. Parking the getaway vehicle across the boulevard would make it more difficult to reach (but not on Saturday when traffic was thinner), but after we got to it a quick right turn would carry us north through wide, deeply shaded residential streets, miles of them. In minutes we could be in the hills, or switch cars. We could be going dozens of routes. Aaron was speaking again and I withheld my ideas, wanting to go over the territory more thoroughly.

“I can use overalls with Pacific Telephone on back,” Aaron said. “Put my tools on a belt and use a plain car or a panel truck … maybe the truck because we'll need to steal one of those wooden barricades with ‘Men at Work' on it. Wouldn't want some fool running his car halfway down a manhole while I'm gimmicking the thing.”

The conversation trailed off. We'd finished the dessert and the waiter, seeing us, came over and asked if there was anything else. Aaron ordered brandy and brought forth a long green cigar. “Just like white folks,” he said, causing the waiter to blush.

I ordered Scotch and water and took one of Aaron's cigars. Jerry glanced at his wristwatch and furrowed his brow. He was thinking of Carol. She was demanding more and more of his diligent solicitude. Terrified by the nearness of death, her moods were erratic—one moment melancholy or suicidal, more often petulant, quick with tears. Tomorrow she was going back to the hospital for a bone marrow biopsy. Although it was a routine, safe operation, she was terrified. Jerry had lied to her about where he was going this evening, and he'd promised to be home early.

Aaron voiced my own thoughts. “Get on, Jerry. We know what's happening.”

“How're you gonna get back to town?”

“Taxis run out here.”

“I'll drive him home,” I said. “I'll be over about 9:00 for those tools.”

Jerry got up, shook his head. “I'd go to hell with either one of you dudes. You know that.”

“Man, don't get maudlin,” Aaron said. When Jerry was gone, Aaron added: “Poor Jerry. He's giving all of himself to something he's got to lose.”

“So does everybody … sooner or later.”

“Freeze on that.”

“On what?”

“On all that heavy philosophy bullshit. I'm talking about here and now and everyday important things that people live by. If you extrapolate everything—nothing matters.”

We were silent. I recalled our talks in prison, missing them. In the turmoil of these days we'd had little chance for idle conversation.

The waiter brought the check and Aaron picked it up. We started out between the crowded tables, the hum of voices punctuated by the clink of silver and glassware or laughter. The night outside was warm and our shoes crunched on sand filtered up from the beach to the parking lot. The ocean was oily calm just beyond the line of surf. A path of moonlight was painted on the water and it looked as if one could walk across it to the white disc low on the horizon.

“You don't have to drive me,” Aaron said. “Drop me in Santa Monica and I'll catch a cab. My pad is twenty miles out of your way—and I know your old lady's waiting.”

“She's schooled to my ways. Whenever I get there is good enough. We haven't had a chance to talk since we walked the yard—not serious conversation.”

“We don't have any need for it. The only enjoyment we got there was vicarious, from books and conversation. Now we've got reality, so why talk about it? Or read about it, for that matter?”

“I read five books a week in the joint. Now I sometimes look through the Sunday paper. The first couple days I was out, I bought some secondhand paperbacks, juicy shit I'd really wanted to read. I've still got them, haven't finished one. I've got some weed in the car. Let's take a stroll down the beach and blow a couple joints—unless you've got someplace to be.”

“My woman's schooled, too.”

I took the joints from the glove compartment. A dirt path led down to the beach from the parking lot. The tide was out and there was a wide strip of damp sand firm enough to walk upon without sinking. A bonfire blazed half a mile away; against its flames were silhouetted figures. We each fired a joint and walked toward the beach party, a destination as good as any.

The marijuana came on quickly. It was less intense than when I first got out of prison because I was again accustomed to smoking it regularly. Still it was good, and increased perception.

“So where's it gonna end, good brother?” I asked, apropos of nothing.

“Damn, you're soul-searching tonight. That's not your style. What's to it?”

“Who knows? The question was rhetorical—but everybody asks it, to himself, out loud. We all die. That's the end. But say we make fifty thou apiece on this thing. What'll I do next? I can't rationalize to keep robbing when I don't need the bread. With fifty g's I'm a criminal success, except for being a fugitive from parole. A sensible idea would be like going back east and buying a bar, pay somebody off to keep from being extradited. That'd be easy. A parole violation ain't nothing. It'd be sensible, too. Somehow it doesn't grab me.”

“Blow the money on high living and justify another crime.”

“That's what I might do—but I can't plan it that way. That'd be deliberately thinking like a fool.”

“Have you thought about going away, taking Allison? Mexico? South America?”

“It goes through my mind, but then I see that I'm bullshitting myself. Allison's good for easing loneliness, and we get along together, in the sack and out of it—but she doesn't light my fire the way love is supposed to.”

“That's love among the very young. Nobody can do that for you anymore. It's more delusion than love. What you've got with that broad is what can last.”

“You're some kind of romantic.”

“Not hardly. You're the romantic, not accepting what's real because it doesn't meet the romantic ideal of love.”

“Anyway, we're talking crazy. It's about something that's purely academic—to both of us. Love is way down the list of my needs. A whole lot of things come first.”

“True. It's irrelevant to our position. It might even be a handicap. Look at Jerry. My first concern is how to avoid being caught and spending the rest of my life in a cell. I'm going to make a move out of the country right after this score. I should've done it after the bank, but I didn't have anything worked out.”

“Do you now?”

“I've got a fraudulent dental degree, a Mexican tourist visa, and I've been writing to a town in the Yucatan. I speak Spanish and that's where I'm going to build a new life. I couldn't get away with impersonating a dentist over here, but down there the folks are still riding burros and they care about getting rid of toothaches, not paperwork.”

“The Yucatan is jungle. It's primitive. Is that all you want from life?”

“What I want isn't the question. What I need is what counts. I found out in a prison cell—and that's primitive—that I need very little.”

“What about revenge? Don't you hate them—the system, society?”

“I burned with hate for a couple years—and then burned out. It might be sweet to get revenge, but it wouldn't be worth the risk. I still care about myself … not like you.”

“What's that mean?”

“Your philosophy is ‘fuck it'. You don't care. Look at yourself.”

“I do look at myself, all the time. I like risk, but I care.”

“Not enough, I think, not enough.”

We walked on in silence, listening to the whoosh and hiss of the surf's hypnotic rhythm. Shadows from the fire began licking out across the sand toward us. Figures assumed identity. Teenagers having a ball. Beer bottles glinted in the firelight. We stopped some distance away, watching the flames and moving people with mild fascination. Rock and roll music blared from a transistor radio.

A fifteen-foot embankment sloped up from the beach. Over its rim a pair of headlights grew bright, probed out over the crest, slicing the night to the surf. A narrower beam of spotlight lanced down, moved around the beach. A red light on top of the automobile began flashing madly. Bonfires on the beach and beer-drinking teenagers were still illegal. The law was about to be enforced. A pair of dark figures in white helmets skidded down the embankment. Many of the figures around the fire bolted into the darkness.

“Man, let's blow,” Aaron said, tugging my arm. The advice was unnecessary. We faded back. A walk on the beach had become dangerous.

*    *    *

When I telephoned Willy Darin before noon, he hesitated about letting us use his garage. Selma was giving him trouble, had learned that he was using heroin again. She hadn't gone to work and he was afraid that my presence would aggravate her. His fear collapsed when I assured him that we'd stay outside—and that he'd get a couple of twenty-dollar bills for the rent.

Willy heard the automobile turn into the driveway. He came out of the house just as we stopped. He wore greasy khakis and shower thongs; his burly torso, with hair sprouting thick from his shoulders, was pasty white. His face, forearms, and wrists were sundarked—the tan of the laborer. As always, he needed a shave. His sons, also shirtless and barefoot, came onto the porch and stopped to watch from a distance. They retreated behind large eyes, staring in wonder at Aaron. A Negro was obviously something new in their world. Without looking at the weed-infested yard, the flaking paint on the house, or Willy's junk automobile parked in front of us, I was profoundly struck by the slovenliness of poverty—and mine and Aaron's sleek tailoring in comparison. Willy's life was cruel and restricted and ridiculous. The moguls of society would proclaim that he would be wrong to rip something off them—meanwhile they had everything and he had nothing. That was ridiculous.

This interior dialogue went through my mind in the few seconds it took for Willy to reach the car. I expected him to note my clothes and purse his mouth in approval and envy. But he took no notice that my slacks were cashmere and my shirt was silk. Such things were immaterial to him. He dreamed about quick-money schemes, but any conception of money or what it bought (beyond subsistence and a fix) was unreal to him. His schemes always aborted against his psychological truncation; he was too lazy to work and too scared to steal.

He was solemn, worried.

“She's steaming,” he said, jerking his head toward the house.

“Selma? About us?”

“About every fuckin' thing. Come over here.” He glanced at Aaron standing on the other side of the car and led me a few paces away. “Man, I didn't know you were bringing him. I mean it was okay when I was here by myself, but with Selma … She's down on you in front—but she's death on spooks. It'll raise a shit storm if you bring him in the pad.”

“Fuck the pad. I told you we'd stay outside. Fuck her, too.”

“Man, don't run warm at me. It's her. I can't say I love 'em, but this dude's cool … and I treat everybody individually.”