This Side of Jordan (8 page)

Blushing, Alvin looked at the girl behind Chester. Her brown eyes were wide and glossy, and Chester gave him a look that told him to let her past, so Alvin nodded. “All right.”

He stepped aside to allow her through to the teller's window. She offered a pleasant smile. “Much obliged.” A keen scent of Violet perfume trailed behind her.

“Sure.”

“That's a swell valise you got there, “Chester remarked, clapping him on the shoulder.

Alvin mumbled, “It's my daddy's.”

“Well, it's a knockout.”

“Thanks.”

Chester smiled and stepped forward to stand with the slender girl. Alvin had to admit he was slick. Chester hadn't shown the slightest recognition when they'd greeted each other. Presumably, he'd done this so often that fooling people had become natural to him.

Nervous as hell now, Alvin watched a pack of young loafers outdoors, lagging along the sidewalk by the barbershop. A paneled cargo truck drove past in a cloud of exhaust smoke. His bellyache worsened. Alvin stood three customers from the window now and the doctor's bag felt heavy in his hand. He tried to concentrate on fishing to calm his gut. Instead, he recalled an old saw Grandpa Louis used to quote whenever the subject of life and labor arose:
“Get the money—honestly if you can.”

When the girl arrived at the head of the line, Chester stepped off to one side to let her do her business. He winked at Alvin. A pair of fellows in striped brown suits came into the bank and went straight for the executive offices at the rear where one of the fine walnut desks had a tall brass spittoon beside it. The prim bank officer wore pince-nez and a fresh blood carnation on his lapel. Alvin wished he could get a glass of water. His knees felt weak. The pretty girl finished her business at the teller's window and stepped aside. She smiled at Chester. He tipped his fedora as she walked past him out of the bank.

Dropping his voice, Chester murmured to Alvin, “Use your noodle, kid.”

Then he, too, walked off, farther down the counter to the merchants' window where a notice from the Advertising Association was hung on the back wall.

“May I help you, sir?”

The farm boy stepped up to the teller and set down the black doctor's bag, scared half out of his wits now. The teller was a fellow maybe Chester's age with oil-slicked hair and a gray wool suit that was probably from Montgomery Ward & Co. He looked drowsy. Alvin handed him the note.

A cool draft swept into the bank from the corridor leading to the rear entrance. Somebody had just walked in through the door leading out to the alley. Voices from the stairwell went silent. The back door swung closed with a bang.

The teller looked confused. “What is this?”

Alvin narrowed his eyes, trying to stave off panic. He kept his voice low. “Can't you read?”

“You have a bomb?”

Alvin picked up the doctor's bag. “Right in this here satchel. Just like it says in the letter.”

The teller's face flushed. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“I ain't laughing, am I?” Alvin replied, utterly numb below his neck.

He heard murmuring behind him from a man and a woman waiting in line.

“This is against the law,” the teller offered, trying to sound calm while his chin trembled.

“What of it?” Alvin replied, annoyed now. Somehow, fear and fever emboldened him. He raised his voice. “I ain't feeling too good and I might be contagious, so give me the money, you dumbbell, or I'll blow us all up.”

“Oh, my Lord!” the woman behind him cried. “He's got a bomb!”

“A bomb!” somebody else shouted. “That boy there's got a bomb!”

When Alvin turned to address the commotion, his teller disappeared beneath the counter. Two men ran out of the bank. Another woman by the bank guard fainted. Old Elmer Gleason still hadn't awakened. The bank officers were staring at Alvin. Unsure of what to do, he opened the doctor's bag and stuck his hand inside. “I ain't joking you. I'll blow us all up. I swear it!”

“Somebody please do something!” another woman cried. “He'll kill us all!”

“Not unless I tell him to!” a voice called out from the rear of the bank. The dwarf emerged from the back door hall dressed in a gray single-breasted boy's corduroy knickerbocker suit that looked spick and span after his grimy under-the-house attire. Even his cornsilk hair was combed and his shoes polished. “Mr. Sinclair! May I see you a moment?”

Another fellow in the teller's line behind Alvin snuck out of the bank and ran off. The bank officers who had been hiding in the stairwell came down into the lobby behind the dwarf who marched over to the cages and got up on his tiptoes to counter level. “How's my money doing?”

The prim fellow in pince-nez left his desk. Keeping an eye on Alvin, he asked, “What's this all about? Do you know that young man over there?”

“Of course,” the dwarf replied, steely-eyed. “He's an anarchist I hired to bring that bomb here this afternoon.”

Alvin felt everyone staring at him. His bellyache had gone, but his knees still rattled. The handle of the bag was damp from his sweaty palms. He considered running away.

“I don't understand,” Mr. Sinclair said to the dwarf. “Where's your Aunt Esther?”

“She's in Dayton on business. I'm in charge of things while she's away. Is my money still here?”

The bank officers looked at each other, surprised by the question. “Of course it is,” replied Harrison B. Sinclair. “Why, your aunt is one of our most valued customers.”

Alvin saw Chester mumbling to the teller at the merchants' window. The teller nodded and began opening the stack of drawers just beneath the counter.

“Sure she is,” replied the dwarf, “but it's not her money. It's mine. May I see it?” The dwarf pulled himself up onto the edge of the counter. “I've decided to take some of it with me today.”

The merchants' teller in front of Chester had a large sack open and was shoveling money into it. Alvin glanced at the street outside. Sidewalks were mostly empty, no motor traffic.

The bank officer told the dwarf, “That's not possible without your aunt's approval.”

“Why not?”

“Well, she's your legal guardian. Her power-of-attorney in this case extends to withdrawal of funds from the trust your late parents, God rest their souls, set up on your behalf.”

Rascal looked briefly in Alvin's direction and frowned. Was he really surprised to hear this, Alvin wondered. “That doesn't seem fair,” the dwarf said. “Is it legal?”

“Perfectly.”

Both bank officers smiled.

“So, even though it's my money, I can't have any of it.”

“Not without your aunt's signature,” said Mr. Sinclair. “I can show you the figures, if you like.”

“Figures don't lie,” the dwarf remarked, “but liars can figure. I'd prefer to see my money.”

“Look, son,” Sinclair said, confidently, “I'm not sure why you came down here today. It's always been my understanding that you were perfectly aware of this financial arrangement, and that it was quite acceptable to you. Now you're asking us to remove a considerable sum of money from our vault just so you can see that it's there. If you'll pardon my being blunt, but that seems a little childish, don't you agree?”

The dwarf slipped down off the counter and shook his head, looking hangdog. “I thought we were pals, Mr. Sinclair. At least, you said we were. Remember when you told me that? It was on my twenty-first birthday, and you and Auntie were up in her bedroom and I was hiding in the closet, spying on you two? Remember? And afterward, you said if there was anything I ever needed, I could come right down here and ask, and you'd do whatever I wanted, no matter what. You said that! Remember? Anything!”

Harrison B. Sinclair's face became a deep crimson, both angered and embarrassed. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

The dwarf turned to Alvin. “Tommy, please bring me the satchel.”

The farm boy carried the doctor's bag over to the dwarf. He could barely walk and wondered when this would all be over. He noticed the bank guard was just waking up. Keep to his left, Alvin reminded himself.

“Thanks,” Rascal said, a grave expression on his moony face. “You can run along now.”

Chester snatched a sack from the teller and whispered something else to him. As discreetly as possible, Alvin walked back across the bank lobby. Chester left the merchants' window and headed for the door. Mr. Sinclair asked the dwarf, “What are you intending to do?”

“Well,” Rascal replied, reaching into the doctor's bag, “I ask myself just that question everyday.” He drew out a handful of rocket-sticks, tied together and painted up to resemble dynamite.

“Good grief!” one of the bank officers shouted. “He's really going to blow us up! For Christsakes, Harry! Do something!”

The dwarf took out a match and lit the fuse attached to the stack of rocket-sticks. “If I can't have my inheritance, then nobody can!”

Alvin slipped out the front door of the First Commerce Bank. Inside, a woman screamed and a huge BANG! echoed throughout the building.

His heart thumping wildly, Alvin hurried down the sidewalk to the corner and around back to the alleyway behind the jewelry store where Chester's Packard was parked beside a board fence swarmed with hollyhocks and sunflowers. He threw his hat into a rubbage barrel, and climbed into the automobile. There, he watched Chester rush up the alley, carrying the sack of money. “Here, kid, stick this in the backseat.”

Alvin grabbed the sack and tossed it into the car. Chester asked, “How'd you come across that bomb idea?”

“Me and that little fellow. We thought it up together.”

“Where'd you bump into a nut like that?” Chester asked, as he went around to the trunk. “He's bugs.”

“I don't know,” Alvin lied, feeling confused now and dizzy from his sudden adventure.

Chester removed his hat and brown coat and threw both into the trunk, then grabbed a new blue coat and hat from his valise. “Well, you put it over just swell. They lapped it up.”

Thrilled by the adventure of it all, Alvin felt brave enough to smile. “We gave 'em the works, didn't we?”

“You sure did.” Chester put on the blue coat and hat, then handed Alvin the keys to the Packard. “I'll meet you on the sidewalk next to Lowe's furniture store. Don't be late.”

“I won't.”

Once Chester had gone off down the alley again, Alvin reached back into the Packard and shoved the sack of money under a pile of clothes in the rear seat, then got in and started the motor. Before he could put it in gear, the dwarf came out the rear of Orrey's jewelry store with an old leather suitcase in hand.

“Wait!” he yelled, struggling to reach the car. “Don't go yet!”

“What do you want?”

“Take me along!”

Alvin let his foot slip off the gas pedal and the dwarf dropped the suitcase into the dirt beside the Packard.

“Everything I said went,” the dwarf told Alvin, opening the passenger door. “Now they want to kill me. You have to take me with you.”

“It ain't my motor.”

“Please? I won't be any trouble at all. You have my word.”

What was he supposed to say? Without the dwarf, he might be in jail now. Alvin shrugged. Chester could decide what to do with him once they got out of town. “All right, get in.”

The farm boy put on his old cap and drove out of the alley and turned left on Fourth Street past the Postal Telegraph office. It was a short run to Main Street at the end of the block. Rolling toward the town square, Alvin's stomach flip-flopped. The sidewalks on both sides of the street adjacent to First Commerce Bank were crowded with people milling about and gesturing in every direction. Alvin slumped low in the seat and drove by without slowing. Both bank officers were outside talking to a local policeman who had just arrived. Elmer Gleason was also out on the sidewalk, lying with his back against a lamppost and receiving treatment from a nurse. His revolver had been drawn and lay next to his leg on the pavement.

A muffled voice from the rear seat mumbled, “Where are we?”

“Hush up,” said Alvin, driving now down to the end of the town square.

A strong breeze rippled the flags on the storefronts. Slowing further, Alvin drove by Chase Esquire's Insurance, the Palace movie house, and Johnson Murray's Hardware. As he passed Lowe's furniture, he saw Chester stroll out of M. K. McDonald's wallpaper emporium. Alvin stopped the Packard at the curb just long enough for Chester to come around and jump into the passenger seat. A young woman wearing a rosy porch dress and a straw-bonnet tied with a pink bow under her chin leaned out the store's front door and shouted, “Eight o'clock sharp now!”

Chester waved with a grin. “You said it, sweetheart!”

Alvin checked the mirror. Nobody was coming yet, but he held the Packard in gear just in case.

“Don't be late!” She fluttered her eyelids.

“Oh, I won't!” Chester said, waving to her again, the smile frozen on his face. Then he turned to Alvin and growled. “Step on it.”

The woman blew Chester a kiss, “Bye-bye, Charley!”

Alvin accelerated up the street toward the town limits. The road was clear in both directions. No flags or stores. Just a broken-down harness maker and a closed berry crate factory. Hazel bushes and zigzag rail fences and nanny goats in a small old cornfield. Passing a farm tractor parked on the outskirts of town, he asked Chester, “Who was that lady?”

“Just a dame.”

“She invite you to supper?”

“You bet she did. I honeyed her up for almost an hour.”

“What for?”

Chester laughed out loud. “What for? The old haha, kid. If I got pinched back there, she'd have sworn on a stack of Holy Bibles I was sitting in her lap the whole afternoon.”