Authors: Max Allan Collins
But the bank was growing, bursting at the seams, really, and the future was looking bright, what with the upcoming changeover from state to federal bank and all. Pretty soon that paint store next door would be torn down and some of that additional space would finally be had, and he was going to push for an office if it was the last thing he got that damn board to put through. Privacy, gentlemen, he said to himself, going over the speech he’d had in mind for a long time now, privacy is essential to the executive banker, easy accessibility to the bank’s chief officer is a liability, and not, gentlemen,
not
an asset. . . .
“Sir?”
“Uh, what is it, Anita?”
“There are three gentlemen to see you.” The dark-haired girl leaned across the desk and peered over the round plastic frames of her glasses. “Examiners, sir,” she whispered.
“Thank you, Anita,” he said. “Show them over.”
He glanced toward the steel railing a few feet away and watched as the girl took his message to the three men
standing there. They wore dark suits with vests and colorful ties and carried briefcases. The man talking with Anita was considerably older than the other two; he was a mustached man with nearly white hair and an angular face. Like his young assistants, (Rigley naturally assumed the older man was in charge, head examiner and two assistants being the pattern these examining teams followed) he had on sunglasses, though after a moment he removed his and put them in his breast pocket, while the younger two left theirs on; typical of young ones, Rigley thought, to strive for an executive cool with snobbery like that, almost pitiful from glorified accountants like these.
Yes, they were examiners, all right. Damn examiners, always showing up when least expected, and a special nuisance with the damn changeover coming up (but expansion was good, that was good).
But hell, a man never had any privacy.
Jon hoped nobody noticed his trembling. He tried to steady the hand that clutched the briefcase handle. He trailed behind Nolan as the secretary led them through the little steel door in the railing over to the president’s desk. Grossman didn’t seem to be nervous at all, had been real close-mouthed all day. Nolan wasn’t even sweating, not a bead showing; but Jon, Jon’s stomach was upside down.
“Mr. Rigley,” Nolan was saying.
Jon worked at getting an official look on his face.
“How do you do?” the bank president was saying, rising momentarily and sitting back down. The bank president was very handsome, a fraternity boy grown up.
“My name is Bill Leonard,” Nolan said. “Sam may have mentioned me to you.”
Jon swallowed. Sam was the name of one of the state examiners Shelly had met a month ago, the last time a legitimate examining team had come around the bank.
“Yes he has,” the president was saying (a bullshitter from word go, Jon noted). “I didn’t realize you federal boys
worked out of the same office as Sam and those other fellas. I assume you’re federal, since Sam told me he wouldn’t be coming around anymore, what with the changeover.”
“We don’t work out of the same office as Sam,” Nolan said, “but we keep in close touch. And as you know, with this switch from state to federal, Port City’s been a common point of interest of late.”
“Of course,” Rigley said. “Oh, I don’t believe I got the names of the other two gentlemen.”
“Benton,” Grossman said.
“Newman,” Jon said, hoping it didn’t come out a squeak.
“I think you’d better take a look at our credentials,” Nolan said.
Rigley grinned. His teeth were large and white and reminded Jon of toothpaste commercials. “That’s right, isn’t it,” he said, “you’re checking up on me as much as anything today, aren’t you. Let me see your papers, then.”
Nolan reached in his jacket pocket and flipped open the bogus credentials; Grossman and Jon did likewise. Rigley kept the grin going, barely glancing at the credentials, waving them off.
“One must be careful,” Nolan said. “In a bank a person can’t take things for granted.”
“Well, if you won’t be hard on me in your report,” Rigley said, “I think I can admit to taking you three for examiners on first look. If I can’t tell an examiner on sight by now I probably never’ll be able to.”
“True enough,” Nolan said.
“Where shall we begin, gentlemen?” Rigley rose again.
“Our main interest is to see how your employees are doing in the process of changing over to a federal bank, and, also, to proceed with an orderly and routine examination. We would, however, like to take advantage of this situation by getting all of the Port City Savings and Trust personnel together to brief them on the changes that will be taking place when you become First National Bank of Port City.”
Rigley lifted his palms and said, “Shall we start with the meeting then?”
“I think it would be best.”
“Fine. Our conference room’s in the back of the bank, next to the vault. We ought to be able to start in just a few minutes.”
“Good. That way the briefing will be out of the way and we can get to business at hand.”
“Yes,” Rigley agreed, “let’s get it out of the way.”
Nolan walked at Rigley’s side with Grossman close behind and Jon trailing after. His hand was still trembling around the briefcase handle, but not as badly.
Ronnie Schmidt was giving Jeanie Day a gentle reprimand for hoarding silver when Mr. Rigley came by with three men and said, “Our first visit from federal examiners, Ronnie. Bank meeting to begin in five minutes. Help me alert the ranks, will you?”
“Yes, Mr. Rigley, glad to.”
The president and the three examiners moved on toward the meeting room back by the vault, and Ronnie turned to Jeanie again and said, “Either turn in the silver coins or buy them, dear, you can’t keep ’em in your drawer forever.”
“Oh, Ronnie!”
“Come on now, and spread the word about the bank meeting. You heard Mr. Rigley.”
Ronnie walked over to Harold Hickman, silver-haired head teller, and said, “Bank meeting right away, Harry, tell your girls. I’ll, uh, go over and tell Simmons and the new girl myself.”
Hickman nodded, smiling smugly.
Senile smart-ass, Ronnie thought, heading for the window Elaine Simmons was sharing with the new blonde, Sandy Baird. He ran his eyes up and down the figures of both girls as he approached them. He whistled softly to himself: a lot of sweet ass, he thought, to squeeze into one little window. He’d been trying unsuccessfully for weeks and
weeks to get in that stuck-up Simmons piece, but no luck; maybe he’d do better with the blonde Simmons was breaking in. Wouldn’t mind breaking that one in himself, preferably behind the door of one of the rooms out at Port City Court.
“Hiya, girls.”
Sandy said, “Oh,
hello,
Mr. Schmidt.”
“Ronnie, dear, all the girls around here call me that.”
Simmons looked around over her shoulder. “Among other things.”
The bitch didn’t like him, he knew she didn’t, but she still had a sweet ass. “No matter how friendly I am,” Ronnie said, “you just got to give me a rough old time. How come?”
“Cause you got a pregnant wife at home,” Simmons said, “and I have no desire to be the pregnant girlfriend at work.”
“That’s what I like about you, Simmons,” Ronnie said, starting to feel a little irritated, sweet ass or no, “you got a sense of humor as big as your, uh, heart.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you get yourself and your pretty apprentice here together and toddle your cute rears over into the meeting room, and on the double.”
Simmons arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Federal bank examiners. Briefing on the changeover.”
“Oh.”
The room was long and narrow, most of it taken up by a huge conference table with twenty chairs on either side of it. At the far end of the table the bank president stood, arms folded. On the right side of the room, near the front, the janitor was leaning against the wall, catching some sleep, and across from him on the opposite wall, the bank’s ancient guard stood at parade rest. Nolan figured the old guy was a retired cop: on his navy shirt were press creases, suspenders, and weathered badge.
Nolan went to the head of the table, with the door at his back, Rigley down at the opposite end. Grossman moved to the right, Jon to the left. Casually they spread out, Nolan
staying where he was at the table, Grossman edging toward the side the janitor was sleeping on, Jon nearing the wall where the bank guard stood.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Nolan said, “the first thing we’re going to cover today is what to do in case of a bank robbery.” He opened his briefcase and as he did Grossman and Jon began to open theirs. “What you do in case of a robbery,” Nolan continued, “is nothing.”
He shut the briefcase and let them see his .38. On either side of him Grossman and Jon were doing the same.
“Freeze!” Grossman said.
Nolan stared out over forty-three open mouths (Shelly was turning in an excellent acting job) as Jon reached over and pulled the old guard’s service revolver out of his hip holster. Jon stuck the gun in his belt with a show of comic-book bravado that made Nolan smile inwardly.
Grossman said, “Everybody slide your hands onto the table. Nice and easy. Okay, lay those fat pinkies of yours on the table, now, that’s right, just like in Simon says, got it?”
Sighs and whispers and moans flooded over the room in one quick rush.
“Nobody make a sound,” Nolan said. “It’s okay you breathe, but nothing else.”
Silence.
“We got any heroes here today?” Nolan said. “No? If we got any potential Audie Murphy in the audience I want to know, so I can shoot him now and get it out of the way. No? Good.”
The bank president, Rigley, said, “Sir, as president of this bank . . .”
“You’ll set an example by shutting up,” Nolan said.
Rigley did.
“All we want,” Nolan said, “is your money. Or rather the bank’s money. Let us do our work and we’ll leave you alone. With one exception. We’re going to take some insurance out, to make sure you people act right. We’re taking one of you with us.”
Another rush of sighs, whispers, moans.
“Please,” Nolan said.
Silence.
“The hostage won’t be harmed,” he said, “unless we are bothered by police. If police or FBI give us any trouble, our first move’ll be to shoot the hostage.”
The whites of eighty-six eyes showed all the way round.
Nolan said, “Pick somebody out, Benton.”
Grossman looked at Shelly and said, “You.”
Shelly made a convincing face of horror. “No . . . no, you can’t . . .”
Grossman reached over and grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her to her feet. “Shut up.”
Shelly somehow managed to turn her face a stark white and got her lips going in a realistic spasmodic quiver.
“Get her out of here, Benton,” Nolan said, disgustedly.
Grossman dragged Shelly out of the room, she pulling away from him valiantly.
“My friend Newman is going to watch you people,” Nolan said, “while I go out and help Benton make a withdrawal.” Nolan snapped shut his briefcase. “Please don’t anybody give him any static. Newman here’s wanted on three counts of murder as it is now, and well, they can only hang you once.”
Nolan left the room to Jon and the forty-two bank employees, proud he’d gotten that last line out with a straight face. He felt almost lightheaded: after all the sweat over his three young partners, this job was going as smooth as any he’d ever been on.
Shelly and Grossman were stuffing cash from all the drawers into one of the laundry bags. He walked over to them and laid his briefcase open on one of the already emptied money trays. “Shelly,” he said, “be sure to put all the bait money in here. I want it kept separate.”
“Okay.”
“You showed Grossman where the alarm buttons are in the teller’s windows? Don’t want to go setting one off our-
selves after taking so much trouble getting everybody else away from them.”
“I showed him, Nolan,” she said, and she and Grossman moved on to the next cage.
Nolan took the other laundry bag and walked into the vault, spent four minutes filling the bag three-quarters of the way. He slung it over his shoulder and joined Shelly and Grossman, who had their laundry bag over half full.
“To coin a phrase,” Shelly said, “we hit the jackpot.”
Nolan nodded. “Grossman, go out and pull the car around front. Go ahead and open the back up for the bags. Hustle.”
Grossman turned and left.
Nolan leaned the two sacks of cash against a partition. “Where’s the bait money?”
Shelly pointed to his briefcase on a nearby counter. He went over and looked in at the twenty packets, two per window, five hundred each in tens and twenties. He snapped the case shut.
“Come on, hostage.”
She smiled as Nolan took her by the upper arm and hauled her into the meeting room.
“Okay,” Nolan said, “file out the door past Benton here and into the vault. Make it orderly.”
Rigley spoke up. “We’ll suffocate in there!”
“It’ll be crowded,” Nolan said, “but it’s got vents. You’ll be able to breathe.”
They moved carefully out of the room, around the corner, and into the vault. It was a tight squeeze, but there was just enough room for everybody to get in, sardine-style.
“We’ll release your fellow employee when we’re convinced we aren’t being pursued,” Nolan said.
A man in back, the one Rigley’d called Ronnie, yelled “Don’t you harm her!” and Nolan shut the vault door.
He pointed at the sacks. Jon laid the guard’s heavy revolver on a counter and picked up both sacks, carrying one under each arm, and headed for the door.
Nolan gripped Shelly at the elbow. “Remember not to smile,” he told her.
“I’ll try,” she said, smiling.
Nolan smoothed the lather over his dampened mustache and started shaving. He took extra care not to cut himself; his upper lip would look fresh-shaven enough without nicks further encouraging suspicion. A sense of detachment washed over him as he stared into the mirror at the razor eating his mustache away, and watched as one of two selves began taking the other’s place. The one with the mustache, whom he’d gotten rather used to, was making an exit, and the bare-faced bastard was putting in his first appearance in some time.