everyone.
He checked his Bulova. Four on the nose .
Harvey moved across the wide marble lobbypolished shoes clicking under himand looked out the front-door window to see Verne Miller behind the wheel of a stolen flat-black Buick. Miller met his eyes and tipped his hat.
The street was clean. Two minutes to go.
Done? Harvey yelled, heading back behind the cages and scooping up great wads of cash and coin, filling a bag.
Almost, Clark called from inside the vault.
Underhill stood at the vault door, sweeping his 12-gauge across a dozen or so bank employees and anonymous suckers, face to floor with hands on their necks. He wore a great smile on his unshaven mug, a matchstick in the corner of his mouth, and Harvey knew the bastard was just itching to pull the trigger and let the buckshot fly.
Head down, Underhill said, jabbing the end of his gun into the bank presidents fat ass. Or I blow you a new hole.
Easy, boy.
He moves again and Ill kill him.
I know.
You dont believe me? Ill do it. I swear to Christ.
No need to do that.
Look at his fat apple cheeks. Just like a hog. If I had an apple
Easy.
The bank president hadnt time to slip back into his coat, and his wide, fatty back was soaked in sweat. You could see the rolls rippling under linen, and his thinning hair had grown hot and matted against his head. Harvey could hear him breathing clear across the room.
He studied Underhill, knowing the goddamn buffoon had gone screwy again, just like when they broke out of Lansing and he wanted to slaughter Warden Prather just because authority made him itch. A loud clock ticked off the minutes, big black fans creaking overhead trying to sweep away the hundred-degree heat.
There was silence.
And then there was everything. Car engines and men yelling and boots clattering up the great steps to the bank door, rattling the lock.
Who hit the alarm? Underhill asked. Goddamn you, Fat Man. Harvey held up a hand to calm him and walked around to the cages, running a hand under the ledge and finding the small switch. He shrugged and took a breath.
Ladies?
Miss Loving and the other teller crooked their heads from the floor.
Lucky girls, he said. Lucky, lucky little girls.
The woman craned her neck at him. Harvey winked.
You can be our hostesses.
Harvey tossed the bag of cash at Underhill and offered a hand to each teller, hoisting them to their feet. The other gals name was Thelma, a blonde with a fine set of cantaloupe bosoms straining the material of her flowered dress. She hadnt stopped smiling at Harvey since he pointed the gun in her face.
He placed the .38 in the waistband of his blue linen suit and put a palm to each of the womens backs, ushering them to the door. Both of em took a deep breath, and the expanse and ripple of it felt like an electric current.
Underhill went first.
With a touch of a trigger, the blam sent the boys in blue behind their cars. Verne Miller God bless that son of a bitch held the Thompson over the Buick doorframe and trained it on the three police cars parked haphazardly on the street.
Underhill nodded. Harvey walked down the steps flanked by the two women, just kind of strolling with a Hollywood air.
Clark loaded the cash in the trunk. Underhill covered Miller, who cranked the engine, and Harvey gently escorted the ladies to the running boards, where he told them they better hold on real tight. As he ducked into the car, he heard a gunshot sounding, felt a white-hot stabbing pain in his heel, and he tumbled on inside and told Verne to get going fast.
Underhill squeezed the second trigger, and the women shrieked as the Buick sped away from the downtown. Harvey Bailey, leg hurting so bad it felt damn good, loved it, laughing and turning back only for a moment to see the cops
He checked his Bulova. Four on the nose .
Harvey moved across the wide marble lobbypolished shoes clicking under himand looked out the front-door window to see Verne Miller behind the wheel of a stolen flat-black Buick. Miller met his eyes and tipped his hat.
The street was clean. Two minutes to go.
Done? Harvey yelled, heading back behind the cages and scooping up great wads of cash and coin, filling a bag.
Almost, Clark called from inside the vault.
Underhill stood at the vault door, sweeping his 12-gauge across a dozen or so bank employees and anonymous suckers, face to floor with hands on their necks. He wore a great smile on his unshaven mug, a matchstick in the corner of his mouth, and Harvey knew the bastard was just itching to pull the trigger and let the buckshot fly.
Head down, Underhill said, jabbing the end of his gun into the bank presidents fat ass. Or I blow you a new hole.
Easy, boy.
He moves again and Ill kill him.
I know.
You dont believe me? Ill do it. I swear to Christ.
No need to do that.
Look at his fat apple cheeks. Just like a hog. If I had an apple
Easy.
The bank president hadnt time to slip back into his coat, and his wide, fatty back was soaked in sweat. You could see the rolls rippling under linen, and his thinning hair had grown hot and matted against his head. Harvey could hear him breathing clear across the room.
He studied Underhill, knowing the goddamn buffoon had gone screwy again, just like when they broke out of Lansing and he wanted to slaughter Warden Prather just because authority made him itch. A loud clock ticked off the minutes, big black fans creaking overhead trying to sweep away the hundred-degree heat.
There was silence.
And then there was everything. Car engines and men yelling and boots clattering up the great steps to the bank door, rattling the lock.
Who hit the alarm? Underhill asked. Goddamn you, Fat Man. Harvey held up a hand to calm him and walked around to the cages, running a hand under the ledge and finding the small switch. He shrugged and took a breath.
Ladies?
Miss Loving and the other teller crooked their heads from the floor.
Lucky girls, he said. Lucky, lucky little girls.
The woman craned her neck at him. Harvey winked.
You can be our hostesses.
Harvey tossed the bag of cash at Underhill and offered a hand to each teller, hoisting them to their feet. The other gals name was Thelma, a blonde with a fine set of cantaloupe bosoms straining the material of her flowered dress. She hadnt stopped smiling at Harvey since he pointed the gun in her face.
He placed the .38 in the waistband of his blue linen suit and put a palm to each of the womens backs, ushering them to the door. Both of em took a deep breath, and the expanse and ripple of it felt like an electric current.
Underhill went first.
With a touch of a trigger, the blam sent the boys in blue behind their cars. Verne Miller God bless that son of a bitch held the Thompson over the Buick doorframe and trained it on the three police cars parked haphazardly on the street.
Underhill nodded. Harvey walked down the steps flanked by the two women, just kind of strolling with a Hollywood air.
Clark loaded the cash in the trunk. Underhill covered Miller, who cranked the engine, and Harvey gently escorted the ladies to the running boards, where he told them they better hold on real tight. As he ducked into the car, he heard a gunshot sounding, felt a white-hot stabbing pain in his heel, and he tumbled on inside and told Verne to get going fast.
Underhill squeezed the second trigger, and the women shrieked as the Buick sped away from the downtown. Harvey Bailey, leg hurting so bad it felt damn good, loved it, laughing and turning back only for a moment to see the cops
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