Shadow watched, impressed. Unable to hear the conversations across the street, he felt it was like watching a fine silent movie performance, all pantomime and expression: the old security guard was gruff, earnest—a little bumbling perhaps, but enormously well-meaning. Everyone who gave him their money walked away a little happier from having met him.
And then the cops drew up outside the bank, and Shadow’s heart sank. Wednesday tipped his cap to them, and ambled over to the police car. He said his hellos and shook hands through the open window, and nodded, then hunted through his pockets until he found a business card and a letter, and passed them through the window of the car. Then he sipped his coffee.
The telephone rang. Shadow picked up the handpiece and did his best to sound bored. “A1 Security Services,” he said.
“Can I speak to A. Haddock?” asked the cop across the street.
“This is Andy Haddock speaking,” said Shadow.
“Yeah, Mister Haddock, this is the police,” said the cop in the car across the street. “You’ve got a man at the First Illinois Bank on the corner of Market and Second.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s right. Jimmy O’Gorman. And what seems to be the problem, officer? Jim behaving himself? He’s not been drinking?”
“No problem, sir. Your man is just fine, sir. Just wanted to make certain everything was in order.”
“You tell Jim that if he’s caught drinking again, officer, he’s fired. You got that? Out of a job. Out on his ass. We have zero tolerance at A1 Security.”
“I really don’t think it’s my place to tell him that, sir. He’s doing a fine job. We’re just concerned because something like this really ought to be done by two personnel. It’s risky, having one unarmed guard dealing with such large amounts of money.”
“Tell me about it. Or more to the point, you tell those cheapskates down at the First Illinois about it. These are my men I’m putting on the line, officer. Good men. Men like you.” Shadow found himself warming to this identity. He could feel himself becoming Andy Haddock, chewed cheap cigar in his ashtray, a stack of paperwork to get to this Saturday afternoon, a home in Schaumburg and a mistress in a little apartment on Lake Shore Drive. “Y’know, you sound like a bright young man, officer, uh . . .”
“Myerson.”
“Officer Myerson. You need a little weekend work, or you wind up leaving the force, any reason, you give us a call. We always need good men. You got my card?”
“Yes sir.”
“You hang onto it,” said Andy Haddock. “You call me.”
The police car drove off, and Wednesday shuffled back through the snow to deal with the small line of people who were waiting to give him their money.
“She okay?” asked the manager, putting his head around the door. “Your girlfriend?”
“It was the battery,” said Shadow. “Now I just got to wait.”
“Women,” said the manager. “I hope yours is worth waiting for.”
Winter darkness descended, the afternoon slowly graying into night. Lights went on. More people gave Wednesday their money. Suddenly, as if at some signal Shadow could not see, Wednesday walked over to the wall, removed the out-of-order signs, and trudged across the slushy road, heading for the parking lot. Shadow waited a minute, then followed him.
Wednesday was sitting in the back of the car. He had opened the metal case, and was methodically laying everything he had been given out on the backseat in neat piles.
“Drive,” he said. “We’re heading for the First Illinois Bank over on State Street.”
“Repeat performance?” asked Shadow. “Isn’t that kind of pushing your luck?”
“Not at all,” said Wednesday. “We’re going to do a little banking.”
While Shadow drove, Wednesday sat in the backseat and removed the bills from the deposit bags in handfuls, le
aving the checks and the credit card slips, and taking the cash from some, although not all, of the envelopes. He dropped the cash back into the metal case. Shadow pulled up outside the bank, stopping the car about fifty yards down the road, well out of camera range. Wednesday got out of the car and pushed the envelopes through the night deposit slot. Then he opened the night safe, and dropped in the gray bags. He closed it again.
He climbed into the passenger seat. “You’re heading for I-90,” said Wednesday. “Follow the signs west for Madison.”
Shadow began to drive.
Wednesday looked back at the bank they were leaving. “There, my boy,” he said, cheerfully, “that will confuse everything. Now, to get the really big money, you need to do that at about four-thirty on a Sunday morning, when the clubs and the bars drop off their Saturday night’s takings. Hit the right bank, the right guy making the drop-off—they tend to pick them big and honest, and sometimes have a couple of bouncers accompany them, but they aren’t necessarily smart—and you can walk away with a quarter of a million dollars for an evening’s work.”
“If it’s that easy,” said Shadow, “how come everybody doesn’t do it?”