The Long Ride Read Free Page B

serious, but my buddy’s car is a mess. Listen, Mike, this is a friend of mine. Mr. Mason wanted to see about hiring as a new teller.” He said it all almost mechanically, just as he’d practiced, in the twangy drawl of Norman Austin, who now lay dead on a bed in the motel. He thought for a moment the guard might start laughing, then Harry Wells would gun him from behind and run off, leaving him in a pool of blood on the marble floor at the doorway.
    “Women drivers,” the guard said in disgust. “Sure—bring your friend in. He can wait here. Mr. Mason won’t be in until eight-thirty. Better hurry, Austin—you’re four minutes late right now.”
    Willy walked through the entrance alcove which was bordered on both sides by low leather-cushioned benches. Willy looked at the interior of the bank as though he were dreaming. He and Harry had been in here separately three times in the last two weeks; it should have been familiar. But it was as though he’d never seen it before.
    The loan department was forward on the right side behind a railing. Back of that were the deposit boxes and vault. The vault, Norman Austin had told them, was electronically opened at 8:05, just forty-five seconds from now. On the left were the rows of teller cages.
    Head down a little, wondering who was going to be the first to recognize that he was not Norman Austin, he moved slowly past the central desks with their ballpoint pens and fresh stacks of white forms ready for the public that would come in at ten o’clock.
    He looked up briefly at the clock built into the stone of the rear wall. Thirty seconds left. He stopped and got out a handkerchief, suddenly aware of the weight of the gun strapped inside his overly large suit jacket. He blew his nose, then returned his handkerchief to a hip pocket. He looked at the clock again. It was exactly 8:05. A slim man in a gray suit walked to the vault. Willy moved again. He reached the back right corner of the room, just as the man in the gray suit swung open the vault door and turned around. Willy stopped again. It was thirty seconds past 8:05. He put his right hand inside his jacket and around the gun. At the same instant he heard the hard, penetrating voice of Harry Wells echoing through the large room:
    “Everybody stand right where you are. This is a holdup. It’ll take only a few seconds. Don’t touch an alarm. If it sounds we’ll start shooting. We’ll kill as many as we can. All of you at the teller cages step back two steps. Now!”
    The alarms were at the teller cages, Norman Austin had told them. They were also at some other points Norman Austin didn’t know about. But that was a chance they had to take. The people at the cages moved back as instructed. Willy stood with his gun in hand now, looking at them with a peculiar detachment. Faces had gone white. Some looked angry. Some looked frightened. Some looked bewildered. Nobody moved.
    Willy yanked the handkerchief inside his shirt up around his face and looked back down the distance of the room, feeling alone and vulnerable and self-conscious, as though he’d suddenly found himself in the center of a stage watched by an awed audience. Shades had been pulled over the front glass doors. The guard was backed against a wall, hands above his head and away from the holster at his hip. Harry Wells stood with his feet spread apart, his gun held close to his side, face now masked like Willy’s. He nodded to Willy. Willy walked through a swinging gate built into the low railing in front of the vault.
    He moved quickly, but he did not run. He saw a half dozen employees staring at him as he passed. Then he was moving into the vault. He looked to his right, and there, on a wooden chair, rested the black satchel, just as Norman Austin had told them.
    Willy picked it up and walked out of the vault, into the main room. He was certain nobody had moved. He went straight down the center of the marble-floored rotunda, his footsteps echoing in the