was standing still. Then they got lost, I guess, because I got to the bank ten minutes before they did.”
Schwartz smiled.
“The first thing Young did, when he finally showed up, was to order one of his underlings to throw me out of the bank,” O’Hara went on.
“I noticed you had your knife out for him,” Schwartz said. “This is what is known as Time For Second Thoughts.”
“Fuck him,” Mickey said. “Let it run.”
“Your call.”
“Sy, that constable was really something,” O’Hara said, laughing at the memory. “He told me the reason he ran into his boss’s car was because he had just remembered he had left his gun home, and was wondering if he should go get it before going to the bank.”
“You really want to say his truck was ‘rendered hors de combat’?”
“Why not? I love that phrase. It calls up pictures of horny naked women in foxholes.”
Schwartz laughed.
“Who do you think did it?”
“That state cop was pretty clever. I had a chance to talk to him before Young showed up and threw me out of the bank. The state cop thinks it was probably some guy from the coal regions, out of work for a long time, maybe in deep to some loan shark. You know, really desperate. If he is an amateur, and gets smart and quits now, he’s probably home free. Despite what that pompous asshole from the FBI declared, they catch damned few bank robbers.”
“Maybe this one will be easy to find. Hairy legs. Too much lipstick.”
“I think that description—the ‘really ugly’ part, too—may not be all that reliable.”
“Tell me?” Schwartz asked, smiling.
“I had the feeling after talking to Dailey that he was more than a little disappointed that once the broad had him all tied up she didn’t do all sorts of wicked sexual things to him. Hell hath no fury, et cetera.”
“Jesus, Mickey!”
“There’s probably going to be surveillance-camera pictures of him—or, for all we really know, her—you can judge for yourself.”
“There’s pictures? When do we get them?”
“So far as Young is concerned, after I told him off, I’ll get them the day after hell freezes over,” O’Hara said. “But the state cop said he’d send me a copy when he gets his.”
“We can lean on the FBI, if you think we should.”
“I don’t think it would be worth the effort. They’re generally pretty lousy pictures, even if the camera was working, and I wouldn’t bet on that. I asked the state cop for a copy just to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Okay, Mickey. Nice little yarn. Would you be heart-broken if I ran it on the first page of the second section?”
“I’m surprised that you’re going to run it at all,” O’Hara said. “It’s not much of a story.”
“I like it,” Schwartz said, meaning it. “A little droll humor to brighten people’s dull days.”
Without taking her eyes from the inch-thick, bound-together-with-metal-fastener sheaf of papers lying open on her cluttered desk, Susan Reynolds reached for the ringing telephone and put it to her ear.
“Appeals, Reynolds,” she announced.
“Miss Susan Reynolds?” an operator’s voice asked.
“Right,” Susan said.
“Deposit fifty-five cents, please,” the operator ordered.
Susan could hear the melodic bonging of two quarters and a nickel.
She felt sure she knew who was calling. She seldom got long-distance calls made from a pay phone in the office.
Confirmation came immediately.
“Susie?” Jennie asked.
Jennie was Jennifer Ollwood.
“Hi,” Susan said.
“Could you call me back?” Jennie asked. “I’m in a phone booth and I don’t have any change.”
“Give me the number,” Susan said, reaching for a pencil, then adding, “It’ll be a minute or two. They don’t let me make personal toll calls.”
Jennie gave her the number. Susan repeated it back to her.
“I have to go down to the lobby,” Susan said. “There’s no pay phone on this floor.”
“Thank you,” Jennie said in her soft voice.
Susan hung up and then stood.
Susan Reynolds was listed on the manning chart of the Department of Social Services of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania as an “Appeals Officer, Grade III.” She was single, twenty-six years old, naturally blond, blue-eyed, with a fair complexion, and, at five feet five and 130 pounds, was five pounds heavier than she wanted to be.
She occupied a third-floor office in the Department of Social Services Building in Harrisburg. Through its one window, she had a view of the golden dome of the state-house. Her office was just barely large enough to hold her desk and chair, her bookcase, her three filing cabinets, and the three straight-backed chairs intended for use by visitors.