Part 3 (1/2)
”You boys are lying,” Molly said. She got up from the rocker and left the room. She came back with a towel, chipped ice, bandages and a roll of medical adhesive tape. She told Bud Schwartz to patch up his partner before the blood got all over everything. Bud Schwartz knelt on the floor next to Danny Pogue and tried to calm him. Molly sat down and started rocking.
”The towel is for his mouth,” she said, ”so I don't have to listen to all that yammering.”
And it was true, Danny Pogue's wailing was unbearable, even allowing for the pain. It reminded Bud Schwartz of the way his first wife had sounded during the thras.h.i.+ngs of childbirth.
Molly said, ”It's been all over the news, so at least I know that you went ahead and did it. I suppose I'm obliged to pay up.”
Bud Schwartz was greatly relieved; she wouldn't pay somebody she was about to kill. The thought of being murdered by a seventy-year-old woman in pink curlers was harrowing on many levels.
”Tell me if I'm wrong,” Molly said. ”Curiosity got the best of you, right? You opened the box, the animals escaped.”
”That's about the size of it,” said Bud Schwartz, wrapping a bandage around Danny Pogue's foot. He had removed the sneaker and the sock, and examined the wounds. Miraculously (or maybe by design) both bullets had missed the bones, so Danny Pogue was able to wiggle all his toes. When he stopped whimpering, Bud Schwartz removed the towel from his mouth.
”So you think they're still alive,” Molly said.
”Why not? Who'd be mean enough to hurt 'em?”
”This is important,” said Molly. The pistol lay loose on her lap, looking as harmless as a macrame.
Danny Pogue said, ”We didn't kill them things, I swear to G.o.d. They just scooted out of the d.a.m.n truck.”
”They're awful fast,” added Bud Schwartz.
”Oh, please,” said Molly McNamara, shaking her head. Even Danny Pogue picked up on the sarcasm.
”We didn't know there was only two,” he said. ”We thought there must be a whole bunch in a box that size. That's how come we wasn't so worried when they got awaya”see, we thought there was more.”
Molly started rocking a little faster. The rocking chair didn't squeak a bit on the varnished pine. She said, ”I'm very disappointed in the both of you.”
Bud Schwartz helped his partner limp to an ottoman.
All he wanted was to get the money and get the h.e.l.l out of this spooky old house, away from this crazy witch.
”Here's the really bad news,” said Molly McNamara. ”It's your trucka”only about a thousand people saw you drive away. Now, I don't know if they got the license tag, but they sure as h.e.l.l got a good description. It's all over the TV.”
”s.h.i.+t,” said Bud Schwartz.
”So you're going to have to keep a low profile for a while.”
Still breathing heavily, Danny Pogue said, ”What's that mean?”
Molly stopped rocking and sat forward. ”For starters, say goodbye to the pickup truck. Also, you can forget about going home. If the police got your tag, they'll be waiting.”
”I'll take my chances,” said Bud Schwartz.
”No, you won't,” said Molly. ”I'll give you a thousand dollars each. You'll get the rest in two weeks, if things die down. Meanwhile, I've arranged a place for you boys to stay.”
”Here?” asked Danny Pogue in a fretful, pain-racked voice.
”No, not here,” Molly said. ”Not on your life.”
She stood up from the rocker. The pistol disappeared again into a fuzzy pocket of the blue robe. ”Your foot's going to be fine,” she announced to Danny Pogue. ”I hope I made my point.”
The bafflement on the two men's faces suggested otherwise.
Molly McNamara said, ”I chose you for a reason.”
”Come on,” said Bud Schwartz, ”we're just burglars.”
”And don't you ever forget it,” Molly said.
Danny Pogue couldn't believe she was talking to them this way. He couldn't believe he was being terrorized by an old lady in a rocking chair.
”There's something else you should know,” said Molly McNamara. ”There are others.”
Momentarily Bud Schwartz's mind had stuck on that thousand dollars she'd mentioned. He had been thinking: Screw the other nine, just grab the grand and get lost. Now she was saying something about othersa”what others?
”Anything happens to me,” Molly said, ”there's others that know who you are. Where you live. Where you hang out. Everything.”
”I don't get it,” muttered Danny Pogue.
”Burglars get shot sometimes,” Molly McNamara said. ”n.o.body says boo about it, either. n.o.body gets arrested or investigated or anything else. In this country, you kill a burglar and the Kiwanis gives you a plaque. That's the point I was trying to make.”
Danny Pogue turned to Bud Schwartz, who was staring down at his partner's swollen foot and wondering if it was too late to make a run for it. Finally he said, ”Lady, we're very sorry about your animals.”
”They're not my animals,” said Molly, ”any more than you are.”
THREE.
At half past ten Joe Winder went down to The Catacombs, the underground network of service roads that ran beneath the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. It was along these winding cart paths, discreetly out of view from visitors, that the food, merchandise, money and garbage were moved throughout the sprawling amus.e.m.e.nt park. It was also along these secret subterranean pa.s.sageways that the kiddie characters traveled, popping up suddenly at strategic locations throughout the Amazing Kingdom and imploring tourists to snap their picture. No customers (”guests” was the designated term) ever were allowed to venture into The Catacombs, lest they catch a glimpse of something that might tarnish their image of the Amazing Kingdoma”a dog rooting through a dumpster, for example. Or one of Uncle Ely's Elves smoking a joint.
Which is what Joe Winder saw when he got to the bottom of the stairs.
”I'm looking for Robbie Racc.o.o.n,” he said to the elf, who wasn't particularly jolly or gnome like.
The elf belched blue smoke and asked which Robbie Racc.o.o.n he was looking for, since there were three.
”The one who was on duty this afternoon,” Winder said. ”The one who fought with the rat robbers.”
The big elf pointed with the smoldering end of the joint. ”Okay, there's a locker room on the west side. Just follow the orange signs.” He took another drag. I'd offer you a hit, but I got this nasty chest virus. Hate to pa.s.s it along.”
”Sure,” said Joe Winder. ”No problem.”
The lockers were at the end of a damp concrete tunnel that smelled of stale laundry and ammonia. Robbie Racc.o.o.n was straddling the bench, trying to unzip his head. Winder introduced himself, and explained that he was from the Publicity Department.
”I'm writing a press release about what happened earlier today,” he said. ”A few quick questions is all.”