The Big Caper | Page 8

different generation and a different time, an era that no longer existed.
And now he was an old, old man and this would probably be his last
job. With what he already had saved and safely invested in government
securities, the fifteen thousand dollars would see him through until he
died.
When it was over he'd just get on the train and go back up North to the
little town where he owned the tiny bungalow, and he'd sit on his porch
in the sun and know that he was all through and that there was nothing
else left to do but wait for death. No worries, no fear of ending up in
the poorhouse.
He had a tremendous pride and he'd always had it. He wanted to be

dependent on no mail.
His needs were simple: a roof over his head, plenty of the kind of food
that he liked to cook for himself, a glass of schnapps now and then for
his stomach's sake. And the music.
He'd go down to New York when they had one of the Wagnerian
operas or a Beethoven concert. Those he loved. And in between times
he had his own Capehart and his fine collection of records. It was his
only indulgence, the only thing beyond the bare essentials of existence
on which he spent money and on which he squandered the diminishing
fund of his desires.
In the meantime, he sat here in this room that he had rented, his feet
thrust into a pair of worn bedroom slippers, his old tired body wrapped
in a faded dressing gown, and waited.
Flood had said Wednesday, and today was Wednesday. Today the other
one would come and give him the information he had to have. He knew
no curiosity about the " man who was going to meet him; he only
hoped that he would be intelligent and able to answer his questions. He
hoped that he would have competent floor plans of the building, a
layman's knowledge of the vault and its location, and, if possible, its
make. Anything else would be fine, but that was all he expected and
that was all he would really need. And of course the tools.
Those and the protection that Flood had guaranteed him for the few
minutes it would take him to do his work.
He understood the risks. He had been taking risks like this all his life.
Sometimes he had won out and sometimes he had lost. When he had
lost he had paid for it. Usually it was because of someone else's
carelessness. Once it had been just as a bad break. That was the time
the nitro had been poor and something had gone wrong and he'd had to
take a half hour longer than he'd counted on. The patrol car had
returned before it was expected and then everything had happened at
once.

Old Jonesy, who had worked with him on half a dozen jobs, had been
killed in the first blast of gunfire, and he himself had been hit in the leg.
He still limped from the wound. That was the job that had drawn him
the twenty-year stretch in the federal can; the stretch of which he had
done fifteen years before he'd finally got out.--He hoped this one would
be different.
One thing had impressed him: Flood himself would be present on this
deal. And Flood wasn't one to take any chances at all. Not where his
own freedom was concerned.
He lay back in the armchair and his withered hand reached for the pipe
on the table at his side. He lighted the dottle that had been left in the
bowl from the last time he had smoked it and then coughed an old
man's hacking cough.
He hawked and spat, aiming at a wastepaper basket in the corner of the
room. And just then he heard the knock on the door.

2.
Kosta didn't get up on Wednesday morning, and Kay and Frank had
breakfast together on the patio at seven o'clock.
Both were tired and both looked worried and nervous. As the time
approached, the tension was beginning to tell.
Tuesday afternoon, Frank had driven Kosta around the town. He'd
shown him the beach first, feeling that maybe Kosta would like to see it,
but then, when the dumpy little man had expressed no interest or
curiosity, they'd driven back to the main section of the village.
Frank had shown him the courthouse and the public park where the
shuffleboard courts were and the old couples from the tourist camps
and trailer courts playing in the sun. Later they had driven out past the
school, a large sprawling collection of buildings, five blocks to the west
of the business district.

Kosta had expressed keen