The Big Caper | Page 3

He spoke in a crisp, businesslike voice.
"Frank? Kay. Your uncle has just arrived."
It was a private line, but still she didn't take any unnecessary chances.
They hung up simultaneously, neither having said another word.

2.
Frank Gerald Harper placed the receiver on the hook and was turning away when a bell rang sharply. It was the bell actuated by the rubber hose, that ran from the front door of the small office to the curb, giving warning that a car had been driven up to the gas pumps.
It was a blue Cadillac convertible with the top down and there was a large, red-faced man behind the wheel. A girl who could have been his daughter, but looked like something else altogether, sat close at his side, and they were talking quietly to each other.
Frank passed behind the car, absently noticing the New York plates, and approached on the driver's side.
"Fill her up and check the oil." The man didn't bother to look at him and he gave the order in an indifferent, almost insolent voice.
Frank reached for the hose attached to the pump marked "Special," smiling wryly. Six months ago he would have taken exception to being spoken to in that careless, offhand manner. Now he cared only that something like four or five dollars would be rung up on the cash register.
What made it really funny was that he was getting a kick out of it--and it didn't mean a thing to him. Not one damned thing.
Almost without thinking about it he lifted the hood, checked the oil;--the Caddie didn't need any--then checked the radiator and the water in the battery. He sprayed the windshield and wiped off the collection of dust and dead bugs. The car took fourteen gallons and two tenths, and Frank took the ten-dollar bill from the red-faced man and went in and rang up the sale on the register. He brought back the change and said thanks and stop back soon.
The Caddie pulled out, the back wheels once more ringing the signal bell.
Frank went back into the station. He wasn't thinking about the Caddie or the red-faced man or even the pretty little brunette who had been with him. He was thinking about the telephone call from Kay.
"So he's here," he said in a voice just barely above a whisper. It was a habit he had formed lately, this talking to himself half aloud.
Harper, tall, thin, and in his early thirties, had the broad shoulders, narrow hips, flat stomach, and tanned, healthy complexion of a man who had always kept himself in top physical condition. His hair was a little too dark to be called true blond, and he had large, rectangular blue eyes in a lean, high-cheekboned face. His mouth was possibly a little too generous, but his chin, which needed shaving, was square and firm.
Slouching into the battered, one-armed chair facing the scarred desk, he looked up at the electric clock on the wall. It was just nine o'clock, and, once more speaking in a barely audible whisper, he swore softly.
"That goddamned Ham," he said. "He would be late again today."
The words were hardly out of his mouth, however, when he heard the unmistakable rattle of the old Ford service car as it pulled in beside the gas station and came to a creaking halt. A moment later he heard Ham Johnstone slam the car door. He had the usual apologetic grin on his wide, black face as he rounded the building and entered.
"Mawnin', boss," he said.
Frank stood up. Again he looked at the clock.
"Damn you, Ham," he said, "you're late again."
The colored man kept nodding his head as Frank spoke.
"Save it," he said. "I've gotta run out to the house for a few minutes. Uncle of mine just got in for a visit. You take care of things. There's a couple of tires have to be changed, and watch those pumps. And goddamn it, don't try to use the cash register. I'll leave the change drawer open and you just make change and mark it down."
The colored man kept nodding his head as Frank spoke.
A minute later Frank was outside and hurrying to his parked Chevvie. He was about to open the door when a police car pulled in and stopped just short of the pumps. Frank looked up and smiled.
"Morning, boy."
"Hiya, Waldo," Frank said.
He strolled over and leaned against the door of the tan sedan. There was a large red spotlight on the top of the car, a tall, sturdy radio antenna at the rear, and a chromed siren mounted on the right front fender. Otherwise it was a stock Ford, except for the racks behind the front seat that held the automatic rifle and the tear-gas bombs.
Sergeant Waldo Harrington yawned and stretched. He was alone in the patrol car.
"Goin' be hot," he