SUICIDE HILL
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the money. Finishing, he spat on the pile of bills and turned to look up at Rice. “Slightly less than you figured, huh? Like twenty-five K less. Like Little Bro and me just risked ten to life for three fucking grand ?” He paused, then whispered, “You holding out on us?”
Knowing that fire full was the only way out, Rice said, “I’ll chalk that up to disappointment and a bad temper, but you say it again and I’ll kill you.”
Joe stood perfectly still; Bobby gripped the mattress with both hands, his jaw trembling, saliva starting to creep out the corners of his mouth. Seeing more fear than anger, Rice threw him back a chunk of his cojones. “Listen, man, I’m just as pissed about it as you. And it’s my fault. I should have realized that the real money was left in the vault. But we’re still on for the next—”
Bobby screamed, “You’re fucking crazy! These bank fools are leaving out peanuts to pilfer, and I’m not risking my ass again for another three grand!”
Thinking, macho counterpunch, Rice smiled and said, “I’m going to make Eggers go into the vault for us. The same hostage plan, for twenty times the money. I’m going to intercept him in person as he enters the bank, then force him to call you guys for confirmation that you’re holding his bitch. If he agrees to hit the vault, I’ll tell him to sit tight at his desk with his hands in view, and I’ll go across the street and keep him eyeball pinned. When the guard and tellers arrive and the real money comes out, Eggers grabs what he can carry on his person and goes across the street to meet me. He figures out a cool way to do this, or his bitch gets chopped. Then I walk him to his car and tranq him.”
Grinning like a macho ghoul, Bobby said, “Suppose he don’t agree?”
Rice moved to Joe and threw a rough arm around his shoulders. “Then I kill him then and there and take the teller box money. But he’ll agree. He always wears a baggy suit. Lots of room, and I’ll tell him C-notes only. You in, partners?”
Bobby whooped and jumped up and down, dunking imaginary baskets; Rice tightened his grip on Joe’s shoulders. Joe twisted free and stared at him, and Rice snapped to the fact that he was the smarter of the two. Joe’s eyes pleaded; Rice whispered, “Two more days and it’s over.” Joe looked at Bobby, who was throwing left-right body punches at his reflection in the wall mirror. Rice stuck two fingers into his mouth and forced out a loud, shrill whistle. The noise brought the scene to a halt. Bobby leaned against the mirror and said in exaggerated barrioese, “Thirty-two hundred. Come up green, homeboy.”
With an exaggerated shit-eating grin, Rice moved to the bed and began 494
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a slow-motion recount of the money, dividing it first in half and shoving that part under the pillow, then separating the remaining half into two portions. Finishing, he offered Joe the first handful of bills, Bobby the second. Both brothers jammed the cash into their front and back pants pockets, then stuffed the overflow into their windbreakers. When the last of the money was stashed, Rice gave them a slow eyeball and shook his head. His crime partners looked like two greedy greaseballs with elephantiasis; like a world-class dose of bad news.
Bobby cracked his knuckles; Joe looked at Rice and blurted, “What about the recon job, Duane? You gonna tell us now?”
Rice leaned back on the bed and shut his eyes, blotting out the bad news.
“Yeah. I was thinking that maybe Hawley and Eggers know each other. Remember, we don’t know who originally scoped out the heists, how he knew, who he knew, that kind of thing. I’ll be watching the papers to see if they mention Hawley and Issler, and I want you guys to keep a loose tail on Eggers and Confrey, see if the cops or feds are nosing around. If they are, we have to call the heist off. I’ll call you late tomorrow night. If there’s no heat, we hit Friday morning.”
Bobby popped his knuckles and said, “What kinda recon you gonna be doing?”
Rice opened his eyes, but kept them away from the brothers. “A little added terror angle, in case Eggers gets uppity. I’m going to trash his pad and steal some kitchen knives, then bring the knives with me when I brace him. That way, I can tell him you’re gonna chop up his bitch with a knife with his prints on them. That and the fact that his pad’s been violated ought to keep him docile.”
Bobby whooped and jumped up and touched the ceiling; loose bills started to pop out of his pants pockets. Rice said, “What was your record as a fighter?”
“Eleven, sixteen and zero,” Bobby said. “Never went the distance, knocked out or got knocked out. My tops was seven rounds with Harry
“The Headhunter” Hungerford. Lost on cuts. Why you asking?”
“I was wondering how you survived this long.”
Bobby giggled and shoved Joe in the direction of the door. “Clean living, anonymous good deeds and faith in Jesus, Duane-o,” he said, kneading his brother’s shoulders. “And a good watchdog. Don’t you worry. I’ll keep a good tail on Eggers and his mama.” He unlocked the door and waggled his eye-