Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [38]
Puckett thanked him for the container of black joe, and Maxie sat on the piano bench to remove his galoshes, putting his hat and topcoat on the case, wondering if he was going to have to kill anybody to get it done.
Wick, the senior teller, was already at her station, puckered lips, rouge, and all business, and then the Mexican broad entered, head held high.
The ex-cop walked across the lobby, falling in behind the Mexican on his way to the can.
Maxie eased the gun from the piano bench and dropped it into the side pocket of his blue suit jacket. As he went toward the locker room, he saw Minthorn opening the vault door, grunting.
The Mexican broad was sitting at her desk under the stairs, and she was still wearing her coat.
Puckett pissing away behind a door to the men’s room.
Maxie opened his locker and saw that his duffel bag was gone, and his clothes.
On the shelf, a record: “Moonlight and You” by the Benny Walters Orchestra, cornet solo by Bippy Brown, back when he had two ears.
Maxie felt a jolt, but he already had it spent. “Fuck it,” he said, charging out.
Puckett thought he heard someone call his name.
Passing Minthorn and the open vault, Maxie marched around the counter, and the tellers looked at him, wondering, thinking, Maxie …?
He grabbed the startled Wick by the meat of her arm, yanked her off the stool, rammed the .38 against her spine, and told her he didn’t give a shit if he had to kill her now or later, just keep her mouth shut.
She said, “See here, Maxie—”
Maxie, a nasty bastard, didn’t have a free hand to clap her, so he bit her hard on the back of her neck, drawing blood.
“Ready to shut it now?” he said, as he spit to the side.
They advanced toward Minthorn, who was stacking the cart with thick packets of bills and a fat bag of coins.
Puckett backed out of the toilet, and then he looked at Maria who, with a wide-eyed nod of her head and a sideways glance, told the ex-cop what was going on.
Puckett drew his side arm, held it shoulder high. He stayed under the stairs as Maxie and Wick passed the final teller.
“Minthorn,” Maxie said.
The vice president turned and, no panic, lifted his hands in the air. And then he said, “Maxie, let her go. Maxie, she’s got three kids.”
Maxie released Wick’s arm, grabbed her hair by the bun.
Wick hissed, but didn’t scream, blood dribbling.
“Maxie, for Christ’s sake, take the money. Just let her—”
Puckett squeezed the trigger.
Out of the corner of his blue, blue eyes, Maxie saw it, saw how the whole thing was going to end.
The bullet in the air, and he remembered it was Bird who gave him his nickname. Bird dubbed him Mum, since he didn’t yap much, and then Bird, as well read as anybody and twice as quick, upped it to Maximum, calling him Maxie.
He loved Bird, and he hightailed it to K.C. full of hope, thinking he could play, thinking what he’d learned in the basement of the Kingdom Hall—
Puckett’s shot took off the back of Maxie’s head.
Wick went to her knees, the red mist finding her easy, and Minthorn charged out of the safe to catch her, failing when he bumped the cart.
Maxie collapsed to the marble floor like somebody cut his strings.
Minthorn took Wick in his arms. “Muriel?”
She told him she was okay, and the color rushed back to her face.
Puckett holstered his gun and pushed back the swinging door.
Maxie’s blood was spreading fast.
Minthorn said, “Muriel, let’s get the girls into my office.” Looking at the ex-cop, “Frank, don’t trip the alarm. Just keep the front door locked and wait for them outside. I’ll make the call.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Minthorn,” he said as he turned, started toward the piano bench, the revolving door on Eighth, steam still rising from his coffee container.
Minthorn shepherded Wick and the quaking tellers, and then they were all inside, grateful they no longer had to see Maxie, the nasty bastard, with the side