Out of Sight

  Burdon raised his hand to the marshal without looking at him. “There a couple of points I keep wondering about have to do with the two guys that grabbed you. Buddy is it? And this fella Jack Foley. I looked him up, I swear the man must’ve robbed two hundred banks in his time.”

  Karen said, “Really?” Impressed, but sounding tired. “I asked him how many, he said he wasn’t sure. He’s been doing it since he was eighteen.”

  “You talked to him, uh?”

  “In the trunk, yeah.”

  “What’d you talk about?”

  “Oh . . . different things, prison, movies.”

  “This fella has you hostage, you talk about movies?”

  “It was an unusual experience,” Karen said, looking right at Burdon, the dude Bureau man in his neat gray suit, pale blue shirt and necktie. “But I wasn’t a hostage.”

  “What were you then?”

  “I was his treat after five months of servitude.”

  Burdon frowned. “He assaulted you, sexually?”

  “I wasn’t that kind of a treat,” Karen said.

  Now Burdon was studying her lying there in her hospital gown, sheet up to her chest, something dripping from the IV into her arm. Maybe he didn’t know where to go with it now, and Karen felt no desire to help him.

  “Wanted to be close to a woman, so he crawled in the trunk with you.”

  “I don’t know,” Karen said, looking up at Burdon, standing ten feet tall by the bed.

  He said, “Foley made me think of that fella Carl Tillman, the one you were seeing, it turns out the same time he was doing banks. You recall that? I said at the time it was a highly unusual situation, find out a U.S. marshal’s fucking a bank robber.” He smiled, just a little. “See, then you let this guy Foley get away, I couldn’t help but wonder, you know?”

  “What?”

  “If bank robbers turn you on.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure I am or not.”

  “When I was seeing Carl Tillman, I didn’t know he robbed banks.”

  “Yeah, but I had enough reason to believe he did, and I told you. So you had to at least suspect him.”

  Karen said, “And what happened to Carl?”

  Burdon smiled again. “The time came, you shot him. But you didn’t shoot Foley or the guy with him. They’re unarmed, you had a shotgun and you let them throw you in the trunk. Okay, now you got your Sig in your hand. You say in the report you couldn’t turn around, he had you pinned down. But when the trunk opened, how come you didn’t cap the two guys then?”

  Karen said, “Is that what you would’ve done?”

  “You say in the report Glenn didn’t have a gun, but you let him get away.”

  Karen said, “Daniel, you’re not carrying, are you?”

  He hesitated. “How do you know that?”

  “What do you work on most of the time, fraud? You go after crooked bookkeepers?”

  “Karen, I’ve been with the Bureau fifteen years, on all kinds of investigations.”

  “Have you ever shot a man? How many times have you been primary through the door?”

  “I have to qualify, is that it?”

  “You have to know what you’re talking about.”

  She watched him shrug and start to turn away, smoothing the front of his gray double-breasted suit. He paused and said, “We’ll talk another time, Karen. All right? I’d like to know why Foley put you in that second car when he didn’t need you anymore.”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” Karen said.

  “Sounds to me he liked having you around. I’ll see you, Karen.” Burdon turned and walked out.

  A few moments later her dad came in as Milt Dancey was saying, “The white man’s Burdon. That’s what we call him in Miami.”

  Her dad said, “That’s what everybody calls him in Miami, Miami Beach, the Metro-Dade guys. He’s got a knack for pissing people off.”

  “Yeah, but he’s got style,” Karen said. “You notice that suit he had on?”

  “That combination,” her dad said, “it reminded me of the way Fred Astaire used to dress, the shirt and tie the same shade. There was a guy with style, Fred Astaire.” He said, “How you feeling? You hungry, you want something to eat? How about a beer? I can go out and get some.”

  “Tomorrow,” Karen said. “I’m not supposed to do anything for at least a week. I was wondering, how about if I stay with you a few days? We’d finally have time to talk.”

  “About what?” Her dad cocked his head looking at her. “These guys you let get away? You want to use me, don’t you? Get me to work for nothing.”

  “You’re my dad.”

  “So?”

  • • •

  FOLEY HELD IN HIS HAND A CREDIT APPLICATION BROCHURE that said on the cover in bold letters:

  LOOKING FOR MONEY?

  YOU’VE COME TO THE RIGHT PLACE.

  There were headings inside the piece that mentioned auto loans, home loans, lifestyle loans, but nothing about getting-out-of-town loans. Foley folded the brochure and put it in his pocket. Now he continued to study the bank layout, standing at the glasstop counter in the middle of the floor, where the forms were kept. There were tellers at three of the five windows, cameras mounted high on the wall behind them, no security guard in sight, a customer leaving and one coming in, a guy in a suit with an attaché case. Foley watched him move through the gate into the fenced-off business area at the front of the bank, where one of the executives rose from his desk, shook the guy’s hand and they both sat down. As the guy began opening his case, Foley, wearing a brand-new Marlins baseball cap and sunglasses, crossed to the teller window where a nameplate on the counter said this young woman with a pile of dark hair smiling at him was Loretta.

  She said, “How can I help you, sir?”

  Foley said, “Loretta, you see that guy talking to your manager, has his case open?”

  She said, ‘That’s Mr. Guindon, one of our assistant managers. Our manager is Mr. Schoen, but he’s not in today.”

  “But you see the guy,” Foley said, “with the attaché case?”

  Loretta looked over. “Yes?”

  “That’s my partner. He has a gun in there. And if you don’t do exactly what I tell you, or you give me any kind of a problem, I’ll look over at my partner and he’ll shoot your Mr. Guindon between the eyes. Now take one of those big envelopes and put as many hundreds, fifties and twenties as you can pack into it. Nothing with bank straps or rubber bands, I don’t want any dye packs, I don’t want any bait money. Start with the second drawer and then the one over there, under the computer. Come on, Loretta, let’s go. Don’t be nervous, the key’s right there next to you. No bills off the bottom of the drawer. That’s the way, you’re doing fine. The twenties go in if there’s room. Smile, so you won’t look like you’re being held up. Here, give me the twenties, I’ll put ’em in my pocket. Okay, I haven’t had to give my partner a sign; that’s good. Now, he’s gonna wait thirty seconds till after I’m out the door, make sure you haven’t slipped me a dye pack or set off the alarm. If you have, he’s gonna shoot Mr. Guindon between the eyes. Okay? I think that’ll do it. Thank you, Loretta, and have a nice day.”

  Foley walked out the front entrance with his head lowered and his knees bent. Some banks put a mark on the doorway at six feet, so the teller, watching the guy go out, can estimate his height.

  Buddy was waiting for him across Collins Avenue in a black Honda. Foley got in and as they drove off Buddy said, “You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din. Bust out one day and back to work the next.”

  “Lompoc,” Foley said, “you picked me up and we did the bank in Pomona the same day.” He was quiet then, looking out the window at pink hotels, white ones, yellow ones, all past their prime but still doing business. He said, “I always feel a letdown after.”

  “Once you start breathing again,” Buddy said. Foley handed him the brochure he’d taken and Buddy smiled. “Looking for money? You?
??ve come to the right place.’ They got that right. It’s like they’re asking for it. I can’t figure out how nine out of ten bank robbers get caught.”

  “They talk about it,” Foley said, “or do something dumb, call attention to themselves. The time I did the bank in Lake Worth for Adele and ended up in Glades? I drove away from the bank and cut through side streets till I came to Dixie Highway. I’m waiting for traffic to clear so I can make a left, I hear this car behind me revving its engine, guy in a red Firebird Trans Am, can’t wait. He backs up about ten feet, guns it, cuts around me, tires screaming—it’s like he thinks I’m one of those retirees, takes forever to make a turn. I’d just robbed a fucking bank and this guy in the Firebird’s showing me what a hotdog he is.”

  “So you went after him,” Buddy said.

  “I made the left and tore after him. Caught him about a mile down the road and came up on the driver’s side, close, seeing how close I could come while I stared at him, gave him the look. He pulled ahead, I came up again and this time I gave him a nudge, sideswiped him. I was in a Honda, I think just like this one.”

  “I read it’s the number one choice of car thieves,” Buddy said, “your Honda.”

  “Yeah, I read that, too. Anyway, what happened, when I sideswiped the guy I blew a tire and fucked up the steering, the car kept going to the right, so I had to pull over. The guy in the Firebird—I don’t think he had any idea what this was about—he’s gone. I wasn’t there two minutes a sheriff’s radio car pulls up. ‘What seems to be the trouble, sir?’ No trouble, I just robbed a bank and my fucking car broke down. Outside of that . . . He’s checking my license when he gets a report about the bank—somebody spotted the car—so the next time I see him he’s pointing a big chromed-up Smith and Wesson in my face. The only time I can ever remember losing my temper like that and I draw thirty to life.”

  “Time goes by,” Buddy said, “you’ll think it’s a funny story.”

  “If I’m still around.”

  “I’ll tell my sister, see if she laughs,” Buddy said. “I have to think of things to say to her before making the weekly call, otherwise we have these long pauses.”

  “Between your weather reports,” Foley said.

  Going over the causeway at Haulover Cut, Foley threw his brand-new Marlins baseball cap out the window. A few minutes later they dropped the Honda off at a strip mall and picked up Buddy’s car—an ’89 Olds Cutlass Supreme in faded maroon he’d paid cash for in L.A., costing him, Buddy said, a bank job and change.

  • • •

  FOLEY SAT IN THE MIDDLE OF AN IMITATION DANISH SOFA IN a room with bare white walls, a TV set and house plants Buddy had bought. The currency from the bank, counted now, was on the coffee table in a single neat stack he could press into a wad that would be not much more than two inches thick. Foley raised his voice to tell Buddy, out on the concrete balcony reading the paper, “Thirty-seven eighty. That Loretta’s all right.” He got up and walked out into the sunshine. “She could lose some weight, though, do something with her hair.”

  Buddy said, “You see your picture? They pass this one around you can go anywhere you want, nobody’ll know you.”

  “The straight-ahead mug shot, I wasn’t feeling my best that day, I look like some kind of terrorist. The one of Chino, he must’ve been thirty pounds heavier then.” Foley was looking down at the newspaper Buddy held open, at the seven headshots in a row across the front page, beneath a color photo of the red-brick prison. “Chirino, that’s Chino. He must’ve put the weight on right after he quit fighting, then got back in shape to make his run. Linares, the cute one, that’s Lulu, Chino’s girlfriend.”

  “They’re the only two made it,” Buddy said. “’Four were shot down outside the fence in a hail of gunfire.’ All doing twenty-five to life for murder. Your pal Chino, it says he hacked a guy to death with a machete.”

  “He was in a bind,” Foley said, “owed a lot of money and got forced into throwing a fight. Only he didn’t go down in the fourth, when he’s suppose to—couldn’t bring himself to do it, fighting this white kid—and waited till the sixth. Not only the guy wouldn’t pay him, the promoter, Chino says the dive fucked up his chance of ever going for the title. A few years later he’s done. So he got a machete, went to the Fifth Street Gym, Miami Beach, and used it on the promoter.”

  Buddy said, “Linares . . .”

  “That’s Lulu.”

  “Yeah. It says he had an argument with his roommate over a bag of marijuana and shot him nine times in the head with a MAC-10 Jesus.”

  “While the guy was sleeping,” Foley said. “I think there was more to it than the grass. Like jealousy. Chino says Lulu was straight before he met him, but I don’t believe it. He was too good at being a girl.”

  “It says they’re concentrating the search for him and Chirino in Miami’s Little Havana.”

  “Where’re they looking for me?”

  “I haven’t come to you.”

  Foley put on his sunglasses. He moved to the concrete railing to look out at the ocean and the beach and, directly below, the building’s patio and pool area, seven floors down, everything pink and white.

  “They mention Pupko? That’s the guard gave me his shirt.”

  Buddy looked up from the paper. “I thought you read this.”

  “I skimmed it. The diagram of where they tunneled out from the chapel’s pretty accurate.”

  “Here it is, Pupko. Says he was overpowered by the escapees. ‘Suspicious when he saw them going in the chapel, Pupko confronted the inmates . . .’ Wanted to know why they weren’t in their dorm for the evening count. ‘While he was held immobile Pupko was struck repeatedly by inmate John Michael Foley’—there you are—‘using a two-by-four from the construction site. Foley later made his escape in Pupko’s uniform.’ It says you were doing thirty for armed robbery.”

  “I wasn’t armed that time. I didn’t hit the guard repeatedly, either. One swing, he went down. Chino reads that, he’s gonna get the wrong idea.”

  “FBI, sheriff’s office, Florida Department of Law Enforcement are all out looking for you, but it doesn’t say where. They think you may ‘flee the country.’”

  “I’ve had to run like hell a few times,” Foley said, “but I don’t think I’ve done any fleeing. You ever flee?”

  “Yeah, I read one time I fled the scene of a robbery. I don’t see anything about Glenn.”

  Foley waited, watching him now.

  “They found the girl’s Chevy, at the Holiday Inn on Southern, right where we left it. Nothing about the car we picked up there. It says the Chevrolet was taken from the GCI parking lot . . .”

  “Nothing about Karen?”

  “I’m coming to it. ‘The car, property of the U.S. Marshals Service . . .’ Here. ‘Deputy Marshal Karen Sisco had driven from her office in West Palm Beach to GCI to serve a Summons and Complaint filed by one of the inmates.’ It doesn’t say anything about . . . No, here it is. ‘Authorities believe Foley used the car in his escape and left it at the Holiday Inn.”

  “Where he took a hot shower and went to bed,” Foley said. “Why don’t they know we took her with us? Maybe they do, but for some reason they’re not saying.”

  “There’s nothing about me,” Buddy said. “No mention of aiding in the escape. How come? I mean if she got away the cops’d know about me, right?”

  “She got away from us, yeah.”

  But what happened after she drove off with Glenn?

  He had thought about her last night, trying to fall asleep on the hard sofa, and had thought about her all day. Now he was thinking about her again, looking out at the ocean.

  Buddy said, “It’s pretty here, isn’t it? If you like looking at views. I don’t think you should go out anymore. I mean for a couple of weeks, anyway. You got the need to do a bank out of your system. Fell off your horse and got right back on. I was thinking we could hire a boat to take us to the Bahamas for a while. Get one right at the Haulover docks, a fishing
boat. Pay the skipper the going rate. How’s that sound to you?”

  “I’d like to know where Glenn is,” Foley said, “and what happened to Karen.”

  “I imagine somewhere along the line he threw her out of the car and kept going. It’s what I would’ve done.”

  “You don’t think she took him in?”

  “How would she do that?”

  “It’s her business. Has Glenn ever been here?”

  “I never told him where I live or gave him my phone number.”

  “How about Adele?”

  “She has my number, yeah, but never called me on her phone.”

  “If they have Glenn, once he starts talking he’ll never stop. He’ll give Adele up in a minute.”

  Buddy said, “As soon as they check you out they’ll see you were married and divorced. They get Adele’s name, either one, her date of birth, they’ve got her. That’s a given. I even told her, if Foley makes it they’ll be around to see you. She said, ‘What do I know?’ You can put your money on Adele.”

  “I was thinking,” Foley said, “you could give Glenn a call. If he did get away and feels safe . . .”

  “And if he didn’t get away and they hung a wire on his line . . .”

  “We could call the West Palm marshal’s office.”

  “For what?”

  “See if Karen’s there.”

  “She is, what’s that tell us?”

  “She’s okay, he didn’t—you know—do anything to her.”

  “What if they have that kind of hookup—it gives ’em the number of anybody that calls?”

  “Use a pay phone.”

  “You’re still thinking about her.”

  “I want to know what happened.”

  Buddy folded the paper and got up. He said, “I’ll see what I can do,” and left the apartment.

  • • •

  WHEN THEY CAME IN LAST NIGHT AN OLD WOMAN ASKED IF they were delivering her oxygen. Foley thought he was in a nursing home—all the old ladies and a few skinny old guys sitting around the lobby. In the elevator Buddy said, “They’ll stop me and want to know if I’m the laundry man, or am I from the dry cleaners or the grocery store. They’re outside on the patio, they’re in the lobby, they’re like birds sitting on a telephone line watching everything that’s going on. Can you imagine bringing that girl marshal through there and up seven floors and not cause some attention? You’re no problem. They understand somebody wearing a raincoat. They put on their raincoats any time they see a cloud. Over their beaded sweaters. I’ve never seen so many beaded sweaters in one place in my life.”