Free Bank Shot by Donald E. Westlake

that they were already in control.
    â€˜Hands up,’ Van said. ‘That means you, Grandpa,’ to one of the guards. ‘I haven’t shot a senior citizen in three months. Don’t make me spoil my record.’
    It sometimes seemed to Herman that Van leaned on people because he wanted them to give him an excuse to shoot them, but most of the time he realised that Van was playing a deeper game than that. He leaned hard so people would think he was trying to goad them, so they would think he was a bad-ass killer just barely in control of himself, and the result was that they were always just as nice as pie. Herman didn’t know Van’s entire history, but he did know there’d never been any shooting on any job the two of them had done together.
    Nor would there be on this one. The three guards gave each other sheepish looks and put their hands up, and Jack came around to take their pistols away from them. Van produced two shopping bags from under his jacket, and while he held a gun on the seven civilians in the room – the usher had come up holding his nose, but it wasn’t bleeding – Herman and Jack dumped cash money into the two bags. They put crumpled paper on top, and Herman glanced almost longingly at the safe in the corner. He was a lockman – that was his specialty – he could open safes better than Jimmy Valentine. But this safe was already standing open, and there was nothing in it of any value anyway. He was along simply as a yegg this time, part of the team.
    Well, it was for the Cause. Still, it would have been nice if there’d been a safe around to open.
    Using the victims’ ties and socks and shoelaces and belts, all seven were quickly tied up and left in a neat row on the floor. Then Jack unscrewed the phone from its connection on the wall.
    Van said, ‘What the hell you doing? Just yank the cord out of the wall. Didn’t you ever see any movies?’
    â€˜I need an extension in the bedroom,’ Jack said. He put the phone on top of the crumpled papers in one of the shopping bags.
    Van shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
    When they left, they locked the door behind themselves and trotted down the narrow stairs to pause for a second behind the door leading to the loge. They could hear the chorus ripping through another song: ‘I hate bigots! Dig it! Dig it!’
    â€˜The line we’re waiting for,’ Van said, ‘is “Love everybody, you bastards.”’
    Herman nodded, and all three listened some more. When the line sounded, they pushed the door open, walked through, turned left and headed back downstairs.
    The timing was perfect. As they came to the foot of the stairs the curtain came down on Act One, and people started up the aisle for a smoke break. The three men pulled their masks off and went through the lobby doors just ahead of the theatergoers. They crossed the lobby, went out to the sidewalk, and the Ford was half a block away to their left, coming along behind a slow-cruising cab.
    â€˜God damn it,’ Van said. ‘What’s the matter with Phil’s timing?’
    â€˜He probably got stuck at a red light,’ Herman said.
    The Ford slipped by the cab and stopped at their feet. They slid in, the sidewalk behind them filled with smokers, and Phil drove them casually but firmly away from there.
    The two shopping bags were in the back with Herman and Jack – Van was up front now – and every time they went over a pothole the damn phone tinkled, which began to drive Herman up the wall. He was a compulsive phone answerer, and there was no way to answer this phone.
    Also, the money was getting to him. He was glad to give his expertise to the Movement, help the Movement cover its expenses in the time-honored fashion of the I.R.A., but at times he could feel his palm itching to hold onto some of the cash he got for them this way. As he’d told his guests a little earlier tonight, he