A Pure Double Cross by John Knoerle Read Free Book Online

here.”
    â€œJohnny Coughlin too.”
    â€œYeah the coppers were crappin’ their pants back den.”
    â€œYou know it.”
    I peeled off a sawbuck and handed it to Pencil Mustache. “Go wish those boys a Merry Christmas.” He jacked open the rear door. “And leave the shotgun here.”
    He put the gun down sheepishly and hurried off.
    No one had asked me the obvious question, so far. Why was an armored car picking up a deposit from a St. Vincent de Paul Center? The FBI hadn’t asked where we planned to go after the heist or what my share of the cush was. Jimmy was calm and quiet as a Hindu at the wheel of the Lincoln. Things were going far too well.
    The ragged men around the oil drum grabbed the sawbuck and made for the nearest hooch house. Pencil Mustache scurried back down the alleyway. His pal breeched his shotgun for the umpteenth time. Jimmy keyed the ignition and laid his nickel-plated on his thigh. I had my liberated, Wehrmacht-issue, four-inch-barrel Walther P38 in a belt holster under my topcoat where I hoped it would remain.
    Pencil Mustache climbed in the back seat. We all donned the black Zorro masks someone bought at a costume shop. It was time for my speech.
    â€œGentlemen, this job is a lead pipe cinch. Point your shotguns all you want but keep your fingers behind the trigger, against the trigger guard. The guards won’t make any move against you so
don’t
shoot them. Jimmy will be running the show, follow his lead. Any questions?”
    â€œYeah,” said Pencil Mustache, “ain’t that the armored car?”
    I faced forward. The back end of a gray Regency Security Transport truck was blocking the alleyway.
    Shit.
The armored car was supposed to park further up the block. We were trapped in a blind alley off a one-way street. Jimmy fixed me with his evil eye.
    â€œRelax,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel. “They’re just waiting for the parking space to clear.”
    Long seconds ticked off the clock. The truck pulled forward. I resumed breathing. “Okay, we wait till we see our box truck pull....”
    â€œShut up,” said Jimmy, “I’m in charge now.”
    More long seconds. Somebody coughed, somebody passed gas.
    Then the box truck rumbled past and we spun our tires on the icy asphalt and shot down the alley. Jimmy spun a donut on Wigman and backed the Lincoln up to the box truck, which was now wedged sideways across the dead end street, blockading the armored car.
    The truck driver jumped down from the cab and got behind the wheel of the Lincoln four-door as planned. A couple passersby stood and gaped. They got scarce when they saw the shotguns.
    We scrambled around the truck and converged on an armed guard carrying a canvas bag from the St. Vincent de Paul Center to the armored car, right on schedule.
    Jimmy leveled his .45 and snarled, “Grab a cloud.”
    Good one Jimmy. Bet he’d been practicing in front of the mirror all week.
    The armed guard dropped the canvas bag and raised his hands. The young hoods kept their fingers behind the triggers of their scatterguns. I grabbed up the canvas bag and backed away. So far, so good.
    Jimmy indicated the rear door of the armored car. “Open it.
Now.
”
    The federal agent dressed as an armored car guard gave him a droll look and slow-footed toward the door. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys, whistling a little tune.
    Jimmy switched his nickel-plated from his right hand to his left and slugged the agent in the kidney. The agent whirled, reaching for his piece. Jimmy shot him with his left hand. The agent crumpled to the street.
    Jimmy yanked on the rear door. It opened. It opened on an FBI agent holding a Thompson submachine gun.
    I had a big decision to make that I made before I even made it. I threw myself in between Jimmy and the machine gun, spread my arms and yelled, “
Don’t
!”
    No one fired.
    The downed agent was