Midnight Clear

By Peter E. Price

Planning. These things have got to be planned, thought through, down to the last detail. Take your jewel thief: he doesnt just walk into tiffanys and start filling his pockets with rocks, like Virignia Woolf

Not to worry. Certain members of the Living Nativity in front of the First National Bank of Pound Ridge (N.Y.) have definite plans for the several hundred thousand dollars in cash sitting inside the bank on Christmas Eve. They plan on taking it and yes, they have considered everything down to the last detail.

Then again, you can never entirely predict the human factor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 2, 2005
• ISBN: 9781462842742

Peter E. Price

Peter E. Price, Sr. was born in Chester, Pa., in 1928,and raised in Scranton. He served in the U.S. Navy in World War 2, and graduated from the University of Scranton in 1950. He is married, and the father of a son and daughter, both lawyers, and two grandchildren. He has worked as a schoolteacher, bartender, advertising agent, mailman, editor, indexer, and---most fulfillingly --- as a truck driver in Yellowstone National Park. His hobbies include reading, gardening, friendship, and--- if this book sells--- travel.

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Copyright © 2005 by Peter E. Price.

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from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

To my progeny—Dylan, Kaitie, Laura, Mike, and Peter Eyre—

and to the memory of Irwin Spiegel this book is humbly dedicated.

PROLOGUE

SHOOTING SCRIPT

Subject/Time Norman Vincent Peale Presbyterian Church Living Nativity, First National Bank of Prime Ridge, 241 Warren Street, Prime Ridge, N.Y., Wednesday, December 16, 1998, 7:30 P.M.

Venue Bank exit lane to Warren Street, B.W moving up lane toward bank main (front) door, manger on her right. Camera leading, back to door and manger.

Rating (confidential) 5. Not exactly moon-mad killer slays six in motel parking lot, but good, wholesome holiday filler. Religious, but ACLU-proof. No heavy advertiser factor; kill if preempted. Dead after 12/23

B.W.: Hi! Bonnie Wasser here for WPKP Poughkeepsie. We’re here at the First National Bank of Prime Ridge, where the Norman Vincent Peale Presbyterian Church is hosting its fourteenth annual nativity scene—one of thousands of such displays in front of houses of worship and commercial establishments throughout the holiday season. (Camera pans past B.W. to focus on characters in front of manger: Mary, holding baby Jesus; Joseph; wise men (3); shepherds (2). Note: Don’t tip hand by lingering on features.) These amazingly lifelike figures—

WISE MAN #1: Good evening, Bonnie.

B.W. (turning to gawk unbelievingly into camera): What the—? Hey, folks, I think I need some R&R rest time! I’m working too hard! I could have sworn—

WISE MAN #2: Welcome to the Norman Vincent Peale Living Nativity.

B.W. (again turning to stare flabbergasted into camera): I know I heard that! One of those Wise Men spoke out loud!

WISE MAN #2: Not a real Wise Man, Bonnie. Just an old bank president dressed up to look like one.

B.W. (Turns, advances on manger): You are real people, then. I was afraid I was losing it.

WISE MAN #1: Maybe I should introduce myself, Bonnie. I’m Vernon Peckingham, pastor of Peale Presbyterian, and these are my fellow Wise Men: Hank Potter, president of the bank here, and Father Daniel Fitzpatrick from Saint Christopher’s R.C. church over on Front Street.—WING IT FROM HERE. WE’LL EDIT DOWN TO GET WHAT WE WANT.

WISE MAN #3: Monsignor Loftus, rector.

WISE MAN #1: No time to give the Mass schedule, Father. Bonnie, let me introduce you to the rest of the team. Joseph and Mary happen to be real-life man and wife—Victor and Mary Grey Harrison of Prime Ridge Heights. Victor’s marketing director at Calcitex, and his lovely wife there’s in the real-estate game, I believe.

MARY: Hepburn & Hepburn. Your place or ours? Five-eight-six—

B.W.: No free plugs, hon, okay? So, I understand you two met right here in the Living Nativity—what?—two years ago?

JOSEPH: Two idyllically happy years ago, right.

MARY: He’s such a shmooze job. How could I resist him?

B.W.: The baby, though—the infant Jesus, I mean, he’s not real, right? (Speak to the camera, hon.)

MARY: The baby? Oh; no. Plastic. It’s very lifelike, though. (Holding doll aloft by left wrist.) If you look at it—

B.W.: Him!

MARY: Huh?

B.W.: Him!

MARY: Onward, Christian so-ol-ol-ol-jers,/ Marching as to war!

WISE MAN #2 (after brief pause): Yes. Bonnie, let me introduce the last two members of the old Bethlehem team. You know, us Wise Men get to kneel, but these shepherds do the whole shift on their feet. This is Ed Weinkettel of Weinkettel Hardware—

SHEPHERD #1: Forty-six years at the same location.

WISE MAN #2: And Ray—

SHEPHERD #2: Roy.

WISE MAN #2: Roy Jones, Reverend Peckingham’s nephew and faithful chauffeur.

SHEPHERD #1: December is Snow Blower Month at Weinkettel’s.

B.W: I’m sure it is.

SHEPHERD #1: Check our prices against Walmart’s, that’s all I ask. Okay, okay. I was a Wise Man myself till last Christmas, but the kneeling got to me: housemaid’s knee. Doc Riedenschneider gave me the old ultimatum: get up off your knees, or get out of the manger.

B.W: I’m not surprised. Doesn’t the cold and the, like, damp get to all of you folks? I mean, it was eight degrees last night figuring the wind-chill factor and all.

WISE MAN #1: Frigid—just as it was in that humble stable in Bethlehem two millenniums ago, Bonnie. Then as now, though, the Lord tempers the wind to His shorn lambs, you know.

WISE MAN #3: Plus, Doze Nuts Wit’ Dem Donuts send over pastries and coffee. Twice, on the Long Night.

B.W.: Right, I was just getting to that. The Long Night—that’s the night you’re all here till, I can’t even believe it, till midnight?

WISE MAN #2: That’s right, every December twenty-third. That’s the last night of the Living Nativity—we’re here for ten nights, you know, rain or shine.

SHEPHERD #1: Snow or shine. But you know, Bonnie—and all you folks out there in TV-land—snow doesn’t have to be a problem if you’ve got the right—

WISE MAN #2 (pressing on): Anyhow, the purpose of the Long Night is to make sure everybody who hasn’t had a chance to drive by during the first nine days can swing by any time right up till midnight, take their pictures, and, uh, you know, maybe even give a thought to the little fellah in the crib there.

SHEPHERD #1: It’s like a tradition, you might say, Bonnie.

B.W: I can see that, and a proud one, too. But you started out over in front of the church, right?

WISE MAN #1: That’s right, Bonnie, that’s where we began, fourteen years ago. But my church is on a quiet street . . . a narrow street . . . residential . . . folks turn in early over on Maple Av, and so we ran into a noise problem, and a traffic problem, people honking their horns, it got to be a real problem, especially on the Long Night. So Hank here jumped into the breach, so to speak, and volunteered the bank, and—well—here we are.

WISE MAN #2: That way, depositors—well, everyone, really—can take their time, honk their horns—

WISE MAN #1: Just so long as it’s for Jesus!

WISE MAN #2: There’s nothing down there on Warren Street but the backside of the Superette, so a little horn-honking doesn’t wake up any babies, or, you know, the elderly infirm.

WISE MAN #3: I’d just like to take this opportunity, Bon, if I may, at this point in time, to mention that the beautiful Christmas music you hear behind us is the work of Sam Pexic of Sam Sound.

B.W: Mmmmm.

Recording: slee-eep in heavenly peace . . . . Click . . . . Grandma got run over by a reindeer! . . . .

WISE MAN #3: Of course, as with any electronic device, there are bound to be occasional glitches.

Recording: I don’t know if you believe in Santa,/ But as for me ‘n’ Grampa, we believe!

WISE MAN #1: Roy, see if you can fix—see if you can get that abomination off the air!

(Shepherd #2 scampers to rear of manger.) Hank, if there’s one thing you do before you retire it’s line up a new sound man for next year. Grandma run over by a reindeer indeed! These are holy grounds!

B.W: Tell me, Mary, gal to gal, don’t you get, like, cold standing out here? I mean, hours at a time—six hours on the last day, right?

MARY: Oh, we manage to take our little breaks, Debbie.

B.W.: Bonnie, hon.

MARY: I’m sorry—Bonnie. Hank has the vestibule rigged up like an emergency shelter: space heater; Mister Coffee. It’s not all that bad, actually.

B.W.: Plus, you have handsome Joe here to keep you warm, right? Uh, maybe I shouldn’t mention this, but I know the folks out there’ll want to know. Are there any . . . ?

WISE MAN #2: No comfort facilities, I’m afraid. We encourage everyone to, you know, go before they leave home.

JOSEPH: Of course, the shepherds sneak around behind the manger when nature calls.

SHEPHERDS (in unison): Hey! No!

JOSEPH: You know shepherds, Bonnie: they know how to make do in the wild with the materials at hand.

B.W. (moving slowly toward Joseph): Joseph, that’s practically the first peep out of you all night.

JOSEPH: You know how it is, Bonnie. Celebrity spouse; celebrity dad. We’re notoriously low-profile folks. B.W.: I—

JOSEPH: Plus, there’s always the influence of my alter ego: Joseph, of whom but small little was known.

CHAPTER ONE

At 8:10 AM on Thursday, December 24, 1998, an armored car, embossed amidships with the green-and-gold logo of Interstate Intersecurity Company, slowed and stopped at the Warren Street exit lane of First National Bank of Prime Ridge, and began to back up the lane in the direction of the bank’s front door. Interstate Intersecurity had made an identical Christmas Eve pickup for seven consecutive years, but the driver of the armored car was new to the run, and new enough to the business to be skittish. (His previous job—as a route salesman for TastyKakes—had been a lot less stressful, as he often explained to his wife: Plus, you get a little hungry along about the middle of the afternoon, what are you gonna do? Gnaw on a wad of fifties?)

Halfway up the roadway, the driver suddenly applied the brakes. What’s the matter? asked the man in the passenger seat. What are ya stopping for?

Buncha people up there, in front of that little building, the driver said, focusing intently on his rear-view mirror. Don’t like the looksa them, Charlie. Hippies, I think. One of them’s got an earring, anyhow.

Mr. Hastings from Payroll has got an earring, Charlie said, exasperatedly, but nevertheless reaching for his door handle. I’ll check ‘em out. You cover me if you have to, and remember company policy if there’s a beef: shoot for the tibia.

You better take the shotgun, the driver said, indicating the 12-gauge sheathed in a boot-stand between the two seats. Both men wore .38 revolvers in side holsters, and Charlie now patted his.

This is all I need, he said, as he slid out of the truck. Remember what I said about the tibia.

Just where is that located anyway? the driver asked.

Don’t ask me, Charlie said. All I know is, somebody comes crossways at me, I go for the fuckin’ head!

Charlie moved cautiously to the back of the truck, and almost immediately reappeared at the passenger-side window.

They’re plastic figures, asshole! Shepherds and shit. Haven’t you ever heard of a manger scene at Christmas?

Sure, the driver conceded. Like, on the mantelpiece, or under the tree. We had one by the electric train one Christmas, but our Francis kept routin’ the train through it. Looked like one of them train wrecks in Ecuador you see in the paper. Parts of shepherds scattered all over . . . lambs cut in half . . . .

Look, Charlie said. Just back it up to the doors, okay? Think you can do that? We’re runnin’ late, and the lieutenant’s down there waitin’ on us.

Sure enough, a new Chevy Cavalier, painted green with gold trim and logoed similarly to the armored car, was poised at the bottom of the roadway, its red alarm light spinning angrily.

I was only following company procedure, the driver defended himself, shifting back into reverse. Watch out for suspicious-looking characters. Earrings; beards; turbines. As he backed up slowly toward Charlie’s beckoning hands, the creche and its half-dozen or so lifesize statues materialized on his left. If they don’t look like Arab terrorists, I don’t know who does, he muttered to himself.

A man had come out of the front door of the bank, and now stood frowning in front of the entrance. He was a tallish, fattish, frettish, fortyish man, and the studied frown had the effect of drawing his thickish lips tight together as if he were bracing himself for a rectal thermometer.

You’re late, he said to Charlie and the driver, consulting the Rolex on one thickish wrist. It’s after a quarter after.

The Chevy had stormed up the roadway by then, and a very small, very crisp young woman, green-and-gold-uniformed like Charlie and the driver, swung out from behind the wheel and whipped a shiny black wallet out of her uniform-jacket pocket.

Mr. Rimmers? Lieutenant Genario, I. I. C.

Well, I’ll be dipped . . . . in Christmas pudding, said the bank man, accepting and inspecting the open wallet. Lieutenant Ann Genario, he read aloud. He handed the wallet back to her. Excuse me all to aitch-ee-double toothpicks, lieutenant, but you’re my first woman. Well, not my first woman as such, of course; just my first woman on this detail.

Fine, said the lieutenant. Now, I’m here to pick up twenty . . .-two gift baskets, right?

Right, said the bank man, Rimmers. Right as rain, officer. You know, I like official in a woman. The uniform. Turns me on. He lowered his voice so as to exclude the other two men. Too bad it’s so nippy this morning. A little warmer, I might just be talked into a little fellatio on the patio!

It’s lucky for you my Significant Other isn’t here, Lieutenant Genario said. She’d knock you right on your fat ass.

Is that a fact? Rimmers the bank man took a step backward. Tell me, he asked, his voice gone cold, is Harry McGovern still in charge down there at I. I. A.?

Last I heard, said the lieutenant. My uncle Gino Maldonato still on the board of directors here?

Rimmers smiled brightly.

No need to get huffy, he said. Come on in, and we’ll load up.

But at that moment a rust-blossomed panel truck began to puff up the roadway from Warren Street. Lieutenant Genario immediately sprang into action.

Mayday! Mayday! she announced. Perchinski, get the safety off that scatter gun, and hunker down by the money truck! Hawkins, over behind the manger! Aim for the tibia, if at all possible! Mr. Rimmers, get back—

It’s only Sam Sound, for Chris’ sake, Rimmers said with a chuckle. He’s here for his music.

The panel truck jerked to a stop, and a very short, fat, curly-tonsured man of fifty or so bounced out from behind the wheel.

Sorry to interrupt, folks, this—what?—robbery? Rimmers, don’t just stand there! These cleverly disguised malefactors are hauling off the money! First of Prime Ridge expects every man to do his duty, which of course I don’t happen to be an employee.

Very funny, Lieutenant Genario said, reholstering her weapon. "Secure from Mayday! You’re lucky you didn’t catch a slug in the tibia, mister."

I’ve got a bris brunch in New Paltz, and I need my amplifier, Sam Sound explained. He dropped to one knee in front of the young woman, and began to sing, arms extended.

’I’ve got a bris brunch in New Paltz!/ Even though I may have a few faults!’ He struggled quickly to his small, fat-man’s feet. How about that, Rimmy-boy? Am I wasting my life as a mere sonic technician, or what? Playing with amps and mikes, when I could be in front of the footlights wearing carrots as big as diamonds, and relaxing with off-duty Rockettes in Tin Pan Alley! He brushed past Hawkins, the armored car driver, to get behind the creche. Sorry, pal, but I gotta get in there. Jews got holiday plans, too, y’know.

Watch out for John the Baptist there, Rimmers warned. You almost knocked him on his keester.

Time he was heading back to Port Jervis anyhow, Sam Sound pointed out. He knelt and busied himself among the cables and connections behind the creche. This is all done for the year, right?

The Living Nativity finished up last night, thank God, Rimmers said. I’ll be paying a maintenance man till noon to clean up the vestibule. Mr. Potter lets them use it as a dressing room.

Sam Sound returned from behind the creche, a somewhat antique amplifier under one arm.

Well, folks, it’s been real, but it’s off to New Paltz. When duty calls . . . . Then, as if on an impulse, he lay the amplifier carefully on the extended plaster arms of a kneeling Wise Man—Here, hang on to this for a minute, Toulouse!—and seized the astounded Lieutenant Genario in his short, strong arms, and began to whirl, singing, Hava! Negilah hava! Negilah hava! He released her, frowning. You’re awfully stiff for a cop. What are you, one o’ them maidchens in uniform, or what? Well, you’re not the only flower on the wall, Sergeant Preston! Stooping slightly, Sam Sound clasped another plastic Wise Man to his chest, and began to spin. When you and I were young, Magi! he sang, then put the figure back in place, patted him briefly on his plaster crown—Be good, safe journey home, and don’t take any wooden frankincense!—reclaimed the amplifier, and, waving with his free hand, waddled off toward his truck. "Merry Christmas, goyim! And never forget: the little fellah in the whatchamaycallit there is one of our boys!"

What a disgusting little creep! Lieutenant Genario proclaimed, as they watched Sam Sound back down onto Warren Street.

Yes, Rimmers conceded, but a great sound man. If you ever decide to make an honest woman out of your S.O., Genario, Sam’s the man to jazz up the reception. (And I’m the guy to prenuptial her into fiscal oblivion!) he added, sotto voce.

Rimmers led the lieutenant and the armored-car driver through the door—Charlie remaining on guard outside with his scatter gun—and into the vestibule. There was a bench on either side of the vestibule, one covered with articles of clothing—brightly colored robes, itchy-looking sacking, plastic crowns aglitter with rhinestones—and the other with a coffee-maker, cafeteria-grade cups, spoons, a doughnut box.

Hey, you gonna throw out that last doughnut there? the driver wondered aloud.

That’s bank property, Rimmers snarled. "Open up a Christmas Club for next year, and we’ll give you a dozen."

What time does the vault open? Lieutenant Genario asked as they entered the cold, empty bank lobby.

"Nine a.m., but the baskets aren’t in the vault, Rimmers said. Surprise, surprise, right? Imagine how surprised the insurance folks ‘d be if they knew there’d been seven hundred and eighty thousand dollars in cash sitting right out in the open since nine o’clock last night. He sighed, and spread his fattish hands helplessly. There’s no way around it: the vault’s completely computer-operated, and there’s no way you can get it to open before nine o’clock. So, since Calcitex has to have the baskets in house before nine, and since Calcitex is our biggest industrial client . . . . Voila."

The twenty-two baskets standing close together in front of the vault looked to Lieutenant Genario exactly like the basket she would take to her mother the next afternoon at Mary Hope of Christians Nursing Home in Poughkeepsie, right down to the shrink-wrapping and imitation poinsettia blossoms. But instead of oranges and candied figs and cannoli, these baskets held only envelopes, and instead of Merry Christmas, Mom the wired-on-cards read—Lieutenant Genario lifted one—MAINTENANCE, and (another) SALES PROMOTION.

And you mean to tell me there’s cash in those envelopes?

"You bet your cute little booty there is: a month’s pay for every employee of Calcitex, from Jess Cook down to the latest bum shoveling the corporate sidewalk.

If you’ll just sign this, Rimmers said after the last basket had been delivered to the armored car.

Seems in order, Lietenant Genario said, after reviewing the receipt. Twenty-two baskets.

Containing—

That doesn’t interest me, what they contain, Lieutenant Genario interrupted. They could contain Pokemon cards, for all we know—or old phone books. I acknowledge receipt of twenty-two baskets, period. Contents: business envelopes. Contents of contents (if any): unknown.

Lieutenant, I predict a brilliant career for you, Rimmers the bank man said. "And if you ever go straight, pick up the phone and call for