Chapter 9

The seven men stared up at Joe from their seats as he talked. His raspy growls kept them riveted: they all knew this man to some extent or another, and they knew that he was telling them the rules that would either save them if followed, or kill them if broken.

Gallo didn't even look at the other guys. He felt vulnerable in this crowd: they were criminals, the lot of them. He wasn't exactly sure what they'd done, but that meant they could have done anything. He wondered if any of them were just average Joes like him, but he doubted it.

He'd almost jumped when he saw the old prune from last week, the day he'd gone out to Alice's for dinner. The guy hadn't even acknowledged their former acquaintance, and so he'd kept his own mouth shut.

After seeing the old guy, Gallo wasn't surprised that the shifty-eyed bearded fellow from the bus was also in the group. He'd looked like someone to avoid ever since Gallo had clapped eyes on him. The rest of them looked formidable too, but Gallo couldn't help but wonder if one or two of them were just pretending to be tough, but really they were in Gallo's position. Then again, he was going to be the only one not going into the jewelry store, so maybe that said something.

Joe rasped out, "Here are yer names."

He pointed at Gallo, "Mr. Brown."

He pointed to the next two guys, "Mr. White. Mr. Blonde."

He pointed to the back row, "Mr. Blue. Mr. Orange. And Mr. Pink."

The shifty eyed man suddenly spoke up, "Why am I Mr. Pink?"

"Cause you're a faggot, alright?" Joe snarled.

Gallo was the only one to laugh at that, but maybe it was also because he felt nervous.

Mr. Pink ignored Gallo's amusement, "Why can't we pick out our own colours?"

Joe shook his head, "No way, no way. I tried that once, it doesn't work. You get four guys, all fighting over who's gonna be Mr. Black. But they don't know each other, so nobody wants to back down. No way, I pick. Be thankful you're not Mr. Yellow."

Automatically, Gallo suddenly spoke up, seeing that now was a good time to voice his own grievances"Yeah, but Mr. Brown? That's too close to Mr. Shit."

Mr. Pink broke in, "Mr. Pink sounds like Mr. Pussy. How about I'm Mr. Purple. That sounds good to me, I'll be Mr. Purple.

Joe was getting aggravated, "You're not Mr. Purple, somebody from another job's Mr. Purple. You're Mr. Pink!"

The guy sitting next to Gallo, the guy named Mr. White, leaned in towards Mr. Pink, "Who cares what your name is?"

Mr. Pink stared at Mr. White, "That's easy for you to say, you're Mr. White, you have a cool sounding name!"

Gallo silently agreed. He may have been Mr. Brown, but he was definitely glad that he wasn't Mr. Yellow. One thing bothered him, though, and it was strange that this would bother him in a situation like this. But how the fuck hell did Joe come up with 'Mr. Blonde'? The guy was black-haired, for Christ's sake.

Joe's voice made Gallo pay attention again, but they were still arguing over Mr. Pink's name. Finally Mr. Pink shut up and leaned back on his seat. Joe paused, perhaps to catch his breath, and grated, "Let's go to work!"

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Vermeer sat back, aloof to all the bitching from Mr. Pink. He'd actually seen two of these guys before, which surprised him. Mr. Orange was the guy he'd seen a few days ago in the diner, while Mr. Brown was the blabbermouth from the video store. Oh well. He didn't know any names, and even if he did get arrested, he'd keep his mouth shut. The police, he'd learned back in the day, like society, easily forgot war heroes.

The plan looked pretty simple to him. It could be done in a matter of three minutes if they scared the people into keeping quiet. Even if the alarm were triggered, it would still take the cops several minutes to get there. It looked pretty bullet-proof to him.

Eventually, the meeting ended, and Joe told them that he'd booked a table for six at Nat Philip's, which was a pretty fancy restaurant to eat at, and would cost a pretty penny. He told them that he'd already informed the manager to send the bill to him, and this was warning enough for the guys around not to waste his money on too much booze or a fifteen pound steak or whatever. The big point that Joe never mentioned was that this was a time for them to get comfortable with each other so that they could do the heist more efficiently. Vermeer approved of it, but Joe had picked the one night where Vermeer had actually pre-arranged dinner for himself.

Mr. Pink raised his hand, "I can't make it, Joe. Tonight's the last night before I get to finally quit. I've been waiting for two fucking weeks and I can finally leave the fucking place."

Vermeer stood up, "Yeah, I can't go either. I've already arranged dinner for myself. Tomorrow though."

Joe shrugged, "Fine. Meet each other for lunch or something. But I ain't paying for it two days in a row."

Vermeer smiled and headed for the door. He had his name down for Jack Rabbit Slims.

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When Vermeer got there, it was as if they'd waited for him and kept everything back until he showed up.

Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis were singing away over the speakers, and Jane Russell was standing there at the register in that same outfit that Vermeer had seen her in coming back from battle. God, Russel had been such a beauty, and he didn't doubt that she was still pretty- she must be around his age, anyway. Vermeer had seen two guys half kill each other for possession of one of those sweater girl photos that made her famous.

Walking through Jack Rabbit Slim's, Vermeer felt as though he were in a Hollywood film about his life. The 50's feel was certainly there, but in the most hyped-up fashion that a nostalgic man might have been offended. But Vermeer felt no ill will: the 50's had tried to be glamourous and used the gloss to hide the underlying shit. Vermeer was sure that if Harry S. Truman or Dwight Eisenhower could have seen this place, they would have laughed and gone along with the joke, knowing the truth deep in their hearts.

Of course, it could be much worse, Vermeer thought. Elvis wouldn't have been this popular on the radio back in the day: just goes to show how the public opinion could make a man famous. Vermeer didn't mind: old Elvis was still good after all these years.

He took a seat, examining the menu. As luck would have it, Brigitte Bardot was his waitress. Smiling down at him in the way that her job required her to, she asked, "So what can I get you tonight sir?"

Vermeer didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable but he couldn't help but notice that she looked exactly like Bardot, all the way down to the accent and if quick glances sufficed, her bra size.

Vermeer veered his eyes to his menu, "I'll take the Douglas Sirk steak please."

"Burnt to a crisp or bloody as hell?" Brigitte murmured as she wrote the order on a pad.

Vermeer paused, revelling in the sensuality of the voice, remembering how she had caused an uproar just be acting sexual. Nowadays boys couldn't get hard-ons unless they saw skin. Back then they didn't see skin 'til they were married, and a girl just had to sound sexy to excite him something big.

Making his voice sound thoughtful, and to buy time, he asked, "Nothing in between those two?"

Brigitte shrugged, "I suppose I could ask the cook to make an exception, sure."

Vermeer paused, then waved his hand, "Nah, never mind that. I'll just take it bloody as hell."

"Anything to drink?"

Vermeer was certain now that this girl was genuinely French. He looked up, "I'll take the Scotch, please."

Jotting it down, Brigitte gave a quick smile, "I'll be right back with the drink." She walked off. Vermeer forced himself not to look after her: he wasn't a teenage boy for God's sake.

The drink came just as the music changed from Elvis to something else that Vermeer couldn't identify. Sipping sparingly at his Scotch, he wondered what his old buddies would have thought of this place. Certainly Joe would have hated it here. He would have fucking despised the place. But some of the others would have sat here and laughed their asses off. Vermeer thought back to that time: he had never noticed during the war, but always afterwards, that the time where he'd fought on the Pacific had been the simplest time of his life. There'd been no question of what he had to do, or what was coming up. When he'd come back from the war, he had been completely out of place with the usual way of life for American men. He was unmarried, unemployed, and uneducated. What a change the 50's were from the 30's, where an honest man could live on physical labour and families were a burden that worsened your chances of survival. He had learned all that during the Depression: he'd had no choice.

He looked around again. He could name every single personality in this place. There was James Dean, right down there, looking so out of place obediently taking orders. And there was Marilyn Monroe, holding her skirt down in the classic image. And there was Buddy Holly, hair and all...

Vermeer almost choked on his drink. Buddy Holly was Mr Pink! Sweet Jesus Christ! Mr. Pink was working here? Vermeer tried not to laugh. The heist was in two days and here he was, working in Jack Rabbit Slim's. He's either an eccentric professional or a major amateur, Vermeer thought. He better know what he's doing.

Vermeer shook his head. Now he really couldn't get caught or else he'd be able to tell them where two of the other guys worked, and give them someone else to trace against Mr. Orange. Whoever that black guy was, they could connect him to Orange and then Orange would join Joe, Eddie, Pink, and Brown on the list of people that Vermeer could turn in.

Well, here's one thing for sure, Vermeer thought as the steak was laid down in front of him, the fucking police are never taking me alive if this goes down badly. He would make sure of that.