Chapter 10

Looking at Mr. Pink as he ate his lunch, Vermeer could see that the mustache and beard were fake. It was almost impossible to see it, and Vermeer had to really fucking squint to see anything. He almost wanted to see Mr. Pink's face when he asked him to sing a bit of "Peggy Sue" or "That'll be the Day".

Vermeer glanced, out of the corner of his eyes, at Mr. Pink as he lifted the coffee mug to his lips and drink. When he was finished, the mustache was untouched.

My God, Vermeer thought, this guy was good. Nobody could notice the facial hair as being pasted on. Must hurt like hell to peel off.

He said nothing about it of course: he wasn't going to make an ass of himself. He merely chatted with the others as they ate their lunch in a small diner called Big Kahuna. Mr. White had picked a booth by the window: suspicious guy, making sure nobody was tailed. Really smart, Vermeer thought, compared to some of these other idiots. Mr. Orange for one was nothing more than a little pussy that bluffed too loudly. Mr. Brown was even more of a loud mouth.

Still, at least Mr. Brown said stuff that was mildly interesting. Mr. Orange was quiet, and when he spoke, he sounded obnoxious in Vermeer's opinion.

As Vermeer listened, Mr. Brown went into a discussion about how Francis Ford Coppola was a genius for making The Godfather Part 3 so good, but was still an idiot to replace Winona friggin Ryder with his daughter. The girl couldn't act for shit, he ranted, and Vermeer couldn't help but agree.

Mr. Blonde looked jaded as he crammed bits of burger into his mouth, taking noisy slurps of his Sprite in between. Mr. White fastidiously cut pieces of steak with the biggest knife in the goddamn diner. Vermeer himself had not taken steak for once: he'd ordered chicken fingers with fries. He'd also taken a Coke but had had to take another after finishing it so quickly.

Mr. Brown had moved on from the third Godfather film to the first two, and was having an argument with Mr. Pink about which was better. Mr. Pink seemed only half-interested, while Mr. Orange seemed to only talk to Mr. White. Mr. White was far more social, but Orange clung to the older man like a leech. Vermeer couldn't help but remember the old negro in the diner and how Orange had embraced him like a friend.

Even if he had gotten out of such a bad situation as being in a bathroom with four LAPD officers and a bag of drugs, he was still an insolent little pup. A pup with too much attitude and neither bark nor bite. That was even worse than Mr. Brown, who was a little puppy that was all bark and no bite.

Vermeer looked at Mr. Blonde. There had been men in his platoon who were like Blonde. Blonde was a man who would never be broken, bribed, or intimidated. Blonde seemed to have a certain psychopathic touch in his head that actually made him the perfect man to have in a crime organization. Vermeer couldn't help but remember Luca Brasi from The Godfather when he saw the way Mr. Blonde was. He seemed to imply the worst, even at rest or at a casual gathering. Nobody but Vermeer recognized it, so it seemed, but it was hard to tell if you hadn't been around such men in the war.

"Hey, Mr. Blue,' Mr. White spoke over his thoughts, 'Could you pass me the salt?"

Vermeer gave him the salt, and then looked to what Mr. Brown was rambling about so that he wouldn't look scared. The guy laughed too quick at other people's jokes, he could get into these long monologues, but he wasn't trying to be an asshole, so Vermeer was lenient.

Mr. Brown immediately projected a question onto Vermeer, "Hey, what do you think was better? Platoon or Full Metal Jacket?"

Vermeer thought about it, "I liked Full Metal Jacket better."

Mr. Brown looked surprised, "You mean you didn't think Platoon was a good film?"

"I didn't say that. I said I thought Full Metal Jacket was the superior film."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well... I don't know, the whole scene on the island was really well-made."

Mr. Brown shook his head, "Okay I'll be fair, I'll give you that, the island training was great. But seriously, how could you place the shitty Vietnam scenes above the whole fucking movie in Platoon? I mean, in Platoon, you feel like you're with these guys in the jungle, you know? The fucking Vietnam veterans all relate to this film." Mr. Brown's whole mind set seemed riveted on this conversation. He didn't even notice a fly buzzing around his face.

Vermeer broke in, "Sure, that's great and all, but I'm not a Vietnam veteran, and I can relate more to Full Metal Jacket."

"How?" Mr. Brown asked incredulously.

Vermeer spoke again, "Full Metal Jacket is meant to represent all wars. Why the fuck do you think there was no footage shot in the jungle? He wanted to show the effects of war."

Mr. Brown raised his eyebrows, "And it did it's job better than Platoon?"

Vermeer frowned, "Aren't you making a bit of a big deal about this? They're both good films, for God's sake."

Mr. Brown shrugged and resumed eating. Vermeer sighed and took out one of the Cuban cigars that Joe had given him as a present. He was tired and wanted to go to bed early tonight. The robbery was tomorrow, and then he'd be finished with this shit.

He looked over at Mr. White, "So when do we meet Joe for breakfast?" Joe had said he was going to pay for breakfast on the day of the heist, then he was going to arrange things before meeting them at the warehouse that they'd found as their rendezvous point.

Mr. White thought about it, "He said something like eight in the morning."

Vermeer nodded, then picked up another piece of chicken. It really was good food. He ought to order some more for later.

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Gallo still felt a bit intimidated by the others, but they hadn't done anything to antagonize him so far. He wondered if they knew that Alice was going to come with them. Would Joe tell them not to talk about their crime lives even after the robbery was done?

Probably: Joe wasn't stupid. He would probably tell them later on or something. Or maybe he'd keep Alice and Gallo away from the others. Gallo didn't know for sure, but he hoped that it all turned out okay.

Meanwhile he tried to concentrate on his food for once, which was pretty cooled off by the time he got to it. He wondered what he was going to do after lunch. Probably pack or something. He would have to ask Joe to pre-set his belongings so that he could go pick up Alice, who'd be waiting with her own stuff. Hopefully everything would go smoothly.

Just to make sure, Gallo went to call Joe after lunch. The gravelly voice answered slowly, "Who's this?"

Gallo was paying from a pay phone, "Yeah Joe, it's me. Am I calling at a bad time?"

"No. What is it?" Joe's voice sounded suspicious. Perhaps he was trying to guess why Gallo would be calling him now.

Gallo was nervous, "Is it all arranged about me and Alice?"

Joe's voice immediately sounded more relaxed, "Yeah yeah. Eddie already called her. He's gonna get one of our guys to get her and bring her to the airport. Make sure you give her your luggage. The guy will take care of it. Don't worry about anything, okay? You're gonna drive them outta there, to the warehouse, and everything will go as planned."

Gallo was relieved. He had it right now, "Thanks a lot, Joe. So how long are we gonna be away?"

Joe paused over the phone, "Give it a month or so. I'm not sure exactly how long."

"I just need to know because of my store, you know."

"Tell them a month."

"Okay." He hung up.

Joe. He might as well have been called Corleone. Well, maybe not that. Perhaps more of that new mobster, "Goodfellas" or whatever. Paulie Cicero. Yeah that guy seemed more like Joe's type.

Gallo went home to pack. He wondered what he would do about his store. Who was going to look after it?

He went down to the video store, where he knew the two guys were working. Both of them were good guys, loyal, never stealing from him. He made doubly sure: they had replaced ten other guys who'd been fired for theft.

They looked up when Gallo came in. Gallo gave it to them straight: he was going on a vacation for about a month. Gallo told them that he'd be calling up once a week, and that he knew he could trust them to be honest.

Next, Gallo went home and began to pack. He took his one tuxedo and set it aside for the next day. They were all supposed to be wearing tuxedoes for the robbery, but Gallo wasn't entirely sure why. Oh well. Whatever it fucking took to get it over with.

As Gallo packed the one suitcase he had, a piece of black bile seemed to be growing in the back of his throat. He was about to be involved in a robbery, where he may need to use the gun that was hidden under his pillow, and then he would go on a paid vacation with the other five guys for a month. All the while he would be lying to Alice and covering it up.

If Gallo hadn't been used to this feeling welling up inside of him, he would have become completely lost in the despair. But he'd grown used to having to shove his real fear down into his gut, so this was just another one of those times. As Gallo had always done every time he'd had this feeling, he convinced himself that it would be the last time he would have to do this.