5 Against The House [Hardcover] Jack Finney

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WITHIN minutes we were all downstairs and in Brick’s car, a green ’52 Ford convertible, parked in front of the house. Brick had his leather jacket on, Jerry had a forest-green cashmere sweater pulled over his wool shirt, I’d put on my navy-surplus jacket, and Guy came along last, managing, as usual, to look ridiculous, in a long green slicker, plaid cap, and a wide grin. We drove out Main, the windshield wipers clacking away, on past the main business district, and into Fleck-man Street, forking off to the left; it took us ten minutes, maybe, to reach the Brink’s office. We were all exuberant; Jerry and Brick, in the front seat, quietly so, not saying anything, but turning to glance back every now and then with a grin. In the back seat with me, Guy had that damn plaid cap pulled over his eyes. “The perfect disguise,” he said, “because who’d ever wear a fool outfit like this? Nobody, obviously; so I can never be identified.” Then he had the cap turned around on his head, the peak at the back. “Call me Robin Hood,” he said. “I’m giving my share, except for a few hundred thousand, to the deserving and pitiful poor. ‘Bless you, Guy!’ hungry widows and orphans will cry. ‘Bless you, and your old plaid cap, symbol of mercy and courage!’ Poor but beautiful young girls will fling themselves at me. ‘Take me, Guy!’ they’ll beg. ‘Please! It’s an honour, for you are our benefactor!’ ”