Jimmie, the more seasoned criminal, seemed to have great instincts and was fearless. He was of the firm opinion that no two robberies should take place in the same state, and Hugh readily agreed. Sissy did not have a vote in the planning and was content to nap in the back seat. The boys allowed her to wear some of the loot from Mason’s and she had a delightful time modeling necklaces and bracelets.
At ten the following morning, they hit a store in Ripley, Tennessee, and four hours later raided Toole’s Jewelers in Cullman, Alabama. The only hitch occurred when Mr. Toole fainted at the sight of Jimmie’s Ruger and appeared dead when they wrapped him in duct tape.
After four flawless heists, they decided not to push their luck and headed home. They were exhilarated by the ease of their crimes and impressed by their own guile and coolness under pressure. Sissy in particular was a natural at playing the starry-eyed bride-to-be and emanated pure affection for Hugh as she tried on ring after ring. He couldn’t keep his hands off her, nor could the men on the other side of the counter ignore her sumptuous features. They began to think of themselves as modern-day Bonnie and Clydes, roaring through small towns of the South, leaving no clues, and getting rich.
When Biloxi was an hour away, they began to bicker about storage. Who would keep the loot, and where? How would they divide things? Hugh and Jimmie had no plans to split things evenly with Sissy; she was nothing more than a stripper, though they enjoyed her company, laughed at her goofiness, and became lightheaded when she undressed. However, both men were smart criminals and knew full well that she was the weak link. If a cop showed up with questions, she would be the first to squeal. They finally agreed to allow Hugh to hide the goods in his apartment for a few days. Jimmie claimed to know a contact in New Orleans who would fence the jewelry for a fair price.
Two weeks passed without a word, no hint of trouble. Hugh went to the main library in Biloxi and scoured newspapers from Louisiana, Arkansas, Tennessee, and Alabama, and saw nothing. News of the robberies had not been reported by the bigger newspapers. The library did not subscribe to the small-town weeklies. He and Jimmie assumed, correctly, that the police in the four towns were not cooperating because they didn’t know of the similar crimes.
* * *
Hugh parked his Firebird in a public lot one block south of Canal Street in New Orleans. He and Jimmie wandered into the French Quarter and went to the Chart Room on Decatur, and had a beer. Each carried a bulky gym bag filled with their loot. The next step was treacherous because of the unknowns. The dealer was a man named Percival, supposedly a man who could be trusted. But who in hell could be trusted in such a cutthroat business? For all they knew, Percival could be working undercover and perfectly willing to ensnare them in a sting that could send them to prison. Jimmie had worked his contacts and was confident they were headed to the right place. Hugh had sought the advice of Nevin Noll and fed him a line about a friend who needed to fence some diamonds. Nevin drilled deeper into the underworld and came back with the word that Percival was legit.
His shop was on Royal Street, between two high-end merchants of fine French antiques. They entered nervously but tried to appear calm, as if they knew exactly what they were doing. They were impressed by the display cases of rare coins, thick gold bracelets, and gorgeous diamonds. A chubby little man with a black cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth appeared from between thick curtains and without a smile asked, “Help you?”
Hugh swallowed hard and said, “Sure, we need to see Percival.”
“What are you looking for?”
“We’re not buying. We’re selling.”
He frowned as if he might either open fire or call the police. “Got a name?”
“Jimmie Crane.”
He shook his head as if the name meant nothing. “Selling what?”
“Got some diamonds and stuff,” Jimmie said.
“You ain’t been here before.”
“Nope.”