The Sour Lemon Score

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Parker put the revolver away and looked out the windshield. The bank was half a block away along the sunny street. Andrews hadn’t come out yet.

Next to Parker the driver, a man named George Uhl, rubbed his palms on the steering wheel and said, “What’s taking him so long? Where is he?” It was a cool day, the temperature around seventy, but there was sweat on his forehead.

From the back seat Benny Weiss leaned forward and put a hand on Uhl’s shoulder, saying, “Take it easy, George. Phil knows what he’s doing; he’s a good man. He’s got to be sure nobody sees him do it, that’s all.”

Uhl nodded rapidly. “I’m just worried about the armored car,” he said. “It’ll be here and gone—”

“No, it won’t, George. We’ve got a good five minutes. Relax, boy. Phil’s a good man.”

Parker listened to them, gauging them from the conversation. If Uhl was going to fall apart the whole operation was out the window. When Andrews came out of the bank they’d just turn around and drive away.

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