TICKET OUT

By Colin C. Conway

     There was never a plan. 

      Devising contingency options for every conceivable scenario wasn’t for me.  Instead, I’ve always preferred a simple mission, one without the restrictions of forethought or the hype of exceptional preparation. 

      For me, operating without a plan was based on the wisdom I’ve gained from prior experience. 

      For the two morons who walked into the Bank of Washington, operating without a plan wasn’t anything more than amateurism.  It was evident from the moment they started.

      The first one through the door was a tall and skinny with bird-like features.  His short nose was thin and hooked.  The cheekbones in his face were long and pronounced.  The eyes, set a little too close, jumped at every motion.  His hand gripped a Glock and he wasn’t wearing a mask.   

      “Everybody on the ground,” he yelled loud enough for the people across the street to hear.

       Running in behind him was a stump of a man, all fat and long hair.  His baggy jeans were held up by a belt cinched tightly around his waist.  The way the belt dug up under his belly fat had to be uncomfortable on the bastard.  In his two meaty paws, he clenched a shotgun.  He wasn’t wearing a mask either.

      Amateurs.

      Fat Boy racked a round as he slid to a stop on the slick tile floor with his shotgun pointed in the air.

      That’s when the shooting started. 

      Carla and I were in the bank for several minutes before those two showed up.  Our faces were covered with black ski masks and we both wore blue cover-alls that we planned to shed once we fled the bank.  My motorcycle was hidden behind a strip mall a block away from the bank and its cameras.  That was our getaway rig. 

      We had everything under control in seconds.  The old, gray security guard lay face down in the corner on the opposite side of the lobby from us.  The handful of customers in front of the teller’s counter were in similar positions.  Near me was a mother and her little daughter.  The mother whimpered while the girl stared up at me with frightened eyes.

      Behind the counter were three employees: a grey haired woman in her fifties, a young black girl in her early twenties and a pencil neck in a blue blazer.  The grey-haired broad ran from cash drawer to cash drawer with a pillow case we brought, stuffing it with money. 

      Things were going smoothly until the bumbling idiots charged in.

      My woman, Carla, spun around with her gun up, ready for trouble and Birdman shot her in the eye.  Carla dropped heavily to the ground.  It was a lucky shot, no doubt, but it killed her nonetheless.

      Both Birdman and Fat Boy fired in my direction and I jumped out of the way with nothing for cover.  Fat Boy’s shotgun blast blew off a huge chunk of the bank teller’s counter just above my head. 

      “Sumbitch!” Birdman screamed when the security guard righted himself and shot back at the idiots. 

      Fat Boy scrambled behind a column near the front door after a round whizzed by him.   Birdman followed suit with the column opposite his partner.  The security guard visually checked their positions and I knew it would only be a moment before he would turn his attention to me. 

      I snatched up a four year-old insurance policy and climbed back to my feet.  The security guard’s gun tracked me as I bumped into the teller’s counter with my back.  I couldn’t see the bumbling idiots but the security guard had me dead to rights. 

      When Birdman poked his head out, the security guard cranked off a round to force him back. 

      The security guard hunkered down behind a large metal desk.  Only his upper torso was exposed and he held his revolver in both his hands.  He was an old, grizzled son-of-a-bitch in a brown jacket and white shirt.  His hands were solid and his aim steady.  With the luck I’d had so far, he was probably an old war vet.  He glared at me like General Patton.

      “Drop the gun,” the General commanded.

      “No chance,” I croaked through dry lips.

      The young girl in my arms squirmed until I pinned her tighter against me.  I shook the kid to emphasize a point to both her and the security guard.  My gun hung heavy in my right hand.  I didn’t want the General making any funky decisions based on what he thought I might do.

      We were in a stand-off that couldn’t last long.  I was in the open to the General, but he wouldn’t shoot because of the brat in front of me.  Birdman and Fat Boy both had hard cover, but they couldn’t get a clear look at me or the security guard.  It wouldn’t be long before the cops showed up and really turned things sideways.

      I glanced down over near the door.  Carla lay on the marble floor with her head tilted at an odd angle.  Even under the mask, I could tell her eye was missing, replaced by a gaping hole.  Dark blood drained out, painting an ugly mural under her head.  The black Sig Sauer she came in with lay near her shoulder. 

      Carla wanted to rob the Bank of Washington and dreamt about it every day since we’d met.  The bank sat back from the street, a large L-shaped parking lot acting as a buffer from the riff-raff racing north bound on Ruby Street .

      Carla and I found each other one afternoon in early summer.  She came to the Charity House to escape her ex-husband who didn’t believe in divorce or the order of protection the judge slapped on him after he beat her.  I found the house after I hit the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle.  We both had our demons.  Mine just ran out occasionally when the bottle dried up.

      It didn’t take long for us to find each other. 

      When she told me about her childhood dream of robbing a bank, I confessed my sins to her.  My stories made her eyes light up and pride swelled in my chest.  I knew at that exact moment we would end up knocking over a bank together.

      Carla was a frail blonde that stood almost five foot nine.  She told me a lot of guys had used her and thrown her aside during her thirty-five years.  He ex-husband left her but would still beat on her when he came calling after a drinking binge.  She looked like an angel to me and I couldn’t understand how anyone could hurt her. 

      We left the House of Charity after a week and spent our first three nights in the Downtowner Motel.  It seemed like the lap of luxury, even with the hookers and dopers passing by our door at all hours.  I’d had my share of women, but Carla was my first angel.  Lying in bed with her, the sheets damp with sweat, I had everything I needed in the world.  So when she started talking about the bank again, I knew I’d give her what she wanted.

      Watching her bleed out on the floor, I realized I ended up killing her by feeding her crazy idea.

      General Patton slid down the length of the desk and watched me out of the corner of his eye.  He was moving to get a better look at Birdman who was behind the closest pillar to him. 

      “It doesn’t have to go down this way,” he said half-heartedly.  The thrill of combat and the glory of old war medals flashed in his eyes.

      I clutched the girl next to me.  She weighed probably forty pounds and didn’t say a single word after I grabbed her. 

      “Jimmy,” the fat one yelled.

      “Yeah?”

      “Shoot that guard,” Fat Boy ordered.

      “Why’n should I do that, Billy?  Let’s cut and run.”

      “They got us on camera.  I ain’t runnin’ without gettin’ paid.”

      Jimmy said something that sounded like ‘alright’.

      Fat Boy Billy peered out from behind the column and saw me.  He nodded in my direction and I nodded back.  I guess he thought we were brothers. 

      Billy continued to slither around the column to peek at the security guard.  His back was exposed to me as he watched the guard.  He didn’t have a decent shot like I did but he could definitely hit the General if he took his time. 

      “Jimmy,” he said.  “Take a shot at the bastard.”

      Birdman Jimmy stuck his gun out from behind the column, but didn’t reveal himself.  The security guard waited and watched.  The war hero knew not to waste a shot, but he focused all of his attention on where the skinny one was hiding.

      Fat Boy Billy leaned around the column and leveled his gun. 

      I whispered into the ear of the little girl I still clutched in my left arm, “Don’t scream.”  When the shot came she didn’t make a sound but lifted her hands up to her ears.  The other customers in the bank shrieked uncontrollably.

      The security guard jerked his gun in my direction but didn’t fire.  Fat Boy Billy staggered before collapsing to the ground, his shotgun clattering across the hard tile.

      “Billy,” Jimmy yelled.  “Did you get him?”

      When Billy didn’t answer, Jimmy hollered his name again.

      I knelt and put the girl on the ground.  “Lie down and don’t look up, kid,” I whispered and she did exactly as she was told.

      My eyes locked on to the security guard as I stood up.  He watched me for a moment before turning his attention back to Jimmy. 

      Jimmy’s voice was frantic when he screamed Billy’s name again.  It wouldn’t take long for Birdman to lose control and make a break for the exit.  I couldn’t have that.

      It took ten quick strides to get behind him while he desperately tried to locate the security guard.  Birdman Jimmy never knew what hit him.  I fired a round that blew the top of his head off.  I owed him for Carla. 

      I was on my way out of the bank before his body stopped shaking.

      Once outside, I trotted behind the bank where I knew there were no cameras and shed my mask.  I stuffed it in my pocket and hurried across the street to the strip-mall’s parking lot.  When I got into a group of cars, I dropped down between a black van and over-sized pick-up truck.  Quickly, I slipped out of the cover-alls.  I stuffed them and the mask underneath the van.  My fingers ran through my hair and did their best to make me look presentable.   

      Sirens burst into the area as several police cars raced into the parking lot of the bank.

      When I stood up the world saw my bright red KISS t-shirt, faded Levi’s and black converse.  My gun was tucked underneath my shirt.  No one cared because everyone’s attention was focused on the bank across the street.

      I hurried through the parking lot and wandered into Target.  An hour later, I had a hand basket filled with crap I barely knew I put in.  I sat the basket down on a shelf and pretended to look for my wallet.  I continued the charade with an eventual shrug and slowly ambled out of the store. 

      The parking lot was still full and I could see the cops across the street.  Marked and unmarked police cars were everywhere with their lights flashing under the hot sun.  A large group of gawkers watched every move by the boys in blue. 

      I bummed a smoke from a kid with nose piercings as he headed toward the store.  He fired up his Zippo and lit the cigarette for me.  With a quick drag, I filled my lungs in hopes of calming myself down and forcing Carla’s image from my mind.

      My feet shuffled and I lowered my head.  I had nowhere to go now that she was gone.  She was supposed to be here with me.  The bank job was supposed to be our ticket to a new life.  Instead, I had nothing, just like always.

      I swallowed over a small lump in my throat and ignored the dull ache in my chest.  I walked east without any idea where I was going or what I would do. 

      There was never a plan.

 

Copyright 2006 by Colin C. Conway

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Colin C. Conway has published stories in Crime Scene Scotland, Shred of Evidence, and Thuglit. Visit him at http://www.thewayofthecon.com