"If I carry a handgun, I'll score a longer jail
sentence," I said.
Zach wagged his head. "I fixed that problem. The
handgun is a fake."
I heard a gut chuckle behind us. "Law don't care,
homeboy," said J.J. in the rear seat. "Po-po say a piece a
piece."
"J.J., quit trying to scare Chelsea," said
Zach.
"Trying?” Drop-jawed, I looked at Zach. “I'm
already petrified.”
“Sure. The first heist always puts butterflies in your
stomach,” said Zach.
“J.J. strap real heat. No plastic,” said J.J..
“J.J., keep that niner out of sight.” Zach tipped
his chin at me. “Questions, Chelsea?”
“I might skip a step,” I said.
“What say?” J.J. scoffed. “It simple. You loot 'da
bank. Run out. We jet.”
I sat silent. We waited in Zach's gray Oldsmobile Delta
88. The parking lot in the late afternoon sat almost empty. Only the
bank teller's VW and manager's used Benzy were parked in the far slots.
We'd cased the bank and had its routines down pat. This was the ideal
time to hit it. This was our last rehearsal.
“You've served state time, J.J.?” I asked.
“Is a frog's ass watertight?” replied J.J.
Zach sounded testy. “J.J., play it cool, man.”
Zach was my boyfriend. His wild streak was what I fell
for only weeks ago. I took in a breath and stepped outside of myself.
Why did I sit in a getaway car with two bank robbers? Simple. I'd make a
fast buck. Buy me plenty of iPods, CDs, handbags, jewels, and clothes.
Far better, I'd grown addicted to love the adrenaline blitz. Something
still rankled me.
"I veto the handgun," I said.
Zach didn't like what he heard. "The handgun is a
fake."
"Plastic heat? Dumb. They know," said J.J..
I shifted in my seat to face Zach. "What if the
cops storm inside, their handguns drawn? You know, the ones that shoot
real bullets?”
J.J. was terse. "Kiss your ivory ass adios."
Zach slapped his hand on the steering wheel. "No
cops will storm inside. Our careful planning mitigates such risks."
“Uh-huh.” J.J. smacked his lips. "This a clean
heist. All J.J. ever hear."
"Why do I go inside?" I sent Zach a
questioning glance. "Why not you?" I pointed over my shoulder.
"Or, why not J.J.?"
"Banks got it in for us," said J.J..
“True. We've pulled one too many heists,” said Zach.
J.J. grunted. “J.J. dig the free world. Not rat cages.”
“How many heists have you pulled?” I asked.
J.J. grunted louder. “Don't ask.”
Fear left me feeling cold inside. I folded my arms over
my chest. My breath heaved in and out. "I say scrap this
heist."
"Girl be talking crazy again," said J.J..
Zach started to roll his eyes. He then shrugged into an
appeal. "Chelsea, we hashed all that out."
"You said I can pull the plug any time," I
said.
"Girl be talking crazy again," said J.J..
"Just to get on with planning this heist,"
said Zach.
"Uh-huh," said J.J..
“It's still a mission go,” said Zach.
“Game on,” said J.J..
I squinted my eyes to gape out the dirty windshield. My
stomach rumbled. An odd thought struck me. What would my mom say? She'd
never get it. We never had a nickel. That's how I'd put it to her. Money
greases the world's axis. Money talks. "The bank looks small. How
much?"
"Thirty grand," said J.J..
Zach scratched his collar bone, a nervous habit.
"At the very least. More maybe. Where's your money sack?"
I held up the cloth bag, growled out my line to the bank
teller. "Fill it up."
"Pitch perfect. Remember to ditch any exploding dye
packs," said Zach.
J.J. snickered. "Girl come out a blueberry."
Gesturing with his hands, Zach sketched out the steps.
"The nervous bank teller is a pushover. The manager is a
half-blind, old fart. He'll cower in a corner.”
“He no trouble,” said J.J..
Zach nodded. “Yeah. Then you demand the ducats. Split
the scene. I'm our wheelman. J.J., the lookout. You catch now?"
“Videocams? Alarms? Security Guards?” I asked.
“All duds. J.J. work his black magic.”
“Banks quit hiring rent-a-cops.” Zach grinned. “No
return in on investment.”
J.J.'s blunt finger poked my shoulder. "But watch
your six, girl. Always."
Grunting, Zach turned in his seat. "J.J., quit
scaring Chelsea. Our plan will go like clockwork."
Shrugging, J.J. let his lidded eyes drift off.
"Cool by me. Wind it up, Timex."
Zach twirled the ignition key. The Olds 88's engine
spluttered to life. He palmed it into gear to prowl out of the parking
lot. I pictured myself tomorrow dashing out, a bulging cash sack in one
hand and a fake handgun in the other.
Just then, J.J.'s huge hand lunged over the seat and
crushed Zach's shoulder. Zach groaned. J.J. grinned his gangsta metal
teeth. "Plan changes,” he said. “Game on, now."
My mouth dropped open. Zach winced from the pain in
J.J.'s grip. "You be tripping, fool?" he asked.
“J.J. is no fool,” I said.
“Damn skippy.” J.J. scowled. "Game on,
now."
I caught J.J.'s leer glittering in the rearview mirror.
“You hurt Zach's shoulder and he can't drive us away. No bling for J.J.”
J.J. released Zach. “Game on, now.”
Rubbing his shoulder, Zach checked his wristwatch.
"Six minutes past two, J.J.. Today is too late."
I nodded, feeling a flood of relief. "Tomorrow is
better. Really."
We chilled a little. My tired thoughts wandered off.
Once called “an odd girl” by Zach, I did have a bit of an obsession
with lady bank robbers. I'd read all about them. Watched all the movies,
too. Bonnie Parker, Kate “Ma” Barker, Barbara Stanwyck, Patty
Hearst, Thelma and Louise.
After moving in with Zach, I'd asked him point blank,
“But why rob banks?”
“We apply Willie Sutton logic,” replied Zach in a
worshipful tone. “'Because that's where the money is'.”
“Was Willie any good at robbing banks?” I asked.
Zach smirked. “Not good, Chelsea. Willie Sutton was
the best.”
Ah then, I'd thought. Willie must be the patron saint
for bank robbers. But Willie was a man. I went to the library and online
in my search for a lady patron saint. None had emerged. I discovered
that men bank robbers used guns. Ladies didn't like blood and guts. We
used our wiles. That was key. Wiles.
J.J. stirred in back. "Game on now and we be all
done."
Zach, gritting his teeth, keyed off the Olds 88's
engine. "J.J. raises a valid point, Chelsea. We go today, it's
completed. We're flush. Tonight we sleep like newborns."
My heart pulse revved up as my mouth went dry. "But
I'm not ready today."
"Girl, better get ready," said J.J..
"Just stroll into the bank lobby. Stay cool. You're
in control," said Zach.
“Always stay cool,” said J.J..
A spasm of cold fear drove through my me. My hands felt
shaky. "My nerves are too jittery."
"Girl, better get ready," repeated J.J..
“J.J., you're not helping us,” said Zach.
“I'll mix up the right steps,” I said, timid.
"Here, use my cell phone." Zach handed it to
me. "We'll talk you through the robbery."
“Sure enough.” Nervous, I giggled. “I'll become
the cell phone bandit.”
“Right. We'll guide you through each part,” said
Zach.
"Lookout don't guide," said J.J., disgusted.
Zach's hand reached across me in the seat. My door
unlatched. "J.J., give me your cell phone." Zach called my
cell phone number on it. We connected and exchanged hellos. "See?
Easy. You're good to go, Chelsea."
"Wind it up, Timex," said J.J..
I swallowed. Twice. "All right. I'll do it. Cheer
me on, guys."
"Loot the bank. We cheer then," said J.J..
Smiling with guile, I nodded my way out of the Olds 88.
The sun left longer shadows I strolled through to the bank's front. Gold
bricks radiated the day's heat. Walking faster, I set it straight in
mind what I wanted and had a plan to grab it. Money, by God, talked. I
sidled through the bank's glass door.
The lobby in its soft-toned light smelled of eucalyptus.
I sneezed. Three teller windows stretched across the rear. “Check.”
My bank teller manned the middle window. She was a spare lady a smidgen
under my height. “Check.” My gaze scanned but didn't spot the
half-blind, old manager. “H'm.”
I rang up Zach and held the cell phone to my ear.
"You in?"
"Check. But I don't any sign of the manager,"
I said.
"Not a showstopper. Walk, don't run, to the bank
teller's window. Smile. Tell her to fill the bag."
"Zach, wait. Something feels wrong."
"What now?"
I smiled at the bank teller now letting her gaze fall on
me. "The lobby is too quiet."
"Uh, Chelsea. It's empty."
The bank teller smiled back at me. I approached her.
"No, I mean creepy quiet," I said.
"May I help you, ma'am?" asked the bank
teller.
My mind went blank. I blinked at the bank teller and
hissed into the cell phone. "What do I say? I forgot."
“Christ Jesus.” Zach's voice tensed. "Say 'this
is a bank holdup. No alarms. No cops. Just give me the money'.”
The puzzled bank teller looked at me. "May I help
you, ma'am?"
I turned my shoulder, whispering. "Wait. If left my
handgun in the glove compartment."
Zach groaned over the cell phone. "No handgun?
Christ Jesus."
A new voice rasped in my ear. "Yo, girl. This J.J..
Just look bad. She get the right idea."
"Hey, I need better instructions here." I
smiled again at the bank teller.
Zach came on again. "Say, 'this is a hold-up. Money
goes in the bag.'"
"Zach, I can't do this," I said.
The bank teller tapped me on the wrist. "Ma'am, I
can take you right on if you'll hang up now."
"Damn it, Chelsea. Do it," said Zach.
Do it. Right. I thumbed the Cancel button. Drew in a
deep breath. My heart hammered too hard. The money bag stuffed in my
pocket stayed put. Who needed a boyfriend like Zach and his crazy pal
J.J.? I ginned up a story on the fly. I looked the bank teller square in
the eye.
"As I came up the sidewalk just now, I passed by
two suspicious-looking men. They're sitting in an Olds 88 right now out
back of your bank."
The bank teller's eyes widened, then squinted at me in
shrewd appraisal. "Uh-huh. Who was that on your cell phone?”
“My dumb boyfriend. He needs a stake for poker night.
Not again, I told him.” I rolled my eyes. “Did I say I saw one man
in the Olds 88 holding a handgun?”
“Not again,” said the bank teller. “Okay, I know
the drill. Police are en route. Bank doors locked down. Dye packs
activated."
"How long before the cops arrive?" I asked.
"A few minutes. They also know the drill,"
said the bank teller.
Switching off the cell phone vibrating in my pocket, I
nodded and smiled. "Good. I feel better already."
The bank teller lifted her gaze over my shoulders to the
bank doors. “Just hunker down and wait.”
My mind raced ahead. I'd run the risk that the police
might confiscate my cell phone and put me with Zach and J.J.. Worst case
scenario, I'd face light jail time, if any. Probation probably. But I
now knew the ins and outs to a bank heist. I'd later case ripe, new
targets.
Except I'd do it solo. No three-way split. No bossy men
prodding me. No phoned in instructions. Finally, no handguns. No need.
Wily girls always relied on deceit. A heist planned in excruciating
detail, I'd never bungle one. Buy me plenty of iPods, CDs, handbags,
jewels, and clothes.
“Ma'am, you reported the two robbers?” The quaver
belonged to the half-blind, old manager.
“They're out in the Olds 88, yes sir,” I replied.
“A mind is a terrible thing to waste,” he said.
My smile turned wry. “Quite.”
Copyright 2007 by
Ed Lynskey
Ed Lynskey's
crime fiction novels include THE DIRT-BROWN DERBY
(Mundania Press, 2006), THE BLUE CHEER (Point Blank/Wildside
Press), PELHAM FELL HERE (Mundania Press, 2007), and TROGLODYTES
(Mundania Press, 2008). A science fiction novel, THE QUETZAL
MOTEL (Mundania Press), is due out in 2007.
