Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  Once Upon a Poet

  By H. S. Peer

  © 2018 H. S. Peer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  It was the kind of night a bookish high school English teacher might write a sonnet about. The October sky was clear and silent. The weather didn’t matter to me; I was about to rob a bank.

  Bill Jenkins stood behind me by the locked door. He was working for wages, not a cut. I could have done the job myself, but Bill was a little down on his luck. Having him along as a look-out would make everything safer when things got noisy.

  I won’t trouble you with my name. Not many people know it and that suits me just fine. Everyone calls me Poet. Once, before my life on the wrong side of the tracks, I went to college and studied English literature. I still quote different works just to keep the intellectual part of my mind working.

  However learned I might be, make no mistake about what I do for a living: I am a thief, plain and simple. I steal. Cash, jewels, rare items, none of them are safe from me. Am I a tough guy? What I didn’t learn in college I learned on the street. So yeah, I am a tough guy. I usually carry a gun. At times I’ve used it. The world is a dangerous place.

  We’d driven down to Ludlow, West Virginia with this caper in mind. Bill acted like it was his first job, jumping every time we passed a police car. He had a head of kinky red hair, and his face was covered in freckles. Thin and standing just over six feet his clothes were a size too big. He looked like a clown without makeup.

  The Mercantile Bank was in a strip mall on the small town of Ludlow’s main street. There was a drug store on one side and a small coffee shop on the other. All three businesses were closed. I checked my watch; it was just after three a.m. The cops, as we learned after watching the past three nights, wouldn’t be around for an hour. They did two drive-bys during the night, lighting up the windows with their spotlights. Once we were inside, I didn’t care how many times they drove by. The car I’d stolen wasn’t parked outside in the empty lot, it was parked behind a three-story walk-up a quarter mile away.

  I pulled the key from my pocket and popped it in the lock.

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” asked Bill.

  Oh, ye of little faith. I shook my head. Before he could open his mouth again, I said, “Yes, Bill. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  I turned the key, and the deadbolt disengaged. I pulled open the door, and a beeping started from the alarm panel. I stepped inside and pushed 6-9-6-9 on the keypad. The beeping stopped, and a green light blinked at me from the panel. Bill stepped inside, and I shot the deadbolt home. I closed the window blinds just enough to make seeing inside tricky.

  The room was like any other bank. There was a waiting area marked off by a faux-velvet rope and a counter running across the center of the room. Past the counter were several desks with computers. On the right side of the room was the vault door. Even it the semi-darkness it looked ominous. It didn’t worry me; it wasn’t part of the equation.

  Behind the counter, to the left, was the manager’s office. Between the office and the vault was a short hallway. I walked through the half door that keeps the public from the business side of the counter, Bill on my heels. I headed down the hall and into the lunchroom. There was a table with mismatched chairs, a microwave, a fridge and an unruly stack of newspapers. The paint, like the rest of the bank, was a pale yellow.

  I placed the bag I was carrying on the table and unzipped it. Inside was a cordless drill, a reciprocating saw, a hammer, and a pry bar. I picked up the hammer and turned to the wall.

  “I can’t believe this is going to work,” said Bill, whispering.

  “Go watch the parking lot,” I said.

  “Good idea,” he said and left the room.

  Amateurs.

  I looked at the wall. Behind the drywall and studs were, as very few people knew, the vault. There was a three-foot section of wall that wasn’t reinforced with metal or concrete blocks. The front was covered with the impenetrable metal door, enough steel to make all the customers feel safe. What they didn’t know was with a few simple tools a criminal mastermind, like myself, could create his own doorway.

  I moved the stack of newspapers and took down the painting of a sailboat from the wall. I brought the hammer down against the drywall. It made a ragged hole. I brought it down three more times until there was a nice sized opening. With my gloved hands, I started pulled the drywall down.

  You may wonder how I discovered the secret entrance to the vault of the Mercantile Bank in Ludlow, West Virginia. Fate? Perhaps. Luck? Probably. In truth, it was a woman.

  I was looking for a place to lay low for a few days. I’d just done a job in Atlanta and was traveling back to the city by car. I heard a little of the news coverage on the radio and decided a few days in hiding might be best.

  I stopped and changed the license plates on my stolen car with the plates from another. I was hungry. Up ahead I could see a roadhouse. That was as good as any place to stop. Most of Ludlow had already closed.

  It was Thursday night, and I learned that was ladies night at the Broken Spoke Inside it was dark, smoky and smelled like spilled beer, urine, and mildew. Country music played from a Jukebox. Christmas lights hung from the rafters casting a red, yellow and green cast on the patrons. Most of them were dressed in jeans and flannel shirts.

  I found a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. The glass was spotty, and there was a hint of lipstick on the rim. I shrugged. When in Rome.

  I was trying to decide if I was brave enough to try the food when the woman pushed her way in next to me. She was tall, nearly six-foot and shaped like a pear, nothing upstairs and huge hips and behind. She had lots of curly hair and wore too much makeup. She smelled of booze and fried food. Her brown blazer and skirt, although large in size, seemed expensive.

  “Hi stranger,” she said. Her voice was husky and rough.

  I took a sip of my beer.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” she said, with a slight slur to her speech.

  “Just passing through,” I said.

  “You should stay a little while, you can have fun in our little town.” She brushed her hand down my arm. She pinched my bicep, and her eyes opened a little wider.

  “Wow,” she said.

  I didn’t want this woman, any woman. I wanted to get something to eat, steal a car and find a little out-of-the-way motel to stay in. She winked at me, turned to the bartender and ordered a double vodka and orange juice.

  Attached to her right wrist by a Flexicord was a white plastic card, like a credit card. Suddenly I was interested. I saw a name tag on her small right breast. Linda.

  Her drink arrived, and she ate the orange twist and cherry garnish. I drank a little beer and steeled myself. Sometimes it’s tough being a criminal mastermind.

  “Put that on my tab,” I said to the bartender.

  “You don’t have a tab,” he said.

  “Then run me one,” I replied giving him my barracuda smile my eyes not leaving his. He nodded and turned away.

  “Thanks,” she said, “I’m Linda.”

  “I know,” I said, pointing at her name tag.

  She giggled. Under the makeup, her face was flushed.

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  “William Yeats,” I replied.

  “Are you a Bill or a Will?”

  I put my hand over hers. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

  She giggled again.

  If she was here with someone, they didn’t see
m to mind her talking to a stranger in khaki pants and a denim shirt. What followed was two hours of inane chatter and flirting so obvious the pick-up police should have arrested me. She talked of the bank, her friends, and her house. She talked and talked and talked. And talked. I tried to concentrate on her neck, it was slim and muscled - her best feature. Focused on her neck, possibly the only sexy part on her body, I was able to listen, nod and seem interested.

  By last call, she had consumed four more drinks. Her speech was slurred and her coordination sloppy. What little conscience I had wanted to rebel.

  “Will,” she whispered in my ear, “Come home with me.”

  I tried to sound happy even though my stomach was turning over.

  “Yes,” I told her.

  I paid the tab and steered her towards the parking lot. She led me to her car, a new, white Neon. She handed me the keys, and I unlocked the passenger door. I poured her inside and jumped in. The drive back to her house was a challenge. She was fading in and out, and I had to backtrack every time she woke up and saw where we were.

  The house was a small bungalow twenty minutes from the main road. Perfect for me. I got her into the house and led her to the bedroom. Once she saw the bed, she dropped onto it, shoes and all. I waited. In a few minutes, her body relaxed, and she was out cold. I quickly undressed her and got her under the covers.

  I wanted to sleep on the couch, but that wouldn’t work with the game I was trying to play. I went into the kitchen, rustled through the fridge and smoked a cigarette. I could hear Linda snoring in the bedroom. I did a quick look on the main floor. I poked in the desk drawers, looked in the closets, and checked the kitchen cupboards. I didn’t find anything interesting. She had decorated the place well in pastel tones. The furniture while not expensive was comfortable.

  With nothing left to do, I went into the bedroom and undressed to my shorts. I flipped out the light and slipped into bed next to her. God help me.

  When her alarm went off the next morning, I heard her groan from the bedroom. I’d been up for hours and had made coffee. I brought a mug into the bedroom. If she was surprised to see a man in her bedroom she didn’t show it.

  “My Will,” she said in that husky voice.

  I put the mug down and kissed her on the forehead. The bedclothes next to her were messed, but she didn’t ask any questions. We chatted for a while, and I held her hand until she looked at the clock and panicked. She had to get ready for work. I left her alone and flipped on CNN. There was a brief item about police all over the south turning out to find a criminal. They didn’t have a photo or a composite drawing. I knew they also didn’t have fingerprints, fiber or forensic evidence. I turned the TV off.

  She rushed into the kitchen like a hurricane; wet heir flying like whips and skirt swirling around her ankles. She gulped down another cup of coffee and headed for the door.

  “You’ll be here when I get back?” she asked. Did she think we slept together?

  “Maybe,” I said and gave her a seductive smile.

  She blushed a little and headed for the door.

  Easy as pie.

  I’m not a con man, that seems cheap to me. Some may argue that a thief is worse. At least I’m honest about my job; I steal items and sell them for cash. Sometimes I venture out as part of a gang for a score. I never scam the young, the stupid or the elderly. But seeing Linda, I realized how easy it would be.

  But I wouldn’t do that. I just wanted a place to crash for a couple of days and learn a little about bank security.

  I searched the house from top to bottom hoping to find some bearer bonds or stock certificates. Alas, there were none. I searched the freezer from something to make for dinner. Most of the cupboards seemed to hold soup and crackers. The pantry was full of Chef Boyardee products. I scored when I found a frozen turkey breast in the basement freezer. There were some potatoes in the kitchen that if peeled well, might be edible.

  I’ll save you the scene that follows. Let me just say there was candlelight, dinner and faked passion. Making love to her wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I concentrated on her pleasure, and after four hours she was sated. Then she talked about the bank where she was the assistant manager, her employees and a typical day. She talked I didn’t stop her. It seemed to be the focus of her life.

  I stayed for five days. I went to work with her one day on the pretense of picking up my car. Linda showed me around the bank when I went in to take her to lunch. It looked promising.

  What interested me most was something she mentioned on the fourth night. I was kissing her neck, and my hand was pressed between her legs. She had been talking about the lunchroom at work.

  “Want to know a secret?” she asked.

  I kissed her ear and whispered yes.

  “Our vault isn’t as safe as people think.”

  Really!

  She explained that a couple of months ago somebody had tried to hang a picture in the lunchroom. The hammer missed the nail and went into the wallboard, both pieces. Looking through the hole, you could see into the vault. Linda didn’t explain why the person had swung a hammer so hard to put it through two layers of wallboard,

  I was interested but didn’t let on. It was just another piece of the puzzle. I already knew the alarm code and the combination to the treasury safe inside the vault. She’d told me about one wealthy customer that left diamond jewelry in her safety deposit box. I’d made copies of her keys. I could get into the bank but had no way into the vault. Now I did. I was like a kid thinking about Christmas. I didn’t let it show.

  I left her the next night. After she went to bed, I stole her car and headed back to the city.

  Chapter 2

  I pushed and pulled at the drywall. With the reciprocating saw, I cut through the studs. After I was done Bill, who had returned from his vigil at the windows to check my progress, ran to the front to see if the sound had alerted anyone.

  I shone my flashlight through the two-by-three-foot hole. On the far wall of the vault, I could see a bank of safety deposit boxes.

  Bill returned. “All clear,” he said.

  I nodded. I pushed a sports bag in through the hole and followed.

  Inside the sports bag was a high-power portable halogen light. I plugged it in, and the vault was illuminated. I searched the bank of deposit boxes for the one I was after.

  There it was, number 207. The drill made short work of both the locks and I popped open the door. There was a deed, dusty bonds, old birth certificates, taxes returns and a blue velvet box the size of a pack of cigarettes.

  Inside was a diamond engagement ring, maybe three carats, one-carat diamond earrings, and a gold tennis bracelet, studded with diamonds and what appeared to be rubies. The box went in my pocket.

  “What’s going on in there,” asked Bill.

  “I’m working,” I said, with an edge to my voice that said I was not be disturbed. I was in the fabled zone, with everything in crystal-clear focus. This must have been how Hemingway felt, when sober.

  I was tempted to drill a couple of other boxes just for fun, like a criminal treasure hunt. Instinctively I didn’t. I turned to the treasury safe.

  It was a grey box four feet high, three feet wide and three feet deep. There were two combination dials on its face. I spun the dials to memorized numbers and waited for three minutes until the time lock disengaged and I could get inside.

  I opened the door and reached for the first canvas bag of money. With my butterfly knife, I opened it with the care of a coroner making a Y incision. Inside were stacks of twenties. I moved the piles into the gym bag. I repeated the process with three more bags and zipped my bag shut. There was, I guessed, about sixty grand. Not bad, but less than I expected. With the three grand, I’d get for the diamonds, less the five grand I’d give to Bill, I’d be ahead fifty-eight.

  I packed the gear. If Bill were smart enough to pull a double-cross he’d do it after I maneuvered through the hole in the wall. Against my spine in my waistband
at the small of my back was a compact 9 mm pistol. I didn’t know if Bill was armed, but I didn’t want to take the chance. He was a good kid without much in the way of brains. As a crook, he was a joke. He’d spend his entire criminal career doing small bids for ridiculous reasons. Maybe he knew that - perhaps he thought tonight could be a fresh start for him.

  I wormed my way back through the hole after dropping the bag through. I brushed myself off. Bill was standing in the hall just outside the room illuminating me with the flashlight.

  “Cut that light,” I said. He complied.

  If I had the time and the where-with-all, I would have fixed the wall, patching the hole and painting it. I’d do it on both sides if the vault door were open. Why? Just for the mystery, it would cause with the investigators.

  I took the light from Bill and did a quick double-check of the room. I had packed all the tools. There were footprints in the drywall dust, but that didn’t matter. The shoes I was wearing where two sizes too big and would be in a roadside trash bin within a couple of hours. The same for the clothes, I’d bought them a second-hand store, jeans, and a sweatshirt. They too would go in the trash. Bill, without a clue, had dressed like a stereotypical burglar, all in black with a balaclava on his head. I almost laughed when I saw him. All he needed was a large sack with dollar signs on the side.

  With the bag over my shoulder, we headed for the front door. The romantic in me wanted to drop a long-stemmed rose on Linda’s desk, a little thank you for all the information. My romantic gesture, as cruel as it was, wasn’t a prudent one. Emotions get you apprehended; therefore I showed no emotion.

  I unlocked the door, punched in the alarm code and stepped into the parking lot. After re-locking the door, I turned my face to the new moon. It was bright in Ludlow; there were no city lights to interfere.

  Bill was looking left and right, probably for a police car. “Relax,” I told him and started across the lot. Bill, like the loyal dog he was, followed. I could hear his feet crunch on the loose stones whereas I drifted like a ghost.