When It All Falls Down 2 - Strapped Up: A Chicago Hood Drama (A Hustler's Lady)

by Tamicka Higgins

  “Remember, nigga,” Tramar said, “Make sure you don’t say our names. And make sure that the sunglasses is on as soon as we walk in the door and shit.”

  “Nigga, I know,” Jackson said. “And make sure that we don’t kill nobody.”

  “Yeah,” Tramar said, putting on his pitch black sunglasses. “Let’s hope we ain’t gotta do no shit like that. There wasn’t no security guard in this bank when we went in.” A strong wind came whipping down the street, causing the various business professionals to grip their hands and bags tighter on both sides of the street. “But if there is, we just gotta stay on him. Remember….We gotta control the situation, okay? Don’t let nobody in that bank make a move unless we tell them to, you got it? Especially with they hands.”

  “Okay, nigga,” Jackson said, “but damn, it woulda been nice if I coulda at least seen the bank before we went in and did some shit like this or somethin’, nigga. I feel like you havin’ a nigga go in there blind or somethin’.”

  Tramar snickered as they were walking up to the bank’s glass door entrance. “Yeah,” he said. “Now you know how I felt when we was walkin’ up in that nigga Byron’s house. And how I felt when you left me downstairs with the hoe while you went upstairs with him. I ain’t know my way around that house and who coulda been in it.”

  “Nigga, whatever,” Jackson said. The two of them pulled the glass doors of the bank open.

  “Okay,” Tramar said. “Let’s just try to make this shit as quick as possible, okay. Keep everything smooth. Remember the plan, okay. Everything needs to stay quiet.”

  “Like church mice,” Jackson said.

  Once the two men entered the bank, they looked into one another’s eyes then around the bank. Yet again, there was no security guard on duty. Furthermore, it truly did look as if the end of the workday had approached. There was only one patron in the bank, being helped at the first teller’s station. Beyond that, there weren’t nearly as many employees as their might be in the middle of the day or at the first of the month when people came in to cash their government assistance checks.

  Tramar calmly headed up toward the teller station as Jackson walked over to where the bank’s personal bankers sat. Their happy, welcoming faces quickly turned to looks of terror when they realized why this black man in a gray suit and sunglasses had approached their area. Jackson took a quick glance out onto the street, watching the unsuspecting faces of Chicago’s business class walk by the building. In one quick move, Jackson pulled his gun out of his pocket and pointed it at the bank workers. They immediately gasped and looked away.

  “No, no, no,” Jackson said, barely opening his lips. He held his hand steady as he looked at the man and the woman. “Don’t move and don’t say a word. If you do, I swear to God I will blow your fuckin’ brains out all over this goddamn bank. Don’t look up toward the tellers or anything.”

  Jackson, remembering to keep control of the situation, looked around the bank. Everything was still as it had been when he and his boy Tramar had walked through the glass doors. He smiled and moved around the side of the large, kiosk-type desk. Ever so casually, he slouched back into a client chair, sliding the gun under the inside of his jacket while it was still pointed at the bank workers.

  “Look this way,” Jackson said, pulling their attention away from the tellers, who were stationed about thirty feet away. “Look this way and don’t say a fuckin’ word. Put your hands up on the desk.” The bank workers did as they were told. The look of terror was written all over their faces. Feeling empowered, Jackson said, “Just keep it calm and nice people, okay? Just stay calm. A nigga ain’t gon’ kill you unless you don’t act right. Just keep your hands on that counter and stay looking at me. That’s all you gotta do, okay?”

  The bank workers nodded, fearful for their lives.

  While Jackson had officially distracted the personal bankers, Tramar stood in line. Each of the three teller stations were open. However, two of the tellers had just closed down to count their drawers, which Jackson found to be perfect timing. The other was helping a tall white woman in a suit. Once she’d finished and the teller had told her to have a nice day, she walked out and around the side of the teller area. Once Tramar had seen that the woman went out of the bank’s side entrance, he stepped up to the teller station. After taking a quick look back toward Jackson and the entrance to the bank, he pulled his gun out of his pocket and pointed it toward the teller. The teller, who was a black girl that Tramar would guess to have only been a couple of years older than himself, gasped and backed away from her station.

  “Don’t move,” Tramar said, quietly, just barely above a whisper. “Don’t move. No, in fact, stand back against the drawers back there.” There was a line of white, plastic-looking drawers that ran against the wall behind the teller station. Ignoring the security cameras that overlooked the teller station, Tramar held his gun up over the counter. The other two bank workers, who looked like suburban white boys who’d gotten a job downtown to beef up their resumes, backed away. The word “shit” slipped out of one of their mouths, causing Tramar to snicker.

  “That’s right, white boy,” Tramar said. “You already know what’s happening up in here. Just back the fuck away from your drawers, with your hands away from them and shit, and just do what I say, okay? Everybody is gonna be just fine if they follow instructions, okay?”

  The three terrified bank tellers nodded their heads. After looking into one another’s eyes, unsure as to whether or not they could really believe what was happening right before their eyes, the three of them looked toward the bank’s front entrance. There, they looked at the backs of their supervisors’ heads. Once they’d seen another black guy, dressed in a gray suit with just as dark of sunglasses covering his face like the man that stood in front of them, they realized what was going on.

  “Please, don’t kill us,” one of the white males said

  Tramar leaned further over the counter, holding his lips tighter. “Shut the fuck up and open the side door over there,” he told them, motioning toward the right.

  The other two tellers, feeling too scared to breathe let alone move, watched as their coworker quickly stepped over to the side door and let Tramar into the back. Tramar, who had been carrying the big business bag that he’d bought at the mall, lifted the bag up onto the counter while keeping the gun low and pointed at the bank employees in front of him.

  “Okay,” he said, smiling and speaking in a very professional manner. “Here’s what we gon’ do.” He picked the bag up and threw it at the black female worker. “Put all your money, starting with the big bills, in the fuckin’ bag, okay,” he ordered. “And you betta not pull from that clip.”

  Tramar pushed passed the two free tellers and up to the black girl. After telling the white boys to stand in their place and not move, Tramar supervised the black woman as she carefully emptied her drawer of the hundred dollar bills then fifties then twenties. Just as she was beginning to pull out the tens, Tramar stopped her. “Bitch, I don’t give a fuck about that little shit,” he told her. “Now, go stand over there by the door until I tell you what to do next.”

  The black woman did just as she was told, praying to God that this crazy nigga, as she thought of him at that moment, did not pull the trigger and end her life. Tramar then had the white male tellers do the same, watching them each carefully pull all of the big bills out of their drawers. Once they had finished, Tramar smiled and told them, “Good. Y’all can follow instructions. Now, let’s get into that safe where the real money is.”

  Tramar looked up toward Jackson. He nodded – the nod being their way of letting the other know that everything was going as planned. Jackson and Tramar then both looked toward the door and the clock above it. They’d been inside of the bank for a couple of minutes and nobody seemed to be coming in. Tramar nodded toward the bank entrance, mouthing the words “Lock that shit.”

  Jackson quickly jumped up and locked the bank doors. Once he’d gotten back to the personal
bankers, he pulled the gun out of his jacket and pointed it at their foreheads. They whimpered, each begging to not be killed for various reasons. “Calm the fuck down with that shit,” Jackson said, whispering. “How much money this bank keep?”

  “I don’t know,” the older white man said.

  Jackson leaned forward and pressed the barrel of his gun into the white man’s head. Sweat ran down the sides of his face as if he’d just been walking for hours across California’s Death Valley in the middle of the day. “Shut the fuck up, lying and shit,” he said. “Y’all motherfuckers know how much money is kept here. How much?”

  The woman, who was to the point where she could have fallen dead on the floor from a heart attack, nodded. “Five hundred,” she said.

  “Five hundred what?” Jackson said, trying to make some sense of what he’d just been told.”

  “Thousand,” the woman said, realizing she’d just given the robbers information the bank could use to terminate her employment. “We only keep five hundred thousand to start the day off.”

  “Been a busy day in here?” Jackson asked, pointing the gun at the two of them. “Huh? Been a busy day in here?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes,” she said, sobbing. “A lot of the businesses came in and did deposits.” She looked at what appeared to be her coworker – a man who was actually her supervisor. “I’m so sorry, Tom,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “No, Belinda,” he said. “You don’t have to be sorry. These monsters are the reason for all of this. You won’t get away with this stuff, you….you….you thugs!”

  Jackson snickered, nodding his head. “Guess you just a racist-ass white man, aren’t you?” he asked.

  While Jackson kept the front half of the bank branch under control, Tramar was on top of his game in the back. He’d huddled the three bank tellers into the room behind the teller stations. Once he’d stepped inside, he quickly looked around to make sure the situation was under control. After smiling and holding a middle finger up to the security cameras, he told the black female teller, “Go on, sexy. Open the safe so we can get the fuck outta here, and y’all can have a nice weekend.”

  Doing what the man in the suit said, the black female quickly rushed up to the bank safe door. The vault, which was a little taller than the woman, opened seconds later. She struggled to pull the heavy door open. Picking up his business bag of money, Tramar tossed it at the girl as he saw what looked like twelve mini-safes. “Go on, bitch, and get your money out and put it in here, okay? All right. Let’s make this as smooth as possible.”

  Once she’d finished putting all of her safe’s money into the bag, the two white males did the same. Tramar then pointed at the other safes, feeling like he needed to take all of the money. “What’s in them?”

  “Those aren’t ours,” one of the tellers answered. “They belong to the other tellers, who are not here.”

  “Well, open that shit,” Tramar demanded, pointing the gun at the three tellers. “Open that shit so I can get this money and get the fuck outta here.”

  As the bank tellers were explaining to Tramar that they didn’t have the key, he grew angrier. Time was ticking. The longer he and his boy Jackson were up in this bank with these guns, the more likely they were to be caught.

  “Motherfuckers!” Tramar said, remembering to keep his voice low. “I need some fuckin ‘money and I want it all. Who got the fuckin’ keys to this shit?”

  The three tellers all pointed toward the front of the bank to their supervisors.

  “Shit,” Tramar said. “Okay, while I get them back here, one of y’all open the ATM machine.” He pointed at a large, white box with a pin pad on it, as the ATM pointed out toward the building’s other lobby. “Get the fuckin’ big bills outta there so I can get the fuck outta here.”

  Following orders, one of the white male tellers rushed over to the ATM vault door. Once he’d entered in a few numbers, the door opened. Instantly, Tramar cracked a smile as he saw rows of fifty dollar bills and twenties. They were all neatly organized, just waiting on him to walk out of the door.

  “Hey, nigga,” Tramar said, getting his boy Jackson’s attention.

  Jackson looked around and immediately stood up. “What, nigga?” he said, keeping the gun on the personal bankers.

  “Send one of them back here,” Tramar said. “Make the shit quick cause we almost done.”

  Jackson nodded and leaned over the desk, telling the woman to get up and go to the back. Reluctantly, the woman stood up and made her way across the lobby floor. She shook and trembled as she walked, hoping and praying that the guy in the back was not trigger happy. She had a husband and three children she wanted to get home to this evening.

  Once in the back, the middle aged white woman squealed. She’d seen the looks of terror on her employees’ faces and mmediately began to utter the words, “I’m so sorry, guys. I’m so sorry.”

  “Shut the fuck up with that bullshit,” Tramar whispered. He then pointed at the vault. “Open them other safes, them small ones that ain’t opened, so I can get this money and everybody can get outta here, okay?”

  Doing as the man said, the woman pulled her keys out of her pockets and stepped up to the safe. Tramar was beginning to feel less nervous and more confident about what was going down. When he looked out of the door and across the bank lobby floor, he could see crowds of people walking passed the bank entrance. Every so often, they would jump at the sound of someone pulling the door. However, upon seeing that the bank had already locked its doors, the people would continue walking in a constant motion of dress clothes and brief cases.

  Within a couple of minutes the white woman had opened all of the smaller safe doors. She’d put all of the large bills into the bag as the white guy emptied out the ATM. Seeing that there was more money to go, and that his bag had already full, Tramar asked which one of them came to work with a backpack or something. One of the white males raised his hands. Tramar snickered. “You look like you carry a backpack into work at a fuckin’ bank or somethin’,” he said. “Get that shit so we can use it.”

  Quickly, the white guy knelt down and pulled his backpack out of a cabinet under the coffee machine. Once he’d pulled the bag out, Tramar pointed the gun at him and told him to stuff the bag with the rest of the money. “I want all the fuckin’ money in here,” he told the four of them. “Put all that shit in these bags or I’mma kill all four of y’all.”

  The four bank workers did as they were told. They each scurried around, in various vaults, putting any dollar bills into the bags and stuffing them full. By the time they’d finished, Tramar was all smiles.

  “Thank you very much,” Tramar said. “Now, just come out here with me, okay?”

  The workers walked back out into the teller station area, holding their hands up. Once they all were out in the teller station area, Tramar grabbed the two bags and walked out behind them. He pointed the gun at them and told them to go out to the desk area at the front of the lobby. Walking in a single file line, the four of them walked over to join their supervisor. Jackson stood up and looked at Tramar, who had completely controlled the situation as they planned.

  “Stand back there and duck down,” Tramar instructed. “If anybody moves for the next couple of minutes, I swear we will come back in here and kill every last one of you mothafuckas, okay? I swear we will.”

  The word okay slipped out of each of the bank employees’ mouths and tears streamed down their eyes. “Just please, don’t hurt my employees,” the older white man said.

  Without thinking, Jackson stepped forward and slapped the older white man with his gun. “Shut the fuck up,” he said, his lips tight. “I swear to God I get so tired of white people. Just be quiet, okay?”

  The white man nearly broke into tears from how hard his face throbbed. He wanted to grab it to help with the pain, but he knew that if he did, it could give these thugs, in his mind, a reason to shoot him.

  “Okay, nigga,” Tramar sa
id. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.” He lifted the bags up, tossing one to Jackson. “I got all the money, nigga. Let’s go.”

  Jackson lifted the book bag up onto his shoulder as Tramar held his business bag to his side. Once they felt secure and calm enough to walk out into the streets, they backed away from the personal bankers’ desk. Jackson unlocked the door as Tramar told the employees, “Remember what I said, okay? Remember what I said.”

  Once the bank doors were unlocked, Jackson said, “We out.”

  The two of them put their guns inside their jacket pockets and blended right in with the crowds of people walking the downtown sidewalks. Each of them could feel an adrenaline rush. They’d never been so alert in their lives as they walked toward the corner, expecting that any minute a wall of police cars would come swooshing around the corner. They felt at ease seeing that their plan, so far, had gone just as they’d hoped. The traffic downtown was so thick that even if the Chicago police department wanted to reach the scene in a timely manner, they would definitely have their work cut out for them.

  The next two blocks would definitely be the longest two blocks of their lives. Tramar and Jackson walked side by side as they listened to the end of the workday chatter of business professionals around them. They walked up to the corner, crossing the street by zigzagging through what was basically a wall of cars pointed to the west, as this particular street was a one way.

  “Another block,” Tramar said, smiling. “Another fuckin’ block and we at least to the car, nigga.”

  “Yeah,” Jackson said. “Damn, nigga. We did that shit.”