Death of the Extremophile
Page 31
*
Later that morning, Hope walked into the Sacksville Credit Bank with his identity hidden behind his black kerchief and two of the guns he had acquired from Zeal held tightly in both hands.
‘Freeze!’ he screamed. ‘If nothing else happens in this town, you’ve got yourselves a bank robbery. Get down to the floor. Quick time it. I’m alone and ugly and I want money. If you make me earn it, bullets are my currency and everyone gets paid.’
He talked with one of his revolvers aimed squarely at the chest of the bank's only security guard; the other revolver was wafting about the rest of his hostages.
‘Now I’ll be the man on weapon’s detail, but there are other roles that need filling. It wouldn’t be right to get the customers involved in this. Unlike bank people, they know how hard it is to earn money. If they get their hands on it, they might not want to let go.’ His voice hardened. ‘So, let’s see how efficient are the bank staff’s money handling skills. Think of it as a performance review. And it would be a sad affair if any staff cuts were required.’
He dolled canvas bags out to the two tellers. ‘Fill these with legal tender. Good notes only, if you don’t mind. If you’ve been given any training in how to handle bank robbers, forget it - those people weren’t holding guns.’
Pale and tense, the tellers hurriedly went to work. They didn’t seem the type to put a bullet in his back, so Hope left them to it. He faced the other staff, all in different states of cowering. He dropped his remaining two bags to the floor. ‘The manager and his assistant have exactly three minutes to fill these from what’s in the safe.’ He pointed a gun at the wall clock. ‘The time has already started and I don’t even know who you are yet.’
A heavy man, sunk behind his desk, stood up, his bald head glistening with perspiration. ‘I am the manager.’ He was about to pick up the bags, though was beaten to them by a young, gangly assistant keen to show his worth, even if it was in helping to rob the bank.
‘Off you go then,’ said Hope. ‘And before you start triggering silent alarms, just think how silent it already is without my guns going off.’
He backed up against a wall and watched over the work being done. It was the right kind of bank for a lone robber: a small, intimate space shared between customers and employees, easy to supervise, and there was that old country pragmatism where money was never more valued than the health of livestock or the prosperity of crops or the air that was breathed - something that would not fly in New York, where the average unarmed hostage was every bit as dangerous as the average armed police officer.
‘Fellow customers,’ Hope said, ‘this isn’t the kind of bank robbery where you have to lie on the ground and tremble. Think of it as an educational experience. A chance to imagine a world where people in suits gave rather than demanded. Recollections of such moments are rarely passed beyond the exercise yard, so be glad your memories come with liberty. And forget about justice. I have and am the better for it.’
He waited a little longer after that, let the air settle and then he had had enough. He knew many a bank robber became mesmerised in finding out how long was too long, in needing to ride out his luck to see how far it could actually take him. But he knew it would never be far enough. You walk into a bank with a gun, you put a lifelong target on your back. So you better not start spreading your luck thin.
‘Alright, that’s it,’ he called out. ‘Bags here. Don’t fret if they’re not full. Saves me straining my back.’
The bank tellers had done well in the time available, their bags quite weighty; the assistant was adequate though not of the same standard; and the manager was predictably the worst, his concept of putting money into a bank robber’s bag akin to banishing his own offspring down into a salt mine.
Hope took the bags without pause or remonstration: the priority was in getting out of the bank in one piece and the bags were just passengers. He left the bank unmolested and crossed the street to his car - no sign of the security guard and he had not even deprived the man of his firearm. Hope, however, certainly did not blame the man: he was being paid and the security guard was not, not really. So, it was a bit like asking a weekend amateur sports player to compete with a starving professional.
The Ford accelerated smoothly away from the curb with a deep clean growl. Hope pulled his mask down and inhaled a pleasantly fresh lungful of air. The handkerfchief, however, was only lowered as far as the tip of his chin: he would be needing it again soon enough, for he always robbed banks in pairs.