by Rex Miller
“Fuckin’ flakes."
“Chowhound,” he said as he fought for air. “Oh, I'm gonna’ fucking DIE."
WEST ERIE SUBSTATION
“...So anyway, the bitch's layin’ there on the slab ‘n, you know, he's been boffin’ the good-lookin’ ones all along, right? So, shit, he pulls back the sheet and goes, Hey, check THIS out. ‘Cause you know, she's a stone bitchin’ fox, right? And he feels her up a little and, shit, she ain't even that cold yet. All fuckin’ RIGHT, so he's horny enough to fuck mud anyway, and he's got his skivvies down—"
“Uh, ‘scuze me, is Detective Shy here?"
“Hold it. Bud. So anyway, he's got ‘em down and he's climbin’ up in the saddle, right? And he puts it in and he's pumpin’ away at this dead bitch ‘n all of sudden she comes to"—the detectives laugh—"an’ he goes. Whoa, SHIT. And he pulls his razor outta his pants, he's gonna cut the bitch's throat and FINISH, right? And he gets so excited tryin’ to get the razor outta his jeans he slices the end of his own fuckin’ THUMB OFF!” Screaming in the squad room. “An’ that's when ole Elmer comes boppin’ around the corner of the hallway and here's this naked broad runnin’ out of the morgue with blood all over her and he thinks he's got the goddamn dee-tees.” Laughter.
“I want to report a—"
“And he goes. Hey, you ain't supposed to take ‘em in there before they're completely DEAD!” Screaming.
“I was told come in here to report this. Is Detective Shy here?"
“Yeah,” he said, laughing, “that's Scheige over there. The one with the magazine.” He pointed out a skinny detective looking at a centerfold, and the cop called out his name.
“Hey, Scheige?"
“Hey. Check out the bongos on this,” Scheige said, holding up the magazine.
“This guy wants to see ya.” The cop tilts his head in the direction of the hype.
“Yeah?"
“Detective Shy?"
“Whatcha need?"
“I was told to come in here and report this to you. I seen that guy in the papers. You know the big, fat murderer? They said if I give you the information you could—uh, you know, pay me money for being, uh, er, uh, giving you d’ information?"
“This oughta be good,” one of the detectives muttered under his breath.
“What big, fat murderer you talkin’ about?"
“In da paper dere. The one d’ cop killed."
“Oh. You saw the one the cop killed. Uh huh."
A couple of giggles.
“He was naked and taking a bath in the alley off West Erie."
Every cop in the room screamed with laughter as the hype stood there reddening.
“That's wonderful,” the one called Scheige said. The moon was full. The day before a guy had come in to “swear out a warrant” against someone called Voltan X, “swearing he had information the extraterrestrial was the head of an interplanetary kidnapping ring that was taking lawn elves and pink flamingos in the mistaken belief they were our children.
“I seen him ALIVE. Takin’ a shower in d’ rain, buck-naked right dere in d’ alley."
“Wonderful,” Scheige said, dissolving in hysterics.
“Hey, man, this is for real. I ain't shittin'. I seen him—” His voice was drowned out.
“Bernie, jew ever hear about the time me and Mac busted Sweet William Trace?"
“Huh uh,” a cop replied.
“Sweet William was sniffin’ a whole shit pot o’ glue back then, and he was in the back of his limo all glued up, ya know, ‘n he was naked, beatin’ his meat and wearing a German army helmet. You know those old time Kaiser helmets with the big spikes? So anyway, Mac and me made the limo and we was just gonna stop it, I forget—some bullshit probably—and we have ‘em pull over, and fuckin’ Sweet William comes outta the back, stone-naked, glued to the max, wearin’ a German army helmet—he weighed about three-fifty, you know, ‘n Mac'd never seen him and he said he liked to pop a cap on him when he come outta that back seat!” The cops laughed.
“Did you ever hear about that sheep-fucker we nailed over in the twelfth?"
The hype turned around disgustedly and left the squad room and the flaky, laughing cops who didn't want to lay a taste on him for the good information. “Fuck it,” he said, sniffing and rubbing his arms.
NORTH BUCKHEAD
“How ya like this jam, boy?” he said to John Monroe, meaning the car he'd borrowed.
“Fucker's tight. Cherry ride absolutely.” It was six-ten and there was already traffic inbound, but they were boogeying out Cypress Road.
“Boy, I can pick ‘em. Big ole Crown Vic. Shit. Be lookin’ for thirty-four hunnert.” He looked over at the dipshit next to him.
“This is, shit, 1900 ‘n somethin', Wend—uh, I mean Bo, they ain't got any numbers on the fuckin’ houses or nothin'."
“Whatjew call me?"
“Huh?"
“Jus’ now. Whatjew call me then?"
“Bo."
“Uh huh.” He gripped the wheel like he was strangling it. The voice starting out in almost a whisper, very softly, exaggerated sweet tone of voice, like to a baby, “Lissen up now, John, because iffn’ ya go an’ call me that when weuns inna house, or iffn’ ya go shoutin’ at me across the bank,” the voice changing to a column of steel sticking John in the ear like an ice pick, ‘HEY WENDALL I MEAN BO COMMERE ‘N KICK A COUPLE MORE HOLES IN MY DUMB SHITTER F'R ME.’ why, ya jes’ won't leave me no choice. Ya do understand that, doncha, John?"
“Sorry, man I won't—"
“I mean, there we'll be inna bank an’ shit I'll just draw down on ya and drop your goddamn fucking dumb ass right there in the fucker. DO YA GIT IT? Ya got to screw down your damn head, John, and concenfuckingtrate, all right?” Sorry cracker trash.
“Uh. That's the two thousand block so youuns goin’ in the right direction. Bo. I'm sorry, I won't forgit again."
“I'm sorry, I won't forgit again,” he mimicked him. “Man, ya can try a person's fucking soul with that shit. Ya GOT to git y'r shit together now."
“Okay."
“An’ don’ say NOTHING inna house or the bank. I'll do it. Ya just do what I tell ya."
“Right.” John Monroe nodded.
“Ya go in back and cut everything ya find like I tole ya. Jes’ like I showed ya yesterday with them bolt-cutters. Right?"
“Right."
“Cut ever’ fuckin’ thing. Phone lines, air-conditioner, the goddamn antenna thing, the fuckin’ copper water line. I don’ give a rat fuck what it is, CUT that sucker. Right?"
“Right."
“Then youuns come on back around real fast ‘n come right on inna door behind me. Got it?"
“Gotcha."
What a fuckin’ lamebrain. He looked over at the imbecile that bad luck had saddled him with in the joint. What a fuckin’ mistake.
“Twenty-one hundred block, Bo."
Shit, now the dumb fuck was a gonna call out the numbers of every goddamn block to him like it was the countdown f'r a fucking rocket. Well. Fine.
“Real good, pud. Jes’ keep callin’ out them numbers an’ thataway we might git lucky and not drive by the thirty-four hundred block, eh?"
Donald Fields had just looked at the clock. It was six-fifteen a.m. He missed Clara and little Bud. Usually he and Clara had coffee and chatted together in the breakfast nook while they woke up. He never saw the boy before he went to work because he got up so early, but with them at Earline's, he missed the kid's presence in the house and was glad they'd be home by the following night.
After Clara got her heart started, she'd make him another cup and fix them cereal and freshly squeezed orange juice all icy cold, and he'd read the paper until six-forty or so. He liked getting there about five-to-seven. Seven at the latest. Come in a full half-hour before anybody came to work. There'd be the maintenance man and the night guard there and he'd unlock and go on in and arrange his day.
He loved that time and always looked forward to that first half-hour when he'd be
in his nice office and it'd be so quiet out front, and he'd sit there arranging the day, getting it all just so. Smooth and prepared. He was going to have to sit down with the boy this morning. “The boy” was what he called his top man. A young hotshot named Joe Gillespie. He was problems. Short-fused. Thought he was the only kid who knew anything about the banking business. He'd had an offer from that asshole at American Fed and he was pressuring Donald for a vice presidency and all the usual. Fields was chewing over in his mind how he'd handle it. He wanted to keep the boy. He was a killer in trust work.
Fields was putting his pocket items in his trousers when he heard the noise downstairs. It didn't startle him that much because he was always bearing noises in the damn house ever since they bought it two years before. There was something wrong with the dining-room lighting fixtures, big white globes that fit into metal retainers on the ceiling. About once a week, BANG, one of the globes would drop down out of the retainer, never dropping all the way out, but good Christ it always scared them to death, because when the globe would catch on the outer metal lip it sounded like glass breaking. He wondered when the damn thing would fall on them during dinner one evening. He'd looked at it a dozen times but the globes looked identical to the ones in the kitchen. He was no handyman. He could barely change the bulbs in them, and he just told Clara to call somebody and see if she could get them fixed so they wouldn't drop out, and this is the prosaic and mundane and trivial thought he could recall going through his mind as he started downstairs to make sure the glass hadn't fallen out and a tall thin vicious-looking stranger was there on the stairs with a gun pointed out at him, saying, “Youuns jes’ be sweet now an’ turn aroun'.” As though in a dream he held his hands up just the way they do on TV and turned and felt one of his hands being pulled back and something going tight around him. Then the other hand went back and—OUCH—it was tight. He heard the door slam. Someone else was coming in. He thought, OH GOD, a whole gang of them, coming in to rob and assault and kill him, and thank God Clara was gone. The other one telling him not to move or try anything and was racing around him and up the stairs. Footsteps were coming up behind him, and a stench, and he heard another voice snarl as it pulled him back down the stairs,
“Yessireesir. Git y'r faggot ass down them stairs, ya’ lily-white pussy boy. Ya’ don’ wanna make me HURT ya,” and on the word “HURT” he felt all the wind shoot out of him and he was down on the carpet with an intense and awful pain in his kidneys and he could feel tears of anger about to well up in his eyes and fear as he wondered what these madmen wanted. If he could just get to the alarm in the front hall, he thought, but he was on his face with his hands behind him, and doors were slamming and he heard the tall, thin man saying to another one, “Pull the car up to the door. Go on.” And he was being rolled and something heavy and bad-smelling was around him and he realized he was being rolled up in a throw rug. Why were they doing this? And then doors slammed and he was lifted up from the floor, and he said, “Please just tell me what you want,” and one of them snarled a response, but he couldn't hear it through the rug. Then he was afraid he was going to suffocate, he was being crammed into something tight and he couldn't breathe and he thought he was being kidnapped and these insane men were going to make Clara pay to get him alive and he never connected it with the bank until several minutes later when the car stopped and they took him out in an open field and explained to him what it was they wanted.
“Now youuns lissen up real good, heah?"
Fields nodded. His hands were bound but he was otherwise unhurt. He wondered how far he'd get if he tried to kick the one in the groin and run. Just take off running into the nearby trees.
“We gonna untie ya, and weuns gonna all go downta the bank. An’ ya'll gonna go in and get me a lotta money, unnerstan'? ‘N iffn’ ya fuck us over we'll drop you right there like a DEAD ROACH, ya git it?"
“Yes.” He nodded that he comprehended.
“We gonna go now."
“Uh, sir?"
“Eh?"
“The time lock doesn't disengage until seven a.m. I can't get you any money until seven."
“What the—” the one named Monroe started to say. “Hold it, shaddup, what the fuck ya’ talkin’ about time lock?"
Donald Fields explained to them about the overnight procedures, how all monies were locked up in a vault with the time lock as a safety precaution.
“And we can't open the vault before seven.” It wasn't true, but he thought it might buy him time.
“Shit, that ain't no problem. It's almos’ seven now anyway, shithead. We gon’ innair, and jus’ waltz on inna that vault with ya, and you gon’ git us alla money ya can carry in sixty seconds. ‘At's alla time ya got. At sixty one seconds I start pullin’ the trigger.” He fired a round into the dirt beside Fields’ feet. It sounded like an eight-inch naval gun going off. Donald Fields wondered if he'd make it through the day alive and in one piece.
“How many people's innair at seven?"
“Just the night security man and the maintenance man most of the time. Then people start showing up a little after seven. It varies."
“Fuck it. Les’ go.” They got in the front seat. The tall, thin one in the driver's seat, the other one on the passenger side, with Fields between them, his hands still bound. He thought about how to signal to a cop if he saw one; how to pantomime the word HELP with his mouth. It might be worth a try.
They pulled up on the east side of the bank at one minute before seven and the driver untied him. Fields tried to rub the circulation back into his hands and arms. His confidence was returning. He thought about what he could do. Weighed his options. The driver had been asking about his wife, wondering why he had been alone in the house. He was expert at sizing a man up and these were stupid men. He could outthink them if they gave him half a chance.
Then they were all getting out of the car. He'd been instructed on what to say and do inside. The vicious one was going to go with him into the vault. The stupid one would watch the guard and janitor. Nothing about alarms, cameras. They weren't professional bank robbers. He doubted if they were professional anythings, these hillbilly jerks.
He unlocked the east door of the bank as he'd done four or five thousand times before, but he was shaking so badly he could hardly fit the key into the lock. They came in behind him and he threw the main lights on, the way he always did, and as he hit the switch he felt a pistol jammed against his spine,
“I'm just turning the lights on.” They walked on into the main part of the bank, coming in the east door, and Fred was mopping and said, “G'morning,” like always and the stupid one motioned at him with the gun and a finger over his mouth in the shut-up sign, and the janitor dropped his mop and raised his hands just the way Fields had, only he said, “Oh, please, don't—"
“SHUT CHUR FACE” the vicious one snarled at him in a stage whisper, poking Donald Fields in the spine again for emphasis, and they all walked across the main lobby in the direction of the big vault. “MOVE GODDAMMIT,” he snarled, and they moved quicker, Fred and Donald first, the other two behind them with their guns out, looking for the security man, who for some reason was nowhere in sight.
The store burglarized the week before had decided to display a couple of handguns with the rifles in their window. It was something they almost never did but the .380 auto had been returned by a customer who nitpicked about rust on the case-hardening, and the big Colt Python had been gathering dust in the showcase for so long they thought that maybe if they moved a few pieces around a little they'd shake something loose. They shook something loose all right. Two nights later thieves broke the window and took both handguns out.
“Hurry,” the mean one whispered in Fields’ ear, bathing him in a foul mouth odor, “ya’ got fifty-nine seconds to MOVE!” And it seemed to take forever to unlock the gate and swing the big, heavy door back, and they walked in over the wire grate that of course Fields hadn't disengaged, and the silent alarm was thrown for the second time. Field
s gathered up the seven zippered teller pouches with the bait money, taking as much time about it as he could. The vicious one ripped the pouches from his hand and took off running screaming across the lobby at the stupid one, who was standing there with his gun on Fred the maintenance man, “LE'S GO!” Which is when the night security guy, Floyd Coleman, stepped out from behind one of the pillars with his .357 Magnum revolver just like Clint Eastwood in the movies only instead of saying, Make my day, he started to say, Drop those guns or drop your pants or drop something, but only the dr came out because John Monroe had pulled the trigger of the .380 auto, shooting him smack dead bang in the ticker and knocking him back like he'd been punched in the stomach by a heavyweight and he sat back and the four of them watched him die with his gun in his hand, dead as he sat there with his eyes still open, going slowly back, toppling over backward almost as an afterthought, the gun firmly in his hand but pointed over to the side, and Monroe and De Witt shagging ass with the teller pouches full of money and almost out the north doorway. But somebody opening the door, a girl named Kelly Pierce who'd only been with the bank for two years, who Donald Fields suspected the boy was secretly poking, Kelly with the famous low-cut dresses and the nice cleavage, Kelly was coming in as they were running out. Bam-BOOM, everybody knocking one another ass over teakettle, money flying every whichway, the pouches unzippered, bait money in the air like autumn leaves, Kelly knocked on her pretty tush, the vicious one and the stupid one scrambling for money like contestants in a mad quiz show, one of them firing the big Colt back into the bank putting Fields and the man Fred flat on the floor as the thieves snatched and grabbed and jumped into the car that Fields would describe to police as a “dark-blue or midnight-blue Crown Victoria—maybe a year or two old, not sure of the model year.” And two uniformed cops coming on the scene and doors being locked and people being herded into offices and interrogated, and cops everywhere.
