Low (Low #1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  “Come on. Come on. Come on,” she mumbles in a broken voice.

  Beads of sweat drip down my neck. My heart beats hard enough to rattle my teeth. Two and a half minutes tick by, and the .44 weighs two hundred pounds in my grasp. The people unfortunate enough to be here when I walked inside are quiet, and their silence only intensifies the tension in the room.

  I concentrate on the vibration of my frantic breath and blink salty perspiration from my eyes. One hundred eight seconds pass, and the mask covering my face feels tighter.

  “Let’s move,” I bark to the fourth teller, shaking panic from my head.

  She yelps at the tone of my voice and knocks a stack of business cards across the floor. The kid drops his train at the same time, and it wails, choooo choooo, exhausting imaginary steam from its tin chimney.

  I instinctively point the gun at the noise and freeze when a three-year-old boy with big blue eyes stares back at me.

  “Don’t shoot!” his mother screams, throwing herself between the boy and my .44. Deeming me capable of murdering a child and willing to give her life to save his, she swallows the toddler in her embrace and shields his body with hers. He cries for his train.

  Even crooks have limits.

  “On your stomachs. All of you!” I shout, brandishing the deadly metal back and forth until everybody is facedown. “This isn’t a game. I will put a bullet in someone’s head if you don’t listen to what I say.”

  Four minutes in, and the fifth teller has my bag.

  “Hurry the fuck up.” I aim my pistol between his eyes.

  Pigment drains from his long face, and sweat dampens his hairline, clumping dark blond strands across his forehead and around his ear.

  “Yes, sir,” he answers, snatching money from his drawer two and three stacks at a time. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Four minutes and sixteen seconds.

  “I’ll give you until the count of three to fill my bag, or this will be your last day,” I say in a firm tone, swallowing hard.

  My chest cramps with goring pressure, and anxiety gnaws on my ribs. I stiffen my grip on the handle of my weapon, pressing it to the cashier’s head as time beats closer to my five-minute deadline.

  “One,” I say.

  He inhales a rickety lungful.

  “Two.”

  Tears fall from his eyes.

  “Thr—”

  He shoves the bag of money in my direction and holds his hands up in surrender, hyperventilating.

  With seconds to spare, I sling the backpack over my shoulder and run. The security alarm chases me out of the bank, screaming a deafening SOS as bright sunshine distorts my vision. I squint against the blinding light and blink tears from my eyes as they adjust. Vaguely making out the Honda, I race in Poe’s direction as she stretches across the passenger seat and opens the car door.

  “You’re not dead,” she says, shifting the car into drive.

  Poesy presses her foot on the accelerator, forcing the old motor to groan as RPMs go into the red. Bald tires spin and trigger a cloud of dense white smoke out from under the car.

  “Not yet,” I say, falling into the nylon seat as the Accord shoots forward.

  Oil-coated pistons transfer power through four cylinders and into the crankshaft as my girl turns onto the main road, pushing our escape car past its ability. The faint echo of police sirens rings over the grind from the transmission as the Honda jerk-shifts into a higher gear.

  “Did you get the money?” Poesy asks breathlessly. Her hazel eyes shift back and forth between the rearview mirror and the road ahead.

  “Yeah, I got it,” I say, looking back for flashing red and blue lights.

  We went over the getaway route until she memorized it, mapping the fastest and safest way out of town so we don’t run into the same problems we did the first time. Courage directs us through heavy trafficked streets with ease, keeping both hands on the wheel and her foot heavy on the gas pedal.

  “We need a faster car,” Poesy mumbles, zigzagging between lanes. We soar past a city bus, crossing into oncoming traffic and sailing back over before we collide with a looming dump truck.

  Our speed declines with distance, and by the time we approach our turn, Poesy follows traffic laws and the sounds of sirens have died down. We ditch the Honda in an alleyway behind a home improvement store, tossing our disguises into the dumpster before we walk down the street to a grocery store.

  “What about this one?” Poesy asks, nodding toward a cherry red Mustang. Strands of hair have fallen from her bun, and her face is flushed from being under the ski mask for so long.

  “No,” I say, leading her toward a silver Oldsmobile away from surveillance cameras. My heartbeat palpitates, and the backpack straps dig into my shoulders.

  Breaking into the car is thoughtless, and starting it is as easy as tying my shoes. Poe unravels her bun, shaking her damp, chamomile-scented hair loose around her shoulders. She rolls down the window and closes her tired eyes to let UVs warm her entire face, guiltless and unburdened.

  There’s a sun-brittle picture of an elderly couple taped in front of the gauges, hiding how many miles are on the engine. While my girl rests her eyes, I slowly back out of the parking space and promise to take care of the pair’s vehicle.

  “Was it different this time, Lowen?” Poesy asks. Trees outlining the street cast shadows across her features.

  I think back to when I pressed my pistol to teller number five’s forehead. Remembering tears, which fell from his cheerless brown eyes, and sweat that dripped from his hairline, a rush of exhilaration moves through my body like a heat wave.

  Happiness does come with money.

  Power is in the barrel of my gun.

  There’s no respect in thievery, but there is control. It’s my favorite part.

  After a life lived ignored and insulted, for five minutes I’m king. For three hundred seconds, I call the shots and neglect the consequences. There are no cups to piss in or pending eviction notices to stress over. It’s just me, my girl, and a .44, dictating what we want to do, when we want to do it, without question from anyone.

  “I got out in time,” I say. There’s comfort in knowing she won’t ever see how ruthless I truly am.

  “Something needs to be done about the security alarms. They’re setting them off as soon as you run, and we need a bigger head start.”

  “What makes you think this wasn’t the last time?” I ask, driving into Inglewood city limits.

  Poesy shrugs, lifting her legs onto the seat. She plays with a loose strand of black thread near the ankle of her skinny jeans. The red paint on her fingernails is chipped and deep crimson against her pale skin.

  “We can take off, Lowen. It doesn’t have to be Indonesia, but we can start over anywhere in the world. I’ve always wanted to go to Florida,” she says in a small voice, displaying healthy fear.

  “I’d still be a felon in Florida, Poe. And you’d still be a bank robber.”

  She cracks a smile, despite the slight quiver in her hands. “Says who?”

  “The United States of—”

  “Didn’t you say your old cellmate was in for identity theft and hawking fake passports? How hard would it be to leave with new documentation?” curiosity asks.

  “What about our families? Gillian’s only sixteen, and my mom…”

  “Your sister is going to be more amazing than either of us, Low. And your mom is okay with Ned. He’s not your dad, and you’re not your dad. We don’t have to stick around and wait for something to happen that lands you back in prison like him. There’s nothing in California for us.”

  I stop the car under a bridge and kill the engine. Concealed within its darkness, I hide the keys under the seat and leave a hundred dollar bill in the center console for any difficulties we’ve caused the elderly couple. Before we exit for the walk home, I take Poesy’s face between my hands and smile.

  Her liveliness is contagious, buzzing against my palms, and there’s nothing I want more than
a do-over.

  But this is the real world.

  The bad guys never get away.

  “We have to try, Poesy,” I say, rubbing my thumbs back and forth across her cheekbones. “We have to give this life a shot, baby. An honest shot.”

  “Okay,” she whispers softly in the gloom. “Let’s try.”

  I STASH THE gun in the shed and get rid of our clothes while Poesy makes peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches. We share the last can of soda, and empty the crumbs from the chip bag directly into our mouths with the local afternoon news on the television.

  “Stealing makes me hungry,” Poesy jokes. She winks when I don’t automatically laugh. “I know, I know. Honest try.”

  “It makes me hungry, too.” I smirk, nudging my girl with my elbow.

  Sugar rushed and lucky enough not to be the topic of any Breaking News segments, Poe and I clear the coffee table and dump out the money. Stacks of bundled and loose bills and rolls of change clutter its surface, even tumbling over the wooden edge and falling to our feet.

  “How much?” Poesy asks, taking my hand.

  “At least twenty grand. Maybe more,” I say, mentally estimating the total by counting the color-coded bands.

  “Not bad for making it home before lunch.”

  “No shit.”

  WANTED: TWO-TIME LOS ANGELES COUNTY BANK ROBBERS STILL AT LARGE

  Culver City, CA — The Los Angeles Police Department is asking for the public's help identifying a man still on the run after detectives say he robbed two banks in the area.

  The first robbery occurred when the suspect, between 20 and 40 years of age, walked into the California Credit Union, located on Century Boulevard in Inglewood, around 9:00 a.m. and demanded money.

  After collecting an undisclosed amount of cash, the man fled the bank and entered a parked vehicle.

  Yesterday morning, an unknown white male entered the Los Angeles Bank branch on Sepulveda Boulevard around 9:03 a.m. with his face covered in a ski mask, armed with a .44 Magnum revolver and wanting cash.

  He left the bank in a four-door vehicle driven by the second suspect believed to be a woman.

  Detectives with the LAPD’s Robbery Division have been investigating these two incidents and believe the same man is responsible for both crimes.

  "The MO in both occurrences is identical. The disguise is the same. The details the victims report back to our detectives are alike," said Los Angeles Police Lt. William Ro.

  The repetitive robber is described as approximately 6'0"-6’5”, wearing a black shirt and black pants and having no identifying marks or tattoos.

  "These individuals have gotten away with two bank robberies so far. We are hopeful that someone in the community will recognize our suspects and help detectives track them down to ensure they don’t continue their criminal pattern," said Ro.

  Anyone with information about the suspects is urged to contact LAPD at (310) 755-3333.

  I PASS THE newspaper to Poesy and watch her sip her steaming coffee while her eyes move across the lines of the front-page report of our wrongdoings. A grainy black and white surveillance photo of me holding the gun toward the teller booths is included beneath the text.

  “This doesn’t mean much, Lowen. They don’t have leads, and that picture is blurry. It could be anyone.” Poe tosses the paper atop the money on the table and lifts her legs under her body.

  Up with the sun and shirtless, I lean against the couch and rub my hands over my freshly shaven head. Itching anticipation of what the new day would bring left me awake all night while my girl slept like the dead, snoring and warm alongside my body. I stole the Tuesday morning edition of the LA Times from Fradil’s doorstep and didn’t breathe when I read the bold headline.

  “They know to look for two people and not one. They know you’re a woman, and they know I’m white,” I say, tilting my head back and staring at the popcorn ceiling.

  “Wow,” Poe replies sarcastically, theatrically widening her eyes. “That describes us perfectly … a white man and woman. It’s almost like they know us.”

  “This isn’t a game, Poesy. If we get caught, I will spend the rest of my life in prison, and you’ll—” I stop, unable to say the words aloud. Death would be sweeter than living with the knowledge that my girl is locked up in some dank cell.

  I close my eyes and swallow thick spit as a mixture of anticipation and terror spins in my stomach like a whirlwind.

  “There’s whiskey in my coffee. Want some?” ignorance asks, kicking my leg with her bare foot. Poe has puffy eyes and sleep lines indented along the left side of her face. Her pink nipples are visible under the thin white T-shirt she wore to bed, and her hair is tangled and stringy.

  “I’ll find a way to get in contact with my old celly,” I say, shifting my gaze toward the picture on the paper. “Just in case.”

  “Orlando is supposed to be awesome this time of year,” Poesy singsongs. Alcohol smacks a lush-like grin across her face, and her long lashes blink lazily.

  “Why are you not taking this seriously?” I ask, shoving the newspaper from the table. Pages come apart and sail across the living room, leaving behind the scent of ink and rubber.

  “Why are you not accepting what we are, Lowen?” she counters, lifting her tone of voice. “How long do you plan to hide in this hellhole with the roaches, pretending to be something you’re not?”

  “A life like this will get us killed, Poesy,” I say between tight teeth, dropping my face in my hands.

  My girl sets her empty mug down and crawls behind me. Her small hands glide along my spine and slip over my shoulders, scattering goose bumps down my arms and numbing the tips of my fingers. She presses her chest against my bare skin, soothing my anxiety with warm comfort and chasing away my edginess with soft regard. Poesy kisses the spot right under my ear. I can smell the peppery scent of dark liquor stained on her lips.

  Melting in her embrace, I close my eyes and exhale as she swipes her pointer finger across my throat in a cutting motion.

  “Off with his head,” she whispers.

  A WEEK AFTER the Culver City heist, my old cellmate hooked me up with his outside connections. For twenty-five hundred dollars, Poesy and I have everything we need to disappear and become Bobby and Chloe Bryne, thirty-year-old newlyweds from Goblu, Michigan, a paper town.

  The documents are hidden in the shed along with the gun and two duffel bags filled with the essentials, in case we have to leave in a hurry.

  The LA Times reported one more story about the Los Angeles Bank robbery where they described me as having blue eyes, interviewed teller number one, and got an eyewitness statement from a pedestrian in the parking lot.

  “He held a gun to a little boy’s head and threatened to kill him if we didn’t listen to what he said. I was going to fight him for the weapon, but a child’s life isn’t to be gambled with,” teller number one lied.

  “The getaway driver was definitely a woman,” the eyewitness said. “I watched her apply lip gloss in the sun visor mirror. What a monster.”

  It was also printed that we took ten thousand more dollars than we actually got away with. At the end of the article, Lt. William Ro branded us “armed and dangerous” and offered a twenty-five thousand dollar reward for any information resulting in our identification and arrest.

  “The city of Inglewood deserves to have these offenders off the streets,” he added.

  TWO WEEKS AFTER the robbery, Poesy lands a job at a mothball-scented children’s thrift store, making pennies to sort through milk-stained secondhand onesies and broken diaper bags. She comes home after every shift swearing, “We’re never having kids. They’re gross.”

  After filling out numerous applications, I haven’t received a single call for an interview.

  “That tattoo on your face is going to be a problem,” the furniture warehouse said.

  “Yeah, we need someone with experience,” the pool supply store alleged.

  “Crew’s full, Seely. Call me be
fore summer; you know how it is around this time of year,” my old landscaping job stated.

  To keep up with appearances, I pay my restitution fee late and give the hard-knock life story to Rick when he threatens to violate my parole. He sits back in his adjustable chair with his feet crossed on top of his desk. There’s a titanium band around his ring finger I’ve never noticed before today, and he’s grown a mustache since our last appointment.

  “Where were you three Mondays ago?” he asks, twirling a dull yellow pencil with teeth marks bitten into its body between his hairy fingers.

  “At home,” I answer indifferently, shrugging my shoulder.

  “Can anyone verify you were in that location?” he asks. Rick drops his feet to the floor and pushes his chair forward to his desk.

  Alibis need to be concise and to the point not to become inconsistent. Rick knows I was fired from the recycling plant, and if I tell him I was searching for work, he can ask where and who I spoke to in order to corroborate my story. The problem with lying and saying I was in public is that surveillance cameras are everywhere. A couple of phone calls and a few hours viewing security footage are all it would take to confirm that I’m up to no good.

  “Poe,” I reply, cracking my knuckles.

  “Do you two ever leave that apartment?” he asks. The right side of his hair-framed mouth bends, and his dark eyes hunt my light-colored ones.

  “Not unless we need to.” I sit back in my chair and chill, resting my right foot on my left knee as my heart kicks. “Introverts.”

  “Have you ever been to Culver City, Seely?”

  “My girl’s folks live there,” I answer evenly. A surge of heat flashes through my palms, dampening my grip on the armchair.

  Rick taps the tip of the pencil against his brushed metal desk; pale green paint chips off its steely surface in sheets. The yellow florescent beam over our heads buzzes and ticks, flickering a stream of light through an ashen cover that seconds as a graveyard for dead insects.