by Chuck Hogan
Doug checked his Colt's load and dropped it back into his pocket, knowing he was much more likely to hit someone over the head with the thing than he ever was to fire it. As obsessive as Doug was about the jobs they pulled, Jem's weapons source was the one detail he preferred to know nothing about. If indeed it was the Florist or one of the dust-brained kids in the Florist's employ, that would only piss Doug off.
Gloansy got to his feet without his Mountain Dew. Doug told him, "You gonna leave your tonic there, you might as well write your name and Social Security number on the wall in blood."
"I got it, I got it," said the freckled wonder, stowing it in the open work duffel near the bleach jugs.
They went on with their bickering for a few more precious preheist minutes, and Doug took a step back and realized that this was the part of the job he liked best. The intervals of downtime when they were all just kids again, four messed-up boys from the Town, so good at being so bad. He realized he never felt more secure, more at peace, more protected, than he did then, cooping inside a bank they were about to rob. Nobody could touch them there. Nobody could hurt them except each other.
Jem said, "Bad news, Monsignor. Rolling Stone said U2's next album is disco."
Dez rubbed at his eyes, prodding his contact lenses. "Not true."
"It happens, kid. These things can't last forever. Got to end sometime."
"We'll see," said Dez, wiring his police radio into his ear. "We shall see."
Jem pulled a paper Foodmaster bag out of the work duffel. "Game faces," he said, handing out black ski masks.
"This is it?" said Gloansy, pulling on the knit mask. "This what you been so top-secret about?"
Jem grinned his grin and went back into the bag. "Feast your eyes, ladies."
Doug received his goalie mask and looked it over-- the oval eyes, the jagged, black, hand-drawn stitches.
"Gerry Cheevers," said Gloansy, awestruck, pulling it on over his ski mask.
Jem pulled a gun into his blue-gloved hand and said, "Let's make some motherfucking bank."
The other masks nodded, smacked fists all around, Doug looking at the stitched-up faces of his friends. Dez went to take his position inside the shaded front windows, Gloansy remaining behind the counter.
Doug turned past the vault, following Jem down the short hallway to the back door where they faced each other in the shadows, standing silent and still on either side. Doug had no dark premonitions about the job as he pulled the black .38 into his hand. The only thing bothering him now was that the fun part was already over.
A car pulled up outside, doors opening, shutting. "Fucking clockwork," hissed Jem's empty-eyed mask.
Claire Keesey. That was the branch manager's name. She drove a plum Saturn coupe with a useless rear spoiler and a bumper sticker that said BREATHE! She was single, as far as Doug could tell, and he wondered why. Surprising, the things you could learn about a person from a distance, the impressions that you formed. Tailing her for so long, watching her from afar, had raised more questions than answers. He was curious about her now. He wondered, with the idle affection of a guy thinking about a girl, what she was going to look like up close.
Acknowledgments
Debts owed to: Charlotte, for unwavering support; my father, source of strength and inspiration; my Melanie and my Declan; the uncanny NewGents; Richard Abate, Prince of Agents; Colin Harrison, who enriched this book in record time; Kevin Smith at Pocket; Sarah Knight and everybody at Scribner; and Nan Graham and Susan Moldow.
About the Author
Chuck Hogan abandoned his career as a video store clerk when his first novel, The Standoff, was published to critical acclaim and translated into fourteen international editions. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife and family.
