by Brian Keene
“Six degrees of Tommy O'Brien and shit.”
“What's that mean?” John asked.
“It's a game,” Sherm told him, “like with the actor, Kevin Bacon.”
“That's the guy in Flatliners, right? I don't remember him ever robbing a bank.”
I frowned and Sherm blew smoke in his face.
“So you've gotta go with a ski mask,” he continued. “It's the only way to be sure.”
“Couldn't I just disguise myself some other way?”
“Yeah, but how the fuck you gonna do that?”
“I don't know. Pull my hat down low. Get a fake beard or mustache. Maybe use a bottle of bleach and dye my hair; so I look like Eminem.”
“You already look like Eminem. It's no good. People would still recognize you; surveillance camera footage would make the ten o'clock news. Somebody would drop dime on you.”
I thought about it and realized that he was right.
“What about a clown?” John asked. “I saw that in a movie once. Bill Murray robbed a bank dressed like a clown. That movie was funny as shit!”
I arched an eyebrow. “You know, that's actually not a bad idea at all. If the cop asks ‘What did he look like, ma'am?' ‘Well, Officer, he had a big red nose, curly red hair, and big floppy shoes.' What do you think, Sherm?”
“It's no good. Been done too many times. You go around dressed like a clown, especially in a small town like this, and you're going to grab attention before you even get to the bank. They'll see you getting out of the car—‘Look, Mommy! A clown!'—shit like that. You'd stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Yeah, I see your point. Makes sense.” I wondered if Sherm had considered this same thing before. He certainly seemed to know what he was talking about.
“What about hitting an armored car instead of a bank?” John asked. “You see them all the time, making stops at grocery stores and places like that.”
“No good. Forget about armored cars. You ever see all those little holes in the side? That's where the shotgun sticks out. You'd need a small army and a lot of prep time to knock over one of those. And people would get killed, sure as shit. Let's say you ambushed them while they were unloading at an ATM or something. The standard procedure is for the driver to floor it and get the fuck out of there when somebody tries to jack them. While he's taking off, there's another dude inside the truck shooting at your ass, plus the ones outside the truck—usually one or two guys.”
He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, took a sip of coffee, lit up another smoke, and continued.
“So an armored car is out. It has to be a bank. Now you've got to decide if you want this to be a note job or a takeover.”
“What's the difference?”
“Note job is simple—you hand the teller a stickup note and a bag to put the money in, she empties her drawer into the bag, and you walk. With a takeover, you've got to bum rush the place. With a note job, you're probably only gonna get three grand at the most, and probably not even that unless it's a payday or welfare day. Takeover, you'll get a lot more.”
“Three thousand bucks.” I thumped the dashboard in frustration. “That's not going to pay for shit. We owe that much just on the credit card.”
“If you're serious about this, then I say go for the takeover. You try pulling a note job and walk into that bank with a ski mask on, they'll freak out before you even reach the teller. That measly three grand ain't worth all that. Banks, especially the ones around here, don't keep much in the drawers. If you want big cash, you've got to do a takeover and hit all their drawers and their vault. Small-town banks like ours, you could easily walk away with forty or fifty thousand. Probably even more if you hit Baltimore or Philly instead.”
“Yo, how do you know all this?” John asked, echoing my own thoughts.
“Simple, Carpet Dick. I watch a lot of Court TV.”
“Sherm, I wish you wouldn't call me Carpet Dick.”
I mulled over the takeover approach.
“So what—I just walk in with a ski mask on and demand money? Won't they recognize my voice?”
“Fuck yeah, if you use your regular bank. Here's my suggestion. If it was me, I'd hit that bank inside the little strip mall on the edge of town.”
“You mean the one that sits between McSherrystown and Hanover?”
“Exactly. It's on Route 116, so within minutes you've got access to all those back roads and woods and shit. More importantly, you're within a few minutes of Route 30 and the Maryland border, and not far from Interstate 83. There are all kinds of ways to get out of there and vanish with a fucking quickness. Plus, the bank is small, and right now, it's forty-four shades of fucked up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Check this shit out.” He grinned, and the sharp outline of his face almost looked like a skull in the glow of his cigarette. “They just got bought out by a bigger bank, right? So they're in the process of switching everything over. They don't have bandit barriers or bulletproof glass or anything like that. Just the same old cameras and alarm system they had before. The tellers aren't real alert because they're burned out—explaining the new bank's regulations to their old customers who aren't exactly happy with the change. It's fucking perfect, dog! That strip mall doesn't get much traffic. Ain't no Wal-Mart or Target there. All they've got is the dry cleaners and that Chinese place. Quick in, quick out, and you're gone before five-oh even arrives.”
“Sweet.” I had to admit, I was warming to the idea. Sherm made a lot of sense, and he was bringing up lots of stuff that I hadn't thought about.
“So you go in there like a motherfucking O. G. and scare the shit out of them. Holler and curse and start a ruckus. Get yourself a backpack or something to hold the cash. Hit the drawers, the vault, then get the fuck out.”
“Make sure they don't give you any dye packs either,” John piped up, apparently becoming an instant expert as well. “I saw it on the tube. Once you go outside, you've got about ten seconds till those little fuckers explode. Then you're dyed bright red, making you pretty easy to find, and the money is useless, because it all burns up.”
“Actually, and I can't fucking believe I'm saying this, John is right,” Sherm nodded. “But you ain't gotta worry about that shit. This branch doesn't allow their tellers to slip dye packs into the money anymore.”
“Why not?”
“They got sued a few years back. A teller up in Buffalo slipped a dye pack into a robber's take. The robber ran out the door, the dye pack went off, and the explosion injured a little old lady who was coming in to cash her social security check. She sued the bank and never had to worry about social security again. One thing they do have though is a tracking device—a little piece of plastic, thin enough to be hidden in between the bills. Works just like a Lo-Jack does on cars, and the cops can trace you with it. So make sure they don't slip you one. And to be extra fucking careful, check your shit after you're down the road.”
I stared out the passenger window, watching the night flash by. Sherm had given me a lot to think about, and the more I thought, the crazier the whole thing seemed. I wasn't a bank robber. I wasn't like the idiots on America's Most Wanted. I was just a poor white trash schmuck, trying to feed his wife and kid, give them what they deserved rather than what they had.
But I was dying.
“Seems like an awful lot,” I sighed. “How the hell am I going to pull this off all by myself?”
“You're not.” Sherm grinned. “I'm gonna help you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Straight up, Tommy. You said it yourself. No way you can pull this shit off by yourself.”
“I'm in too,” John promised.
“Fuck that.” I spat. “No way I'm letting either of you guys get involved in this shit. I need you guys to look out for Michelle and T. J. after—after I'm gone.”
“That's why I want to help,” John argued. “You can't do it by yourself, Tommy. Sherm said so. If we help you, then there's a better chance it go
es right. Which makes things better for them.”
“No way, John! No fucking way. End of argument.”
“Tommy, I love Michelle and T. J. as much as you do. I was best man at your fucking wedding. I was there when T. J. was born. I want to help them, and the best way to do that is to help you.”
“Forget it!”
“Fuck that.”
“He's right, John,” Sherm said. “You know what you're looking at if you get caught? First time offender, you're looking at forty-one to fifty-one months. We're talking a haul of more than ten thousand dollars easily; so add one more offense. We stole it, so add two more. Use a weapon or even fucking display one? Add a bunch more. You could end up in there for half your life, and unlike Tommy, that's a lot of fucking time.”
“I don't care.” He stuck his lip out stubbornly. “I want in on it.”
“Pull over, now,” I demanded.
“Why?”
“Because I'm gonna bitch-slap the living shit out of you, that's why.”
He slowed down, gripped the wheel tightly, and looked at me.
Slowly, deliberately, he said, “If you don't let me help, I'll tell Michelle.”
I opened my mouth but he cut me off.
“I mean it, Tommy. You're my friend. I need to do this. And if you don't let me, I swear to fucking God I'll tell her everything. The cancer. The robbery. Everything.”
I looked into his eyes and saw that he meant it.
“Please?”
“Okay.” I sighed, exhausted. “All right, you're in. But Sherm, I still don't understand why you want to help.”
“Hey, man,” he flashed his teeth, “we're boys. Besides, I believe we can actually pull this shit off, and I'm bored in this town. Hanover fucking sucks, yo. This will be the first fun thing I've done since I left Portland.”
“You're fucking crazy.”
“Like a fox, man. Crazy like a motherfucking fox.”
John parked at the lake and we stared out at the water in silence. The moon reflected off the rippling waves. Somewhere in the darkness, a whippoorwill cried out. John popped out Ice-T and slipped in Ice Cube's War and Peace disc instead. I suddenly felt very old, and very tired, and I wondered if I should plan my funeral in advance, or leave that detail to Michelle after I was gone.
One thing was for sure. If we pulled this off, she wouldn't have to worry about paying for it.
“So where do we get the guns?” I asked. “We don't have time for the seven-day waiting period and the background check.”
“I know a guy,” Sherm leaned forward. “He lives in York, down on South Queen Street. One for me, one for you—should cost us about two hundred even. Let me hit him on the cell and see if he's around.”
“What about me?” John frowned. “Don't I get a gun?”
“No,” Sherm told him. “You're driving the getaway car.”
“Cool! Now that's what I'm talking about.”
“Two hundred bucks? Sherm, all I've got is this last paycheck and I just deposited it this afternoon.”
“So? You got an ATM card, right?”
“Yeah, but we needed that money for bills. What the hell am I gonna tell Michelle if she finds out I spent it?”
“Dude, think about it. In less than a week, you'll have all the money you need to pay the bills. All the money you fucking need . . .”
He flipped open his cell phone and made a call. John ate his slice of pizza and I smoked. Ice Cube's “Until We Rich” played softly, the lyrics matching the echoes of what Sherm had said.
Finally, Sherm snapped his cell phone shut and poked John in the back of the head.
“Let's go, boys. We're taking a trip to York. He's got what we need.”
Halfway to York, as we stopped at an ATM machine, I felt the world closing in on me. I coughed blood, spat it out, and grimaced at the rawness in my throat. It felt like somebody had sandpapered my insides.
While Sherm and John waited impatiently in the car, I fumbled my wallet out of my pocket. My fingers didn't seem to work properly. They felt thick and swollen. I fished out the card and slid it into the slot. The machine asked me for my pin number and it took me two tries to get it right.
I entered the amount for withdrawal. Two hundred dollars.
It asked me if that was the correct amount. I pressed YES.
It asked me to please wait while it dispensed my cash.
As the bills, all twenties, rolled out of the machine, I knew there was no turning back. I'd lied to my wife about the cancer, and now I was going behind her back like this with the money, draining our account. Sure, in the long run, I was doing it for her and T. J., but it was still fucked up. And now, on top of everything else, we were going to go buy guns with the cash. Just like real-life gangsters.
I put the money in my wallet and crammed the wallet into my back pocket. It felt heavy, like it was made out of lead.
No turning back now, I thought.
The enormity of it all hit me then, and for the next few minutes, I forgot all about the fact that I was dying.
I looked up at the moon, pale and cold and lifeless, and saw my face in its reflection.
“No turning back now . . .” the moon whispered.
I got back into the car and slammed the door. It sounded like a gunshot, and John and Sherm both jumped. A gunshot—or a closing coffin lid.
Sherm fired up a bowl and passed it up to me. I inhaled, trying not to choke—and trying to ignore the bad feeling in my gut. A feeling that had nothing to do with cancer.
So what's this guy's name again?” I asked Sherm as we drove into the city.
“Wallace.”
“Is that his first name or his last name?”
Sherm shrugged. “I don't know. Never asked the dude. I just know him as Wallace. That's what everyone in his crew calls him.”
We rolled down West Market Street, past crumbling brownstones and crack houses, abandoned factories and burned-out apartments, tattoo parlors and seedy bars. York is a small city, but it has the crime rate of a big metropolitan area. If you look on a map, it sits right in the middle of things, an hour or less from Baltimore and Harrisburg, and within a few hours' drive of Philadelphia, Washington, DC, Pittsburgh, and New York. This makes it ideal for drug gangs, mostly crews from New York City and North Philly, but some from as far away as Chicago and Detroit. Back in the day, the Greek Mafia had controlled most of York's crime, but those days are gone—old and feeble like the men who made them, men who were now serving life terms upstate. Their children had turned their backs on a life of organized crime, and the families died out, replaced by the gangbangers.
John turned onto South Queen Street. A drunken Hispanic woman lurched in front of the car and he swerved to avoid her. She shot him the finger, shrieked something in Spanish, and stumbled on. He sank down in the seat, turning off the Cypress Hill disc we'd been jamming to.
“Sherm,” he whispered, “we're the only white people down here.”
“Chill, John. You don't fuck with nobody and nobody will fuck with you.”
“What's the big deal, John?” I asked. “You've been to downtown York plenty of times.”
“Yeah, but not late at night like this. We could get carjacked or something. Mugged. It's kind of scary, isn't it?”
Sherm snorted. “No way in hell somebody is gonna jack you for this piece of shit.”
We stopped at another traffic light. The car stereos around us competed for supremacy, melding into one solid bass line. On the corner, some kids played in a puddle, long after they should have been in bed. Rough-looking women, possibly their mothers, leaned into car windows, flashing cleavage and haggling over the cost of blow jobs. I missed Michelle and T. J. and I wanted to be home with them, not driving around in the ghetto, looking for guns. I felt tired—and sick. There was blood in my throat and the taste was nauseating.
John looked back at Sherm. “What's the address again?”
“Forty-two. Two-story brick up here on the right. B
ut he doesn't do business in his crib. We're supposed to meet him in the alley out back.”
“How come?” I asked.
“He's got kids and shit, man. He doesn't mix business and home life.”
“Oh, a drug dealer with principles . . .”
“Yo, how often do you smoke weed, Tommy?”
I shrugged. “I don't know. Once or twice a week maybe. Tonight. Whenever you bring it around, I guess.”
“That's right. And where the fuck do you think I get it from? You think I just pick it up at the grocery store?”
“Okay, point taken.”
“Hey,” John piped up, “since you got cancer, now you can smoke all the weed you want, right? I think it's legal if you got cancer. Isn't it supposed to help keep you from throwing up and shit?”
“Shut up, Carpet Dick!” Sherm and I said at the same time.
John parked the car under a broken streetlight and we got out. Crack vials and shattered glass crunched under our feet. I kicked a dirty diaper out of the way. The graffiti on the house next to us said PROSPER C. JOHNSON & THA' GANGSTA DISCIPLES and 630 ROOSEVELT CRU and NSB RULZ, and wished that someone named Donny B. would rest in peace. The air smelled like spoiled milk. Somebody hollered something unintelligible. In the distance, a baby screamed, and was answered by the mournful wail of a police siren. A feral cat glared at us from behind a trash can.
Sherm pointed a finger at John. “Now listen up. You keep quiet, Carpet Dick. I mean it! These guys don't fucking play.”
John gave him a two-fisted thumbs-up sign, then grabbed his nut sack when Sherm turned away. Rolling my eyes, I motioned for him to follow us.
We stepped off the curb and crossed the street. Halfway across, the light changed to green and the traffic surged toward us from both directions. John froze like a deer caught in headlights as the cars bore down upon him. A horn blared, then another, as somebody shook their fist through the driver's side window.
“Get out the road you stupid motherfucking wigger!”
He started to raise his middle finger but I ran back, grabbed his wrist, and dragged his ass across.
