How to Rob an Armored Car

by Iain Levison

  The heavily armored door creaked like a castle gate as the guard swung it open. From where he was standing, Mitch couldn’t see into the back of the vehicle, but he figured if he crossed the street quickly, he could get a look inside, making sure not to get too close to the guards, where they would notice him and possibly reach for their guns. His fears turned out to be unfounded, however, because as he approached the old guard, the man noticed Ramone.

  “Ah, he’s a big boy, isn’t he?” the guard said cheerfully, seeming to forget about the bags of money behind him. “I used to have a shepherd. Long time ago.” Ramone, sensing he was being discussed, began to wag his tail and moved toward the guard with a burst of energy. Mitch had to hold the leash tight to prevent him from leaping up and putting his giant paws on the old man’s shoulders, which would probably have knocked him down. As Mitch restrained the dog and the guard bent down to pet him, he got a clear view over the man’s shoulder. The inside of the armored car was empty but for four large canvas sacks of what Mitch could only assume was money.

  The obese guard came around the side of the truck, wheezing and red-faced, apparently from the effort of climbing out of the driver’s seat. He nodded curtly to Mitch, then opened the doors wider and grabbed one sack, and pushed another toward the older man. From this action, Mitch got a glimpse into the relationship between the two. The fat guy was businesslike and unfriendly, most likely the boss of the two. The older guy, whose mind seemed somewhere else, perhaps on the retirement he could not afford, was the affable one. Mitch imagined that the fat guy often complained to his supervisor about having to work with the older guard, and the supervisor told him to just play the hand that was dealt him.

  Mitch also noticed they both had guns on their belts. And Tasers. For two unathletic fellows, they could do some damage.

  “You guys have a good day,” he said, pulling Ramone away from the old guard, who was ready to turn his attention back to the heavy bags. As Mitch walked off, he overheard the fat guy talking roughly to the old man. Fat prick, he thought.

  Ramone had forgotten about them already and was sniffing an ornamental shrub outside the bakery, while the staff and customers gazed at him, critically, Mitch felt. Then Ramone lifted his leg and, with at least five people watching, unleashed a pulsating torrent of urine all over the sidewalk. It was unending. By the time he was done, the sidewalk was thoroughly drenched, as if it had been washed with a hose. Mitch saw the owner of the bakery approaching the door to talk to him. Through the glass, he gave her a quick friendly wave and dashed off, pulling Ramone behind him. The dog soon overtook him. He enjoyed any opportunity for a run.

  WHEN HE GOT home, a downpour had started. The winter downpours always reminded Mitch of the opening scene in Taxi Driver, where Travis Bickel talked about the rain washing the scum off the streets. From his battered back porch, piled high with broken and disused plumbing equipment, Mitch could watch it doing exactly that. The thin layer of filth that accumulated on everything, courtesy of the metal-refinishing plant, actually created a black sheen on the water puddling in the yard.

  He cracked a beer and didn’t look up when the door opened and Doug came out onto the porch. Were it not for the cloud of pot smoke still around his head, Mitch would have sworn he had just gotten up.

  “Hey dude,” Doug said, sitting heavily on a wooden bench and rubbing his eyes, which were as red as a bunny’s. “While you were out, I got ahold of some reefer.”

  “So I smell.”

  “I picked up an eighth for you too.”

  “Thanks. How much was it?”

  “Fifty.”

  “Cool. I’ll pay you in a minute.”

  “Whenever.” Doug sat there for a moment more, perhaps just stoned, but Mitch sensed he was tense or upset.

  “You all right?”

  “Man, I just don’t know what I’m gonna do about a job.

  I really don’t want to work at a fast food place.”

  Mitch watched the rain cascading off the porch roof so hard he was getting a little bit of spray in the face. Now would be the time to bring this up, he figured. “I know how we can make a million dollars in forty-five minutes.”

  Doug laughed. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with my life,” he said.

  “I’m serious.”

  Doug looked at him and realized he was. “A million dollars?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s maybe? A million dollars or not?”

  “Four bags of money.”

  Doug sat up straight. “I’m listening.”

  Mitch was pleased to see Doug’s reaction, having expected the same moaning and groaning that had accompanied the Ferrari mission. Maybe a few weeks without any paychecks at all coming in had reshaped his attitude, given him a whole new respect for crime. Rather than considering the Ferrari fiasco proof of the stupidity of criminal behavior, perhaps Doug was considering it hands-on experience, which Mitch figured was a much more effective way of looking at things.

  “Where are these four bags of money?” Doug prodded.

  Mitch explained everything, making sure to stress the age and obesity of the guards. Doug was nodding thoughtfully. The Ferrari mission had been good tactical experience, Mitch decided as he was talking. They had learned a lot. For instance, it was important to dress for the weather. When they took down the armored car, there wasn’t going to be any business-suit bullshit. And they had learned to consider the possibility of radio tracking devices, or more relevantly, to expect the unexpected.

  When he was finished explaining, Doug nodded. “Shit,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Kevin’s coming over in a few minutes to bring me a box of pills to sell. Let’s ask him what he thinks.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “When opportunity knocks, make lemonade,” Doug said.

  “I don’t think that’s the expression. I think it’s when—”

  Doug laughed, as he often did when he said something stupid, leaving Mitch unsure as to whether he had said it for laughs or if he genuinely didn’t know the expression. Mitch knew that most people underestimated Doug’s intelligence when they first met him, partly because Doug would make comments like that one, subtly encouraging them to. “Let’s just rob an armored car,” Doug said.

  Mitch nodded approvingly at the new, aggressive Doug. “All right then. One robbed armored car, coming right up.”

  OVER TIME, THE pot smoked in the house had begun to stain the walls up near the ceiling, but it was only noticeable if you lay on the couch and looked up, which was the first thing Mitch usually did after smoking pot in the house. So whenever he took a few quality bong hits, the first topic he introduced was how they should immediately buy some paint and freshen up the living room to avoid losing their security deposit.

  “Dude, you say that every time you get high,” said Doug.

  “Stoner,” said Kevin.

  They were splayed out across the living room, a thick gray cloud of pot smoke in the air, the type you didn’t notice if you were in the room when it was created. Sometimes they would be sitting and watching TV and smoking away, and a newcomer to the room, such as a pizza delivery guy, would comment on the cloud, reminding them that it was there, which would trigger more stressed mumbling from Mitch about the security deposit.

  They had been discussing the Great Plan all afternoon, but eventually the marijuana had overtaken the conversation and turned it into a silent reverie. Yet the Great Plan, as it had developed in a haze of smoke, seemed surprisingly solid. They were to acquire a car for parts from the classifieds and somehow get it running. That way they could have a getaway vehicle which was unregistered and uninsured.

  One of Doug’s three superpowers, in addition to being able to identify and recite the effects of any pill and being able to name the performer of any rock song from the 70s to the 90s, was an ability to tinker with things and get them running. Once they got the car running, they would slap the old Nevada license plate on it and park it in the street ac
ross from the bank and wait, hoping that no cops showed an interest in the plate. There was, they decided, no other way but to take that small chance. It was Mitch’s job, each time he walked Ramone, to monitor the police activity in the neighborhood, to make sure that the chance that some cops would drive by and notice their illegal plate was minimal.

  When the armored car showed up, Mitch and Doug would simply push the old guard aside, grab the money, leap into the getaway car, and drive a mile and quarter to an old access road. There, Kevin’s truck would be parked. They would remove the old Nevada plate, roll the junker car into a ravine, and drive back to Wilton with the money.

  As the Great Plan would take place in broad daylight, it depended on the element of surprise. There would be witnesses, so ski masks were a must, but as long as there were no police, everything would go smoothly. They would buy a Taser, they decided, so they could “subdue” the guards if any problems arose. But definitely only as a last resort. Mitch liked the word subdue.

  It had been discussed as much as their pot-soaked brains could handle, and finally the energy the subject inspired had petered out, and they had stretched out on the sofas and begun discussing the décor.

  “Man, every time someone moves out of an apartment, they paint the place,” said Kevin. “The security deposit is just for shit like holes in the wall or destroyed carpet.”

  “I’m just saying,” Mitch said. “We should keep the place looking decent. I mean, look up there.” He pointed lazily to a gray patch next to the light fixture, and Doug and Kevin dutifully looked but said nothing, frustrating him more.

  Despite having neither a great respect for authority nor much interest in paying his bills, Mitch had a genuine respect for landlords which went beyond fear of eviction. His father had, during a slow season in the Smoke-Eeter selling business, tried his hand at property management, and Mitch remembered his tales of horror about how badly people treated rental property. He would come home and relate how some tenants had ground dog shit into a carpet rather than clean it up, because they knew they were moving out soon, or just bailed out on their tenancy and left a refrigerator full of rotting food. So in his efforts to be the perfect tenant, Mitch demonstrated a passive obedience to his landlord, an agreeableness he showed to no one else. And he took abuse for it.

  “I think Mitch has a crush on the landlord,” Doug said.

  “Are you gay for the landlord, Mitch?” Kevin asked.

  “I think that’s why we stole the TV for him from Accu-mart. Because Mitch wants some landlord dick.”

  “Will you guys shut the fuck up? Seriously. I mean look at these walls, man. They were white when we moved in.”

  “Mitch wants the landlord,” Doug sang merrily.

  “Fine,” Mitch snapped. “Let’s just leave the place a mess.

  Hey, why don’t we just . . .” He paused as the marijuana temporarily interrupted his thought processes, then finished a moment later without any of the intensity. “Burn the place down,” he said and yawned.

  Time passed. How much was hard to say because everyone was stoned, but long after Mitch thought the subject was forgotten, Doug finally said, “I think you’re right. We should paint the place. After we rob the armored car.”

  “It’ll look a lot nicer,” Mitch said. “You’ll appreciate it.”

  “And we can get some new furniture,” Doug added.

  “What’re you guys, interior decorators? I thought we agreed not to spend any of the money on anything but necessities for sixth months.” Kevin sat up straight and looked at them both. “That’s the plan, right? We have to stick to that. We just sit on the money for six months.”

  “Yeah, man,” Doug said, nodding to placate him. “It’s cool. I meant six months after we rob the armored car.”

  “No you didn’t. We gotta be serious about this.”

  “We’re serious, man.”

  “Because everyone in town is going to be looking for three guys who are suddenly acting like millionaires,” Kevin said. He, too, began to lose intensity and he slumped back down on the couch.

  “It’s cool,” said Mitch. “No spending money on anything but necessities for six months. That’s the deal.”

  “That’s the deal,” Doug said.

  “Bullshit,” Kevin sighed. “I’m gonna come over a week after the robbery, and there’ll be, like, a construction company putting a swimming pool in the backyard, and there’ll be two Ferraris in the driveway. I know you guys, man.”

  “Definitely not a Ferrari,” Mitch said. Then he adopted a British accent and added, “Frankly Douglas, I wasn’t that impressed with the Ferrari, were you?”

  “Decidedly not, Mitchell. I do think perhaps a Rolls-Royce though. That would be splendid.”

  “And a butler. We must hire a butler.”

  “Oh, we just must.”

  “You two are fuckheads,” said Kevin, standing up, shaking his head slightly to get the cobwebs of dope and relaxation off his brain. “I gotta get home. Linda’s gonna be wondering where I am.”

  “Later,” Doug said. “I’ll see if I can drum up some interest in those pills.”

  “Hey,” Kevin said. “I have an idea.” Then he paused for long enough that Mitch and Doug both figured the idea had disappeared into the marijuana wasteland and he would just turn to leave. But he continued. “You guys do that British accent thing pretty well.”

  “Yeah. So? What’s the idea?”said Mitch.

  “Well, when we rob the armored car, man, we should all wear ski masks and talk with British accents. You know, like . . . uh . . . the guys in Reservoir Dogs. Remember, they were all calling each other Mr. Pink and Mr. Green? Well, we’ll talk with British accents.”

  “Cool,” said Doug.

  “Splendid,” agreed Mitch.

  “All right, I’m outta here,” Kevin said, turning to go.

  “Cheerio, then,” said Mitch.

  “Ta-ta,” said Doug.

  9

  CHAPTER

  LIKE ALL GREAT plans, the Great Plan required an initial down payment. Cars, even junk cars, weren’t free. Neither, for that matter, were Tasers and ski masks. The money was to be acquired by Doug, who would be selling pills. When he heard this, Doug reminded Mitch and Kevin that pill-selling could be quite a profitable enterprise and that the original plan had been for Doug to keep all the money, as he was taking all the risk. Therefore, the pill-selling money was technically his and should be repaid upon receipt of the huge bags of bills. As Mitch and Kevin figured Doug’s total input would be in the neighborhood of five hundred dollars, and the take from the robbery would be in excess of a million, they put up no argument. Doug didn’t seem to understand that when they were splitting up a million dollars these distinctions wouldn’t matter so much. So they surrendered the point and agreed that Doug would first take out his five hundred, and then they would split up the million.

  But Doug began having trouble right away. He had put word out that he had pills the day Kevin had told him of them, but still, six days later, no phone calls. Even the cooks from the restaurant, who used to come in hungover every morning and loudly proclaim a wish for pain pills, had not called. Perhaps they had prioritized their expenses and found that, after being laid off, there simply wasn’t enough money around to pay for a pain-pill addiction. Doug decided he needed to find a richer clientele.

  He called Mitch’s cell phone. “Dude, we gotta go to a fancy club or something,” he said when Mitch answered.

  “Why?” Mitch was walking Ramone, keeping a close eye out for the police. He had been cheered to see that they didn’t seem to be around.

  “I need to get rid of these pills. Man, we can make hundreds of dollars a night and really get this thing moving.”

  “I’m not going to a club, man. Those places suck. They closed all the clubs in Wilton anyway.”

  “We might have to go someplace else. Out of town.”

  Mitch rolled his eyes, imagining Doug coming up with this idea as a convol
uted way to get him to drive for an hour to see one of those shitty bands he liked so much. “Dude, just talk to some people around here. I’m not going to a club. No way.”

  Holding the phone to his ear with a raised shoulder while watching a muted TV, Doug could hear Mitch rolling his eyes. Mitch didn’t get bands like Left Outlet and Portishead, and Doug secretly thought it was because Mitch was insensitive, even deaf to some of the world’s more obvious vibes. He rolled his eyes in turn and wondered about Mitch’s value system, whereby it was OK to Taser a seventy-year-old man but in no way was it OK to visit a dance club.

  “Dude, I’ve asked, like, everyone I know. Nobody can afford pills.”

  “All right then,” said Mitch, adopting his commando persona. “But we’re gonna have to sell some pills so we have money to go to a club.”

  “I can’t sell any pills, man.”

  “Are you sure we’ll be able to sell them at a nightclub?”

  “Better bet than around here.”

  “All right, man. I’ll put it on my credit card.” They said goodbye, and it began to snow as Mitch walked Ramone back to the house. Dammit, the last thing he wanted was to run up more debt, especially at a freakin’ dance club.

  Nobody but Guidos and losers with gold chains around their necks went to those places, bathed in cologne and perfume, reciting hackneyed pickup lines to each other.

  Mitch hadn’t been out to a bar for any reason other than to watch a Steelers game in years, and the last time he had been to a dance club he had felt like he was watching a Discovery Channel nature special on mating rituals. Doug, he knew, was a music lover and wasn’t opposed to dancing, and he had the vague feeling that Doug was just trying to get a financed night out of the house. Fine, if that was how he wanted to play it, Mitch would make him drink water at the bar. While he sipped martinis, which he didn’t even like.Yeah, he’d see how Doug liked that.