Nobody Move

by Philip Elliott

  “Now you’re thinking like my partner.”

  “This some crazy shit, Saul.”

  “It’s certainly a unique arrangement of circumstance.”

  Sudden pain shot through Floyd’s wounded chest. He winced. “One thing I don’t get, though—what if Eddie’s friend never gave him up and you didn’t find him? Who’d be doing the bank?”

  “I got a dozen guys can do the bank, a couple of them on standby since I got the tip. But I want you and Eddie to do it for the reasons I explained.”

  Floyd eyed Saul warily. Didn’t the man say only a few minutes ago that he ain’t had no time to find guys for this job? Something smells like salmon up in here, and it ain’t coming from the kitchen.

  Floyd said, “And you want the Puerto Rican there ’cause you don’t trust me and Sawyer to do Eddie after.”

  “I want the Puerto Rican there because the man is a consummate professional who will get the job done at all costs and will not be swayed by panic or emotion. I’m curious about the guy, might like to use him again in future. As for Sawyer, this job is beyond his temperament and professionalism, or lack thereof.”

  Floyd nodded, his mind racing trying to keep up with the facts. “All right. What’s the plan?”

  Waiting for the Puerto Rican to arrive, Floyd left the restaurant and walked to the nearest convenience store and bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter despite the fact he didn’t smoke. The oppressive heat of a Los Angeles summer had finally returned and beads of sweat slid down his neck. He clamped a cigarette between his lips and set it on fire. Saul’s plan was madness but there was an elegance to it all the same. But he was becoming arrogant, harder to deal with. Working for him was becoming dangerous and uncomfortable, and the idea of being partners with the man wasn’t much better.

  Floyd sucked at the cigarette until only the filter remained and took his cell phone out of his pocket, dialed Sawyer.

  “Floyd,” Sawyer drawled. “Feeling better?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Damn right. You get the cowboy?”

  “No, I got something even better.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  Floyd glanced over his shoulder. “How’s two million dollars sound?”

  14 | The Puerto Rican

  Floyd wasn’t sure what he’d expected the Puerto Rican to look like but it wasn’t the man sitting in the passenger seat of the Honda Civic Saul had acquired for the job because it was, according to Saul, the most popular car in L.A. and therefore the least likely to stand out. The Puerto Rican, or Diego as he told Floyd to call him, was short and thin with narrow shoulders and skinny wrists. He had his hair tied behind his head in a ponytail and wore a white short-sleeved Cuban shirt over beige linen pants. The man looked like an extra in Miami Vice.

  Diego wasn’t much of a talker, either. All he’d said so far was “Call me Diego” after Floyd asked him if he was the Puerto Rican, and “I drive” as they walked toward the car. “Not yet you don’t,” Floyd had replied, and got into the driver’s seat. He needed to be behind the wheel if he and Sawyer were to get rid of Diego the way they’d planned.

  Driving in silence with a glorified serial killer beside him unnerved Floyd, so he opened his mouth. “You really from Puerto Rico or is that one of those funny names don’t make sense?” Stupid question; of course the man was from Puerto Rico—look at him.

  “Yes, I born in Puerto Rico.” His accent was strong, his voice nasal and a little high-pitched.

  “But you live here?”

  “Yes, I live in U.S.A.”

  “Where in the U.S.A.?”

  “I live everywhere and nowhere.”

  Floyd didn’t know what to say to that so he shut up for a minute and watched the road. They passed a group of kids on skateboards. Floyd glanced at Diego. The man’s eyes were opened wide, as if he was surprised, except that they’d been open like that since the moment Floyd met him. Diego was either always surprised, or never.

  “You like L.A., Diego?”

  “Yes, I like the weather and the many thing to do.” Looking straight ahead as he spoke.

  “Yeah, most people like the weather. Except that it’s been raining like crazy most of the past few weeks.”

  “Yes, I hear about this.”

  “No one knows what to make of it. It’s like L.A.’s in some strange bubble, its own little universe. That’s what I heard one of the weather people saying, on the TV.”

  “In Puerto Rico, hurricane come and destroy everything. Homes of people lifted up and gone.”

  “Yeah, you mean that one last year? Hurricane Maria, right?”

  “Maria, si.”

  “Were you there for that, Diego?”

  “No, I don’t go to Puerto Rico for ten years.”

  “But you have family?”

  “Me? No, no familia.”

  Floyd nodded. The man was a puzzle, no doubt about it.

  Floyd slowed the car as they approached an alleyway near Sawyer’s apartment. He pulled up alongside it and kept the engine running.

  The silence grew louder.

  “We meet Eddie here?” Diego said.

  “Eddie, yeah. He be here in a minute.”

  Floyd glanced at the storage compartment in the door next to his leg, his Sig Sauer inside it in case things went south.

  “So, Diego, you ever robbed a bank before?”

  “No. But I kill many people. Even U.S.A. senator. Nobody see me.” He was more alert now, sitting tense in the seat as he peered out the windshield and shot glances in the rear-view.

  “You’re stone cold, Diego, talking about killing like that. So you do more than just get rid of people then, huh? You robbing banks now.”

  “I don’t steal from bank. I drive car, then I kill Eddie.”

  Fair point. Diego reminded Floyd of somebody. But who …

  Sawyer rounded the corner ahead of them and nodded a greeting.

  Floyd glanced at Diego, the man about to have the back of his head blown open.

  “Who this guy?” Diego said, the “guy” sounding funny coming from him.

  “That’s Eddie.”

  Diego frowned for a second before his expression went back to blank.

  Sawyer opened the door. “Afternoon ladies.” He got into the seat behind Diego.

  A startling flash of movement and Diego had his hand under Floyd’s chin. Floyd felt a sharp pain in his neck.

  “Drop the gun or I cut him open,” Diego said.

  “I can shoot you faster’n you can cut him,” Sawyer said.

  Something warm ran down Floyd’s chest. It took him a second to realize it was blood.

  “Drop the fucking gun, Sawyer, I’m bleeding up in here,” Floyd said.

  “Okay okay, I’m dropping it.”

  Floyd heard the gun hit the floor. Diego darted toward the door on his right, threw it open, and was gone. Floyd spun his head and saw Diego sprinting down the street. Sawyer dove for the gun and fumbled at the door next to him. He got it open as Diego rounded the corner and raced after him.

  Floyd put a hand to his neck. When he lifted it away it was wet with blood, but he hadn’t felt any surging of the stuff, which was good. He leaned over the passenger side and opened the glove compartment and took out the cloth he’d brought to wipe away the Puerto Rican’s blood after Sawyer shot him. He tied it around his neck. The irony was not lost on him.

  The Samurai. That’s who Diego reminded him of. Deacon ‘The Samurai’ Jones. Been a long time since he’d thought of that crazy fool.

  Floyd sat in the oppressive silence of the car for a couple minutes until Sawyer returned and collapsed into the seat beside him, panting.

  “He’s a fast little fucker, I couldn’t catch him.”

  “Shit.”

  “How’d he know I’m not Eddie?”

  “Must have seen a picture of him. The man’s a pro. I figured he might know what Eddie look like but I didn’t expect him to pull a blade.”

&nb
sp; “What we gonna do?”

  “Keep going. We can’t be late, job has to be done at one.”

  “We’re still doing it?” Sawyer said.

  “You damn right we still doing it. Two million bucks.”

  “What if he tells Saul?”

  “It don’t matter now. Come one ten, we outta here.”

  Sawyer clapped a hand on Floyd’s shoulder, grinning. “I like how you think. You tell your wife anything?”

  “Not a thing. She think I’m coming home tonight.”

  “That’s cold,” Sawyer said.

  “Nah, she fuckin’ hates me. Bitch probably celebrate.”

  “Where we gonna go?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “I always wanted to go to Europe.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Italy?” Sawyer said.

  “Why not.”

  Sawyer smiled and brought his face close to Floyd’s.

  Floyd pulled away. “Woah woah, easy. I’m not a faggot, okay? I just—”

  “You just like filling your mouth with my cock.” Sawyer smirked, blue eyes playful.

  Floyd hesitated, a little shocked at hearing it out loud. He felt a smirk forming on his face, despite himself.

  “Guess I do. Maybe I’d like to fill your ass with mine.”

  “Anytime, big man,” Sawyer said, and brought his face toward Floyd’s again, slowly.

  Floyd didn’t fight it this time. He closed his eyes and let Sawyer’s lips press against his own. A heat filled him, his body vibrating. He kissed Sawyer back, tasting cigarettes. The kiss was at once less profound and more comfortable than he’d expected. It felt different than any kiss he’d shared with a woman, including his wife. It felt right.

  The kiss ended and Sawyer pulled away. He raised an eyebrow, looking smug.

  “Well hallelujah,” he said. “Let’s rob a bank.”

  “Amen,” Floyd said, and accelerated onto the street, his hands trembling on the steering wheel.

  The quiet of the apartment wasn’t doing anything to soothe Eddie’s nerves. He paced around the living room in circles, stopping every few steps to gaze out the window at the street below.

  Dakota’s beautiful face kept coming to him—the expression it had held when they were lying in bed together. But then her peaceful expression would morph into one of shock followed by horror as she learned of her sister’s murder over and over again in his mind. He could never take back what he had done, but he could stop it from happening to Dakota. He’d never be able to live with himself if he didn’t try.

  Eddie peered out the window again as a car pulled up outside the building. To his surprise, Floyd got out of the car, then Sawyer. They entered through the first gate that was always left unlocked and sauntered up the path. The buzzer rang and Eddie unlocked the second gate, then unlocked his front door and waited in the living room.

  Floyd appeared first. “Eddie, my man. Together again at last.”

  Sawyer followed him into the room, a black sports bag in his hand. “Eddie.”

  “Thought you were dead,” Eddie said to Floyd.

  “I wonder why you thought that. Maybe it’s ’cause you left me alone and unconscious with a psychotic Jesus-freak cowboy killer, huh?”

  “When you point a gun at somebody, be prepared to get hurt,” Eddie said.

  “It was just to make you listen. I wasn’t gonna shoot yo’ ass.”

  “I didn’t wanna listen, or go with you. I know where that road leads.”

  “No, you led us to this moment right here instead.”

  Floyd went into the kitchen and unwrapped a bloody cloth from his neck. He tossed it in the bin and went over to the sink, splashed water on himself.

  “I wasn’t expecting you two,” Eddie said.

  Floyd said, “Who else could it be? The three of us, we the dream team.” He returned to the living room, drying his neck with a kitchen towel.

  “It’s like the good old days,” Sawyer said, “but instead of stealing ice we’re stealing from a bank.”

  Eddie said, “This is crazy, even for Saul. A year ago he never would have even considered something like this. Who’s he trying to be, Don Corleone?”

  “Is what it is,” Floyd said. To Sawyer: “Am I bleeding?”

  “Nah, you’re good.”

  “What happened?” Eddie said.

  Floyd said, “We running out of time. Let’s go over the plan. Sit down.”

  Eddie sat on the sofa and Floyd sat beside him. Sawyer dropped the bag and dragged over a chair from the kitchen. He faced it away from them and sat in it backwards, his arms crossed over the back of it.

  Floyd pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it on the coffee table, smoothing out the creases: a blueprint of the bank.

  Eddie said, “Doing this in the middle of the day downtown is the worst idea in the world. Didn’t we learn anything from San Diego?”

  “Job has to be done at one,” Floyd said. “Our contact says the Federal Reserve is loading the bank with the two mil’ at twelve forty-five. The vault is time-locked and only opens between twelve thirty and one thirty. Our contact cuts the silent alarms at twelve fifty-five.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “Don’t load the bank or don’t cut the alarm?”

  “Either.”

  “Then we fucked.” Floyd grinned. “Saul says his contact is good for it, ex-army tech specialist been trying to get Saul in on a bank job for years. Calls himself Edward Bunker but you can be sure that ain’t his real name. No stranger to this kind of job. You hear about the bank robbery in Oklahoma City last year? They got away with almost a million? That was his.”

  Floyd pointed to a small room at the top left of the map. “See here, that’s the vault. Only one man in the bank has the key, the manager. Name of Marvin Reeves. We need his fingerprints to open the first door and his key to open the second. The cash will fit in two bags—one each for me and you. We go into the bank with big fuck-you rifles. We ain’t gonna use them, point is they make everybody shit themselves. Pistols won’t do it these days, people seen too many movies. And this is America—everybody and their babysitter got a pistol. You go into a bank with an assault rifle and, motherfucker, you mean business.”

  “Loaded?” Eddie said.

  “Shit yeah loaded. If I need to put a motherfucker down, I’mma put a motherfucker down. We taking extra clips, too, and bulletproof vests.”

  “This is madness.”

  “Ain’t nothing gonna happen,” Sawyer said. “But you gotta plan for every eventuality.”

  “Exactly,” Floyd said, “I mean, in the unlikely event we get shot at, I wanna know it ain’t gonna hurt. But, listen, this ain’t hard. We walk in shouting, guns pointing at everybody. Get everyone on the ground, scare them, be loud and aggressive. On the inside we stay calm and composed but on the outside we crazy and ready to kill a motherfucker. I get to Marvin, make him open the vault while you watch the crowd. Tell them anybody move they all get shot. Hit somebody with the gun if you need to. When Marvin opens the vault we switch. You go in, grab the cash, put it in the bags while I keep everybody quiet. This part you gotta be fast. You fill up one bag you slide it to me and you fill the next. When you done that you put the bag over your shoulder and walk straight out the bank into the car. I be right behind you. We put our masks on and take them off right before we enter and exit the bank. The guns we hold inside our suit jackets—that’s another thing, we all wearing suits. We doin’ this shit like they did in Heat.”

  “Heat?” Eddie said.

  “The movie, with Bobby De Niro.”

  “That ended in a fucking shootout in the street for Christ sake.”

  “It had to happen like that ’cause it’s a movie.”

  Eddie shook his head. “Stop talking about goddamn movies. What about the guards?”

  “No guards. Banks don’t use guards no more. They too expensive, and them being there increases the likelihood of violence by th
ree hundred percent, so banks don’t use ’em.”

  Sawyer slipped a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it. “Sounds easy to me.”

  “Did I say you could smoke in here?” Eddie said.

  “You didn’t say I couldn’t.” Sawyer exhaled a cloud and sucked another drag.

  Floyd said, “It is easy. Like stealing ice like we used to. We just gotta be discreet going in, keep our cool inside, and be discreet coming back out. Then we drive to a certain location, switch the car, and we home free, baby.”

  “Oh yeah? And what are you two getting out of this?” Eddie said. “I assume Saul’s taking almost all of it.”

  “Don’t worry ’bout us, Eddie, we got a sweet deal,” Sawyer said. “You’d do best to worry ’bout your girl—get the job done and get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “Anything happens to her I’ll kill the both of you.”

  Floyd closed the map. “Hey now, we all friends here. The dream team back in business.” He stood up and pointed at the sports bag. “Give me that.”

  Sawyer kicked it over and Floyd bent down and zipped it open. Christ—he was pulling out an assault rifle.

  “See these?” Floyd said, pointing at a dial above the grip of one of the rifles, three markings jutting out of it: “S,” “A,” and “R.” “‘S’ means safety. ‘A’ means automatic, which means long as you have that trigger pulled bullets will fly. ‘R’ means semi-automatic, which means one trigger-pull shoots one bullet. I’m switching it to semi right now, which means the safety is off, and the guns are loaded and cocked, so don’t pull that trigger ’less you tryna hit a motherfucker.” He touched a lever on top of the gun. “This where you rack the slide after you reload. You pull out the empty magazine down here and slot the new one inside till you hear it click into place, then you pull this lever back and you good to go. If you have to shoot, aim carefully, take a breath, tense your body so the recoil don’t knock you back, and squeeze the trigger. Then repeat.”

  Eddie rested his palm on his neck. “You ever shoot one of these things before?”

  “Shit yeah.”

  Eddie looked at Sawyer. “What about you?”

  “Yeah, I fired ’em, and a lot more besides.”

  “Where?”