Hard Revolution

Loan.

TWENTY-EIGHT

WAIT FOR A spot out front,” said Stewart. “There,” said Hess from the backseat. “Money says the old lady’s gonna get in that Buick.”

“That ain’t no surprise,” said Stewart. “She pulls away, back this race car in, Dom.”

“Right,” said Martini, his lifeless eyes tracking the elderly woman emerging from the bank and walking to her Skylark, parked in a space out front.

They were in the idling Nova, fitted in a slot at the far corner of the A amp;P portion of the lot. The center was only half filled with cars, as this was the time of day during which mothers were typically home awaiting the arrival of their children from school. A woman got out of her station wagon with her toddler, found a shopping cart that had been abandoned, and pushed it with one hand toward the supermarket, her left hand pulling on her child’s sweater. A man with a flattop haircut carried paper bags from the market to his Olds, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.

Buzz Stewart and Walter Hess wore their raincoats over blue jeans, Dickie work shirts, and black bomber-style boots. Their stocking masks and gloves sat in their laps. Both had loaded and holstered their weapons. Additonal loose shotgun shells and revolver rounds sat in the side pockets of their raincoats. Martini’s.45 rested on the bucket between his legs, steel grip out, the barrel pressing against his genitals.

Hess found a Black Beauty among the bullets in his pocket and pulled it free. Hunched in the backseat, he drew one of his.38s and ground its butt into the pill, which he held in the palm of his callused hand. The pill broke into bits and dust. Hess reholstered his gun, leaned forward, put his face into his palm, and snorted the amphetamine.

“Fuck, yeah,” said Hess, throwing back his head, feeling the burn in his nasal passages and a bright burst behind his eyes.

“Go on, Dom,” said Stewart. “Take the space.”

As the Buick Skylark pulled out of the lot, Martini put the Hurst in gear and motored slowly past the space, getting reverse and backing in cleanly between a Satellite and a Bel Air. Looking over his shoulder to navigate, Martini saw Hess, amped on speed, his jittery, piggish eyes pinballing in their sockets. Behind the Nova was the sidewalk, and then the plate-glass window of the bank atop a three-foot marble base.

“You ready, Shorty?” said Stewart, his face colored by a head rush of blood.

“Born ready, dad. We gon’ get it all.”

“Look at me, Dom,” said Stewart. “Look at me.”

Martini turned his head and stared into Stewart’s eyes.

“You’re gonna wait for us,” said Stewart. “You keep it runnin’ and wait. We won’t be but five. When we come back, you make it scream. Head south and work the side streets back to your alley. This ain’t nothin’ but a cakewalk, I shit you not.”

“I’ll be here,” said Martini.

I’ve been headed here all my life.

Stewart and Hess fitted the stocking masks on their heads and pulled them down over their faces. They put on their gloves. Stewart, his features mutilated by the mask, his lips fishlike against it, made eye contact with Hess and nodded one time. He got out of the car first, then waited for Hess to push the front seat forward and climb out. Stewart shut the door. Martini looked in the sideview and watched them cross the asphalt and white concrete. Stewart opened the door to the bank and let Hess pass. Stewart drew the cut-down from the harness beneath his raincoat as he followed Hess inside. The door closed quietly behind them. Then there was only the sputtering of the Nova’s 350 rumbling beneath the hood.

Martini’s eyes stayed on the mirror, not looking ahead, not seeing MPD squad car number 63 as it slowly passed on Georgia Avenue.

VAUGHN FLIPPED OPEN his Zippo, lit a cigarette, and snapped the lid shut. He rested his elbow on the lip of the driver’s window as he smoked, one meaty hand atop the wheel. He went down Georgia to the business district around Sheridan, checking out the sidewalk in front of Victor Liquors, Vince’s Agnes Flower Shop, John’s Lunch, the Chinese laundry, and, on the corner, the 6200 tavern. He kept going and cruised slowly by Lou’s, where men who looked liked Martini, Stewart, and Hess drank, smoked, and shot pool. He saw no trace of a black Nova curbed along the Avenue or on the immediate side streets. He continued down Georgia, knowing in his gut as he saw the dark faces of the residents here that he was getting cold. These were men who had run down a man who had done them no wrong, and that made them cowards. They would never try to pull a job in the colored part of town.

He was turning the unmarked in the middle of the street when the 211 came over the radio, describing a robbery in progress at the Capitol Savings and Loan, up near the District line.

Vaughn grabbed the portable magnetic beacon light sitting on the passenger floorboard beside him. He put the cherry out the window and onto the roof, its power wire lying across his lap. He hit the siren and light switches on the console before him. He pegged the gas. The Ford lifted from the power surge. It fishtailed on the lane change as Vaughn swerved to avoid hitting a D.C. Transit bus.

STRANGE, ON THE shotgun side of the squad car, was the first to spot the black Nova in a space out front of the Capitol Savings and Loan. Exhaust drifted up over its trunk line.

“Slow down a little, Troy,” said Strange.

“What’s up?”

“Just slow it down.”

Strange had learned from the bulletin that the plates were stolen and their numbers unknown. But he could make out the full head of wavy black hair on the man behind the Nova’s wheel.

“Pull over,” said Strange. “We got a hit on that all-points.”

They were on Georgia, well past the bank now, directly in front of the A amp;P.

Troy took the Ford over to the curb as Strange radioed in the sighting. He was instructed by the voice on the other end to wait for backup. He ten-foured the desk man and cradled the mic.

Peters looked over his shoulder at the Nova and the bank. He looked at Strange.

“What now?” said Strange.

“You heard the man,” said Peters. “Won’t be but a minute or two before backup comes.”

Peters pulled his service revolver from the swivel holster of his gun belt, freed the cylinder, checked the load, and snapped the cylinder back in place. Strange did the same. He opened his dump pouch and checked it for backup rounds as well. Both had done this before leaving the station. Their nerves told them to do it again.

They heard the siren of a car approaching from the south.

They heard the unmistakable pops of a handgun and the roar of a shotgun blast come from the far end of the shopping center. Before they could gather their thoughts, the shotgun sounded again. Light flashed through the plate glass of the bank.

Peters pulled down on the transmission arm and gave the Ford gas as Strange flip- switched the sirens and the cherries, keyed the mic, and reiterated the certainty of the 211. Peters swung into the lot of the A amp;P, braked, skidded to a stop, and slammed the trans into park.

“Take it,” said Peters.

“Take what, goddamnit?”

“Stay with the vehicle. Get out and take cover on your side of the car.”

Peters drew his sidearm as he opened the door of the squad car and moved across the lot in a crouch. He made it to the doors of the A amp;P, opened one, stood in the frame, and shouted something to