them into the banks they robbed, but he hadn't been inside to see how they used them.
'Why do we need guns, anyway?' he asked, thinking about it.
Souther picked up the kitchen timer and slipped it into one of his pockets. 'You can't rob a bank with nothing but a smile, kid,' he said, then added, 'but don't get any ideas about carrying one yourself.'
Beeks handed out Aaron's colorful ski masks. Souther removed his fedora, pulled on his blue vertical stripes and replaced the hat. Needles donned the green horizontal stripes and Aaron his familiar pink polka-dots. Black circles again, Beeks stayed at his assigned post in the driver's seat. He clicked on his radio and made himself comfortable.
Needles grabbed four empty duffel bags and a large black-plastic trash bag from the back of the van. He handed the trash bag to Aaron, and a quick radio check completed the gang's preparations.
'It's showtime, boys,' Souther said. Then he and Needles shouldered their rifles and, without waiting for Aaron, trotted down the block toward the bank.
As Aaron scrambled out of the van to join them, his hand landed on the 9mm pistol left lying on the floor. He looked at Beeks — who was watching the street, radio at hand — then slipped the pistol into a pocket of his jumpsuit.
He leaped out of the van, slammed the side door shut, and double-timed it down the block through the rain to catch up.
The big clock read 9:30 a.m.
PART TWO
Chapter 37
… 9:40 a.m.
– Aaron removed his hands from his ears and glanced around the room. It was as if a bomb had gone off: teller windows shattered; desks and chairs overturned and riddled with bullet holes; two dozen hostages flat on their stomachs, covered with debris.
He stood, bones buzzing with adrenaline, and had to fight the urge to laugh. Here he was, in the middle of a bizarre, violent, life threatening situation, and he was getting into it. For a few precious moments nothing else in his turbulent adolescent world existed.
Souther and Needles reloaded and surveyed the hostages.
'Okay, listen up!' Souther said. 'Which one of you idiots knows the combination to the vault?'
Silence.
'I didn't bring a damn can-opener, people!' Souther shouted. 'Who has the combination to the fucking safe?'
The hostages glanced at one another, but no one dared speak.
Souther grit his teeth and fired, flipping a random hostage violently onto his back where he lay dead. The other hostages screamed and recoiled in horror.
Aaron's lungs seized up, as if a cement truck had backed up over his chest. He sank to his knees as his brain, succumbing to a neuron overload, switched off.
Needles held his position.
'You'd better hope the combination didn't die with that guy,' Souther yelled.
Amidst the chaos, a lone hostage cried out. 'I have it! I know the combination! God, please… I'm the one…'
The others continued to scream and moan.
Souther fired another three-round burst into the ceiling. 'Would you shut the hell up?' he shouted, and a heavy hush lay over the room.
A frail, middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses got cautiously to his feet and raised his hands, trembling inside his three-piece suit. On his name tag: BANK MANAGER.
'And who are you?' Souther asked.
'I–I'm the manager,' the man said.
'I got that, you idiot. What's your name? '
'Oh, uh — it's Walden… J-Jim Walden.'
'And how long have you been manager here, Jim?'
'I-uh — seventeen… yes… s-seventeen years next month.'
'Okay, Jim,' Souther said. 'Go with him.' He gestured toward Needles.
Needles patted Jim down and had him gather up the empty duffel bags. Then he took him at gunpoint and headed for the basement vault.
'Okay, everyone!' Souther said. 'My young friend here will accept your donations, now.' He indicated Aaron.
Still short of breath and barely lucid, Aaron struggled to his feet and pulled the plastic trash bag out of his jumpsuit pocket. He held it open and stared out at his audience. The abject terror in their eyes mirrored his.
'Everything goes in the bag.' Souther said. 'That includes cell phones, people!'
Aaron moved from hostage to hostage like a battery-powered Halloween robot playing a sick game of trick- or-treat. Ladies surrendered their jewelry and purses, men their watches and wallets, their tortured souls reaching out to Aaron like diseased prisoners clawing the dungeon turnkey.
– The massive stainless-steel vault door was circular and about eight feet in diameter. It was polished to a mirror finish, with a large brass-spoked handle in its center.
Jim was hunched over the fluted dial, betting his life on completing his assigned task. His hands shook, and he dripped with sweat. He peeled his glasses from his face and wiped them dry with his handkerchief.
Needles prodded him in the back with his rifle barrel. 'Let's go,' he said. 'I could've opened the damn thing myself, by now.'
'I'm trying,' Jim said. 'God in heaven…' He replaced his glasses and continued to tickle the sensitive dial. 'I–I just need the last… lousy…'
He stood and proudly spun the handle, then pulled hard against the weight and swung the massive door aside.
'Okay, let's move, ' Needles said, gesturing with the barrel of his gun. Then he followed Jim into the vault.
– Aaron's trash bag was getting heavy; he pictured it ripping wide open and wondered what he would do if it did.
He came upon the dead hostage — the frozen expression of death by surprise. Aaron tried to lift the bulky bag over the sizable pool of blood that had spread into the surrounding carpet, but the thin black plastic just stretched and dragged through the blood, leaving a crimson trail as he passed.
The blue smoke effect was rapidly dissipating as Souther paced the floor in the center of the lobby, his rifle hanging in one hand, his eyes and teeth flashing through the holes in his ski mask.
'Let's be generous, shall we?' he said. 'A wedding ring is not worth your fucking life.'
Jim Walden appeared from the back dragging four heavy duffel bags; he was soaked to the skin with sweat and looked to have aged ten years. Needles followed, a stride behind, the barrel of his rifle making a dent in Jim's back.
Souther was openly pleased. 'I'll take those,' he said. Jim slid the straps off of his narrow shoulders and the money slumped to the floor at Souther's feet.
