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 across 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
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 decor.
“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.”
“
“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
“Splendid,” agreed Mitch.
“All right, I’m outta here,” Kevin said, turning to go.
“Cheerio, then,” said Mitch.
“Ta-ta,” said Doug.
