“Tell us,” Thomas said.
“Robbery.”
“Robbery? Like street robbery?”
“No punk ass chain snatching shit,” Ryatt shook his head, “no mugging either. Actual robbery.”
“Like ‘Mad Dog Killers’ style?” Leo asked in surprise.
Hayward Brown, whom their asshole police commissioner had dubbed ‘Mad Dog Killer’ was sort of a folk hero for the black community, especially black thugs. However, Ryatt didn’t wish to be anything like Brown.
“Um… not exactly. Brown was a goddamn hero.”
“What’s wrong with being a hero?”
“Everyone knew Brown and his two minions, known right from juvenile. That was the cause of their downfall. But no one knows us. And that is going to be our greatest advantage.”
“So we ain’t ripping off drug dealers or their dens?”
“Hell no! None of Brown’s vigilante bullshit. Real life ain’t Shaft. That’s another thing that got Brown killed, remember? We aren’t militants with afros.”
“Son, then whose money exactly are we robbing?”
Ryatt bit his nail, looking down. “The bank’s.”
Neither spoke, and before Thomas had enough time to raise an objection, Leo said, “We really going big league, uh?”
Ryatt nodded.
Leo shrugged. “Count me in. It’s either get rich or die trying, right?” He lifted his fist. Ryatt, instead of bumping it, looked at Thomas.
“We can’t do it without you, Buddha.”
Thomas frowned. “Long as we ain’t killing nobody.”
Ryatt answered, “Yeah, sure, no.”
Thomas eyed Ryatt for a few seconds. Then he said, “Fuck it. Not like we got a lot to lose.” He put his fist on Leo’s.
“I disagree,” Ryatt said, the truth in the next sentence sent a jolt of pain through his heart and made his eyes water. “We got absolutely nothing to lose.”
Then he bumped their fists.
Chapter 7
July 26, 1981. 01:21. P.M.
Robbery was tough to pull off if you wanted to do it right. The problem wasn’t so much picking a bloated target that would make it worthwhile but the subsequent reconnaissance and hatching of a foolproof plan. It was as time-consuming as it was rewarding. It should be. They literally couldn’t afford to go wrong.
Ryatt had done his homework to the best of his abilities and had chosen a dry canal as a point to ambush the cash van. The water way was one hundred meters wide and a bridge ran over it twenty feet above, its shade providing him and Leo an oasis from the broiling sun. Used by skateboarders in the evenings, and drug dealers and hobos post dusk, it was deserted in the afternoon.
Ryatt crossed himself and mumbled; as he opened his eyes, he found Leo watching him with interest. “Are you… are you praying?”
“Praying is for weak asses.” Ryatt touched the bulge on his hip for the umpteenth time.
“So why are you doing this?” Leo pantomimed crossing, then cackled.
“We’re breaking out of this financial prison that God’s put us in. A miscarriage of justice is finally gonna be righted, and I’m ordering that asshole to stay out of our way.”
As Leo laughed again, the first whistle signaled them to get ready.
Ryatt nudged Leo who then jogged towards the canal wall and clambered up the slope, to his position.
As soon as Leo disappeared from sight, Ryatt squatted and inserted two fingers in his mouth and touched the back of his throat. He gagged instinctively, doubled over, and heaved.
Nothing came but contrived burps.
Since this morning, he had been feeling mildly sick due to the small doses of adrenaline regularly mixing in his bloodstream. The ardor from their little scheme had agitated his system. He had swallowed his fingers twice, hoping to barf the goddamn ramen out. Better now than later, but no luck.
Shaking his head in disappointment, Ryatt returned to his own post under the overpass, in the triangular space between the bridge and the side of the canal, which brimmed with weeds.
Once safely tucked between the plants, he ran his fingertips over the waistband yet again and made sure the .22 was still there. His hand then travelled into his pocket and pulled out a black bandana. Printed on it in bright white was a half skull, lower and upper jaw bones, and teeth glaring in gold. Ryatt tied it across his face and lay on the slope. He let his eyelids close and began taking in breaths. He needed all the oxygen he could pump into his lungs to calm himself down.
Unlike the first three attempts, Thomas didn’t chicken out this time. For all that hulking body, he was not courageous when it came to doing something that required exceptional balls. Ryatt had convinced Thomas by assigning him the easiest part of the job: to operate the stolen backhoe and the getaway.
Seconds ticked past; the time for the cash van to enter the bridge neared, and Ryatt’s insides churned more. His mom had run out of lollipops at the shop, so he asked Thomas to get some from somewhere else, which he had, but the thick-bodied, light-brained fool had forgotten to give them to Ryatt before plodding off to take his position.
The second whistle pierced the afternoon air.
It was time.
Ryatt could picture what was happening at the intersection above him as the plan played out.
Thomas would be waiting on the road perpendicular to the bridge, to T-bone their target. Probably revving the shit out of the backhoe, nervously gripping the steering wheel and unclasping it. His eyes fixed on the signal like a hungry hawk watching a rat hole.
Leo would be at the corner of the street the backhoe was idling. The brink van would come from their left and drive onwards to their right, if they let it pass the bridge, that was, which they had planned not to.
A long blaring honk reverberated in
