“What’s the difference?”
“Note job is simple— you hand the teller a stickup note and a bag to put the money in, she empties her drawer into the bag, and you walk. With a takeover, you’ve got to bum rush the place. With a note job, you’re probably only gonna get three grand at the most, and probably not even that unless it’s a payday or welfare day. Takeover, you’ll get a lot more.”
“Three thousand bucks.” I thumped the dashboard in frustration. “That’s not going to pay for shit. We owe that much just on the credit card.”
“If you’re serious about this, then I say go for the takeover. You try pulling a note job and walk into that bank with a ski mask on, they’ll freak out before you even reach the teller. That measly three grand ain’t worth all that. Banks, especially the ones around here, don’t keep much in the drawers. If you want big cash, you’ve got to do a takeover and hit all their drawers and their vault. Small-town banks like ours, you could easily walk away with forty or fifty thousand. Probably even more if you hit Baltimore or Philly instead.”
“Yo, how do you know all this?” John asked, echoing my own thoughts.
“Simple, Carpet Dick. I watch a lot of Court TV.”
“Sherm, I wish you wouldn’t call me Carpet Dick.”
I mulled over the takeover approach.
“So what— I just walk in with a ski mask on and demand money? Won’t they recognize my voice?”
“Fuck yeah, if you use your regular bank. Here’s my suggestion. If it was me, I’d hit that bank inside the little strip mall on the edge of town.”
“You mean the one that sits between McSherrystown and Hanover?”
“Exactly. It’s on Route 116, so within minutes you’ve got access to all those back roads and woods and shit. More importantly, you’re within a few minutes of Route 30 and the Maryland border, and not far from Interstate 83. There are all kinds of ways to get out of there and vanish with a fucking quickness. Plus, the bank is small, and right now, it’s forty-four shades of fucked up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Check this shit out.” He grinned, and the sharp outline of his face almost looked like a skull in the glow of his cigarette. “They just got bought out by a bigger bank, right? So they’re in the process of switching everything over. They don’t have bandit barriers or bulletproof glass or anything like that. Just the same old cameras and alarm system they had before. The tellers aren’t real alert because they’re burned out— explaining the new bank’s regulations to their old customers who aren’t exactly happy with the change. It’s fucking perfect, dog! That strip mall doesn’t get much traffic. Ain’t no Wal-Mart or Target there. All they’ve got is the dry cleaners and that Chinese place. Quick in, quick out, and you’re gone before five-oh even arrives.”
“Sweet.” I had to admit, I was warming to the idea. Sherm made a lot of sense, and he was bringing up lots of stuff that I hadn’t thought about.
“So you go in there like a motherfucking O. G. and scare the shit out of them. Holler and curse and start a ruckus. Get yourself a backpack or something to hold the cash. Hit the drawers, the vault, then get the fuck out.”
“Make sure they don’t give you any dye packs either,” John piped up, apparently becoming an instant expert as well. “I saw it on the tube. Once you go outside, you’ve got about ten seconds till those little fuckers explode. Then you’re dyed bright red, making you pretty easy to find, and the money is useless, because it all burns up.”
“Actually, and I can’t fucking believe I’m saying this, John is right,” Sherm nodded. “But you ain’t gotta worry about that shit. This branch doesn’t allow their tellers to slip dye packs into the money anymore.”
“Why not?”
“They got sued a few years back. A teller up in Buffalo slipped a dye pack into a robber’s take. The robber ran out the door, the dye pack went off, and the explosion injured a little old lady who was coming in to cash her social security check. She sued the bank and never had to worry about social security again. One thing they do have though is a tracking device— a little piece of plastic, thin enough to be hidden in between the bills. Works just like a Lo-Jack does on cars, and the cops can trace you with it. So make sure they don’t slip you one. And to be extra fucking careful, check your shit after you’re down the road.”
I stared out the passenger window, watching the night flash by. Sherm had given me a lot to think about, and the more I thought, the crazier the whole thing seemed. I wasn’t a bank robber. I wasn’t like the idiots on America’s Most Wanted. I was just a poor white trash schmuck, trying to feed his wife and kid, give them what they deserved rather than what they had.
But I was dying.
“Seems like an awful lot,” I sighed. “How the hell am I going to pull this off all by myself?”
“You’re not.” Sherm grinned. “I’m gonna help you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Straight up, Tommy. You said it yourself. No way you can pull this shit off by yourself.”
“I’m in too,” John promised.
“Fuck that.” I spat. “No way I’m letting either of you guys get involved in this shit. I need you guys to look out for Michelle and T. J. after— after I’m gone.”
“That’s why I want to help,” John argued. “You can’t do it by yourself, Tommy. Sherm said so. If we help you, then there’s a better chance it goes right. Which makes things better for them.”
“No way, John! No fucking way. End of argument.”
“Tommy, I love Michelle and T. J. as much as you do. I was best man at your fucking wedding. I was there when T. J. was born. I want to help them, and the best way to do that is to help you.”
“Forget it!”
“Fuck that.”
“He’s right, John,” Sherm said. “You know what you’re looking at if you get caught? First time offender, you’re looking at forty-one to fifty-one months. We’re talking a haul of more than ten thousand dollars easily; so add one more offense. We stole it, so add two more. Use a weapon or even fucking display one? Add a bunch more. You could end up in there for half your life, and unlike Tommy, that’s a lot of fucking time.”
“I don’t care.” He stuck his lip out stubbornly. “I want in on it.”
“Pull over, now,” I demanded.
“Why?”
“Because I’m gonna bitch-slap the living shit out of you, that’s why.”
He slowed down, gripped the wheel tightly, and looked at me.
Slowly, deliberately, he said, “If you don’t let me help, I’ll tell Michelle.”
I opened my mouth but he cut me off.
“I mean it, Tommy. You’re my friend. I need to do this. And if you don’t let me, I swear to fucking God I’ll tell her everything. The cancer. The robbery. Everything.”
I looked into his eyes and saw that he meant it.
“Please?”
“Okay.” I sighed, exhausted. “All right, you’re in. But Sherm, I still don’t understand why you want to help.”
“Hey, man,” he flashed his teeth, “we’re boys. Besides, I believe we can actually pull this shit off, and I’m bored in this town. Hanover fucking sucks, yo. This will be the first fun thing I’ve done since I left Portland.”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“Like a fox, man. Crazy like a motherfucking fox.”
John parked at the lake and we stared out at the water in silence. The moon reflected off the rippling waves. Somewhere in the darkness, a whippoorwill cried out. John popped out Ice-T
and slipped in Ice Cube’s War and Peace disc instead. I suddenly felt very old, and very tired, and I wondered if I should plan my funeral in advance, or leave that detail to Michelle after I was gone.
One thing was for sure. If we pulled this off, she wouldn’t have to worry about paying for it.
“So where do we get the guns?” I asked. “We don’t have time for the seven-day waiting period and the background check.”
“I know a guy,” Sherm leaned forward. “He lives in York, down on South Queen Street. One for me, one for you— should cost us about two hundred even. Let me hit him on the cell and see if he’s around.”
