“Yo, I’m telling you; a bank like this in a town the size of Hanover, we could easily walk away with forty or fifty thousand today. Most of that goes to you, of course, but even with the little cut that Carpet Dick and I are taking, it’s still all good.”
“Especially since we’re laid off,” John agreed.
I tried to picture it, tried to imagine holding that much cash in my hands, smelling it, feeling the paper between my fingers, and found that I couldn’t. But that was okay. In a little less than an hour, imagination wouldn’t have to suffice. It would be a reality. Sherm’s crib was on one edge of Hanover, near the lake. The strip mall and the bank were on the other side, right on the border with McSherrystown. On a normal day, it took twenty minutes to drive from one side to the other. But that day, it seemed to take an instant, like we were traveling at light speed.
John turned into the parking lot. He gripped the steering wheel hard and his knuckles popped. I noticed they were white. Staring straight ahead, he drove around behind the strip mall and parked next to the Chinese restaurant’s garbage Dumpster— just like we’d planned. The look on his face was one of resolve. He reached for the keys, but Sherm stopped him.
“No, just let it run. Last thing we need is for you to shut this car off, and we come out with the money and it doesn’t fucking start again.”
John shrugged.
“Is the coast clear?” Sherm asked, craning his head around.
“I didn’t see anybody,” John’s voice was hushed, somber. “There’s a Drovers Water delivery truck over there, but it’s empty. Look’s like it’s just the three of us. You guys see anyone?”
I shook my head.
“Cool. Me neither.” Sherm placed a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Not really.” I coughed.
“What’s up? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”
“For the past week, I’ve been throwing up nonstop, and this morning was no different. Even when I’m not puking, I feel like I’m going to any second. Puff Daddy is remixing shit in my head, along with a military drum corps and a few howitzers and some scientists setting off nuclear bomb tests, and every inch of my body hurts. I’ve got aches in places where I didn’t even know you could get aches. Sometimes my fever is hot enough to fry an egg on my head, and other times it just makes me sweat a little, but it’s always there. I’ve been bullshitting my wife. She’s on the verge of figuring out that I lied to her about our finances, and once that shit hits the fan, it’s only a matter of time before she learns what else I’ve been lying to her about. Like the fact that I’ve been laid off, and I’m still pretending to go to work. Or the fact that I’m fucking dying. God ain’t gonna step in and cure me because I recently learned that He doesn’t exist. Oh, and before I forget, in about two minutes, I’m gonna rob a fucking bank. So no, Sherm, I’m not all right. I’m really not. But thanks for asking, man. Thanks a lot. That means a lot to me.”
“Yo, can that sarcasm shit. You want to quit? Because this is our last fucking chance here, Tommy. Once we get out of this car and enter that bank, there ain’t no going back.”
I stared at him, stared at John, closed my eyes, and opened the door. His words echoed in my head.
Ain’t no going back . . .
My mind had already been made up.
“Let’s do this.”
* * *
There are certain moments in your life that, when you think about them later, happen in slow motion. In reality, it probably took us thirty seconds. But sitting here now, when I replay it in my mind, it took hours. Everything was in bullet time, like in The Matrix. I can step outside myself, and envision it from someone else’s view, as if it’s a movie, changing camera angles and adding a sound track.
Sherm and I got out of the car. We pulled the ski masks down over our faces. Beneath our jackets, each of us clutched a pistol in one hand. We each had a large backpack slung over our shoulders. The smell of fried rice and rotting garbage hung thick in the air— so thick, that even my diminished sense of smell could pick it up. For a second, I thought I heard the sound of a car, coming down the alley behind the strip mall, but it was too late, too late to call it off. We were already moving. What had been put in motion couldn’t be stopped. We didn’t falter. We didn’t look back. Without saying a word, we walked around the side of the restaurant, turned the corner, and there was the bank.
Just as Sherm reached for the door, it opened toward us. An old lady stepped out, blue hair done up in a perm. She was clutching a deposit ticket in one hand and rifling through her purse with the other. She stopped, gawked at us, then let out a little gasp. Her deposit ticket slipped from her quivering hand. Rather than floating to the sidewalk, it seemed to hover in the air, suspended in time.
“Oh my . . .”
Sherm growled in slow motion.
“Get . . . back . . . inside . . . the . . . bank . . . bitch!”
He shoved her forward into the lobby, and she kept repeating “Oh my . . . Oh my . . .” like a mantra. She clasped a silver crucifix hanging around her neck. Another person noticed us, an older, bearded man wearing faded blue jeans and a chambray work shirt. He was at the end of the line, his eyes registering surprise and disbelief. He opened his mouth to say something but Sherm cut him off.
“All right motherfuckers! Everybody hit the goddamn floor, NOW! Right fucking now! Let’s go!”
“You heard him, assholes,” I shouted. “Do it! Get the fuck down! Move!”
Now all of the customers in line turned, and as time slowed even more, I sized them up, studying every detail. A pretty woman about our age clutched the hand of a young boy. Looking at him reminded me of T. J., and I forced the image from my head. The boy looked just like the woman, hair the color of honey, high cheekbones, a short nose, even the same complexion. Both had frightened, wide eyes. She pulled the boy to her side, shielding him as best she could. There was no ring on her finger. Divorced, or a single mom. In front of them was an elderly bald man with glasses and a cane. He shook so badly that his knees knocked together and I thought he might collapse. There was an overweight guy in a Hellboy shirt, obviously the victim of too many nights spent reading comic books and wolfing down candy bars and potato chips, and in front of him, a hefty, solid man in his late thirties, wearing a leather jacket and polished black boots. He looked like a biker. He had steel in his eyes instead of fear, and I knew right away that we’d have to watch him carefully. Rounding out the group were two tellers, one young and blond, the other middle-aged and dyed auburn; and a slick, oily guy in a suit that just had to be the manager. His name tag read KEITH and below that, BRANCH MANAGER. He smiled, as if believing he was the victim of a hidden camera show.
“I SAID GET THE FUCK DOWN!” Sherm bellowed, and this time, they understood. They screamed as one, except for the guy in the bike leathers, who stood completely still, and Keith the Manager, who kept on smiling. The old woman toppled over in mid “Oh my” as Sherm pushed past her. She hit the floor hard, and was silent. The contents of her purse spilled out around her, and she rubbed the crucifix intensely. The young mother crouched down, pulling the kid with her. The boy’s eyes went from Sherm and me to the old woman and the old man, and he whispered something to his mother. The bearded guy dropped to the carpet and so did the fat boy, pulling the velvet line ropes along with him. The brass poles crashed onto the floor and I noticed a dark, wet stain on his fly. It was spreading fast. The younger teller froze in midtransaction, a stack of twenties falling from one limp hand and fluttering to the floor like green-and-white butterflies. Her other hand reached slowly beneath the counter.
“You hit that goddamned alarm and I’ll cap your cute little ass, sweetheart,” Sherm warned her.
“Get your fucking hands up where I can see them. Don’t make me tell you twice!”
She froze, biting her lip in fear, while the older teller started to cry.
“Both of you get out here and get down on the floor with the rest of them. Now!”
The biker remained standing.
“Do what we want and nobody gets hurt,” I chimed in, trying to sound sincere but hard-nosed at the same time. “We’re just here for the money.”
I reached out and flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED.
“Hey”— Sherm whirled on the biker—“are you fucking deaf? Get the hell down on the floor. Now, asshole!”
The biker kept his hands in the air and slowly started to kneel.
“You”— Sherm waved the gun at Keith the Manager—“get the fuck over here.”
