“We-we’ll cooperate f-fully, gentlemen. There’s n-no need for violence.”
“If I want your fucking opinion, I’ll beat it out of you.”
He motioned again with the pistol, and Keith did as he was told. Sherm was too busy watching him to notice the biker drop to one knee and reach inside his coat. Slow motion switched to stop time as he clutched something inside his leather jacket and drew it out. I caught a glimpse of a holster and the bank’s fluorescent lights flashed off of something metal. I opened my mouth to warn him and Sherm both, and found that I couldn’t.
“Let’s go.” Sherm told Keith again. “Come on! I’ll fucking drop you right there, man.”
The biker pulled out the handle of a pistol, not as large as ours, but it looked like it would do the job just as well. Then the handle was out in the open and so was the rest of the gun. I blinked the sweat from my eyes and in that fraction of a second he was aiming at Sherm. Time snapped back to normal and chaos came with it. My paralysis shattered.
“Sherm! Look out! He’s got a gun!”
The biker whipped toward me and suddenly there was an explosion. I staggered backward, expecting to feel the bullet punch through me. Instead, the biker’s hair puffed up in the back of his head, as if caught in a breeze, and then his brains and little fragments of skull exited through his forehead, splattering onto the carpet. At first, I thought that I’d gone deaf, but then my ears began to ring over the screams of the customers. In shock, not understanding what had just happened, I turned to Sherm. Smoke billowed from the barrel of his .357, and the stench of it filled the lobby.
“Sherm,” I hollered, “what the hell are you doing?”
“I said no names, goddamn it.”
“You said no shooting too. What the fuck did you do?”
He grabbed Keith by the sleeve of his suit jacket and shook him hard, but the manager didn’t seem to notice. He just stared in horror at the dead body on the floor. I coughed, then looked back down at the biker. Blood was pouring from his head like water from a faucet. It didn’t look anything like the movies. The whole front of his head was gone—
scattered about the floor and embedded in the carpet. I fought to keep from puking. The old man with the cane, the comic geek, and the younger teller did it for me, all three at once. The little boy glanced at the gore, then closed his eyes and buried his trembling face against his mother. She just stared in shock, her face blank.
“You said no shooting.” I shouted again.
“Just keep them down on the floor and get the cash drawers,” Sherm ordered. “Keith, you and I are gonna open the vault. Any questions?”
“I— I c-can’t open the—”
Sherm punched him in the mouth. Crying out, he stumbled back a few steps, his knees buckling, then he regained his balance. Blood trickled from his split lip.
“Let’s be real fucking clear. Lie to me again and you’ll be sucking on a .357 round instead of my fist. Vault! Open! Now! Do you have any questions?”
Wiping the blood from his mouth with the front of his tie, Keith led Sherm down a hallway to the back. I stepped over the biker’s body and headed toward the cash drawers. His head was still leaking blood, and the comic book guy, now that he’d finished puking, was still leaking piss. The stench of it all, combined with the gun smoke and sweat and overall fear in the room was nauseating, and I felt sick again.
“Can’t breathe . . .” the old man gasped.
“Everybody just stay down,” I choked. “It’ll all be over soon. We just want the money.” It sounded stupid and empty in my ears.
The mother whispered to her son. He inched forward.
“Benjy, keep still.”
“But Mommy, he’s sick. Both of them are sick. One in the head and the other one here and here and here.”
He touched his jaw and throat and chest, and I wondered if he was talking about me. But there was no way the kid could know about my cancer.
“And so is that old man,” the boy continued. “He’s going to die.”
I stepped toward them and the boy froze, watching me.
“Please,” the mother begged, “he’s only five. Please don’t hurt him.”
I swallowed. “Just keep him still. Okay?”
I checked them all one more time. The comic book guy was done pissing himself, and lay facedown on the carpet. The bearded guy and the tellers did the same, but with more bravery. The bearded guy gripped the older teller’s shoulder, repeating over and over beneath his breath that it would be okay. The old woman let out another “Oh my” and stroked her cross, praying to God and Jesus and all the Saints to save her. The old bald man lay on his back, looking pale and sweating profusely. His cane lay discarded to the side, his glasses sat crooked, and I noticed he was panting.
Poor guy, I thought. He must be scared shitless.
So was I.
I glanced quickly at the door. The coast was still clear.
The first drawer, the one the blond teller had been using, hung open. Despite everything that had happened, I’ve got to admit that I smiled beneath my ski mask when I saw all that cash. Dead presidents smiled back at me. Ignoring the change, I scooped up the stacks of bills and dropped them into my backpack. Then I hit the next drawer and did the same. Already my backpack felt heavier, and I wondered how much cash was inside. An excited thrill shot through me, but then I remembered the guy that Sherm had shot and I felt sick again. I moved on to the third drawer but it was locked.
I walked back out from behind the counter, checked the door again and nudged the young blonde with my toe.
“Give me the keys to the drawers.”
“They’re on the counter.”
“Show me.”
She rose to all fours and pointed. At the same time, the little boy, Benjy, began crawling toward the old man.
“Hey! Kid! Get back over there with your mom.”
“Benjy!” She jumped to her feet, hands held out in submission. “Please, please don’t shoot him. Benjy, get back here, now!”
“But Mommy, that old man’s going to die if we don’t help him. His heart is sick.”
“Hey,” I shouted again, and realized that I’d raised the pistol without even thinking about it. I lowered it halfway. “I mean it. Get down now!”
The mother clawed at her son’s arm, but he slipped free and scurried to the old man’s side. She was crying now, black mascara running down her face as she pleaded.
“Please, sir. Please don’t shoot my son.”
I took five or six quick strides and stood over them. The old man’s pale skin was turning blotchy, and his eyes were squeezed shut.
“My . . . heart . . .”
“Oh shit!” I rubbed my head through the ski mask. He was having a heart attack. Part of me wanted to give him CPR and the other half wanted to finish up and get the fuck out of there.
“Can’t . . . breathe . . . hurts . . .” Sweat ran off of him like rain. While I was still trying to decide what to do, Benjy reached out with both hands and touched the old man’s chest. That was when we heard the gunshots.
ELEVEN
At first, I thought Sherm killed Keith. Then another gunshot rang out and I realized that they were coming from outside. The customers started screaming again, growing louder and more frenzied, and Sherm ran out from the vault, pushing Keith in front of him as a human shield.
“What the fuck, Tommy?” The no-names rule had completely gone out the window. I’d slipped and called him
