by his name when he shot Leather Jacket. Now they knew my name as well.
“I don’t know, man. Somebody’s shooting outside.”
“Five-oh?”
“Fuck if I know, Sherm. I ain’t sticking my head out to see.”
Another gunshot boomed across the parking lot. Just then, a bloodied and haggard figure stumbled through the front door. Sherm and I raised our pistols at the same time. John shrieked.
“Don’t shoot! D-don’t shoot, you guys! It’s m-me— John!”
He collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers—
dark blood, almost black. It soaked through his sweatshirt and jacket, and little flecks of it decorated his neck, cheeks, and forehead. He’d been gutshot, and I’d seen enough movies to know that wasn’t a good thing. Images of Tim Roth in Reservoir Dogs rushed through my head. I started toward him and almost tripped over the old man and the kid.
“Tommy,” John pleaded, “help me, man! Please? My stomach is hot— it’s burning up. It’s on fire. Hurts! F- fucking shot me . . .”
Deciding that the old man and his heart attack would have to wait, I ran to John, catching him as he sank to the floor. Sliding my hands under his armpits, I dragged him farther inside the lobby, away from the door. He whimpered, but whether from fear or pain I don’t know. His breath smelled sour and he spoke through clenched teeth, his words harsh and clipped.
“C-can’t believe he fucking s-shot me . . .”
“Shhh,” I soothed. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re going to be all right, John.”
His hand slipped away from his stomach and I caught a glimpse of the wound peeking out at me from beneath the burned fabric. It didn’t look good. I sat down, crossed my legs, and cradled his head in my lap, wiping the bloodstains from his face with my shirtsleeve. Tears slid from his eyes, and the panic in his voice increased.
“Oh, it h-hurts! I’m gonna d-die, Tommy! My stomach feels h-hot. It’s hot and it f-feels like somebody p- punched me. I’m dying!”
“You’re not gonna die, John. You hear me? You’re not going to fucking die!”
“I’m scared, T-tommy. I don’t w-want to d-die. I don’t want to g-go to hell. I’m afraid of hell. Don’t l-let me die. Don’t let me go to hell!”
He coughed blood. A lot of blood. Red froth bubbled from his lips and dribbled down his chin in long, ropy strands. I wondered if that was what I looked like when I got sick.
“There’s no such thing as hell, John. You’re going to be okay. Just lie still, dog.”
“I-I don’t w-want to die. Don’t want to d-die. Please . . . S-scared of hell . . .”
“Stop it, John!”
“Can’t catch m-my breath. Can’t c-catch . . . He shot me, man . . .” His voice was weak now, barely a whisper. “My stomach is g-getting cold now. Maybe I-I ate something b-bad.”
“Who, John? Who did this to you, man?”
“Kelvin . . . H-he was st-strung out . . .” Even as he struggled for breath, John was hyperventilating like a fish out of the water.
Kelvin. I knew the name from somewhere, but I couldn’t quite place it. Before I could ask him more, Sherm interrupted.
“Get the fuck over there with the rest of them, lie down, and keep quiet!” Sherm shoved Keith toward the group, who did as he was told. Keith had a black eye now to go along with his split lip— something Sherm must have given him while they were inside the vault. Sherm crossed the lobby in four quick strides and knelt beside us. He grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him.
“John, look at me. Kelvin did this?”
Gasping for breath, John nodded.
“Hey, S-sherm! Where you been? C-cold— I’m cold. My stomach is c-cold. I can’t feel my legs. J-just let me lie here for a little b-bit. N-need to c-catch my b-breath . . .”
I looked up at Sherm.
“Kelvin? That’s the guy that was with Wallace when we bought the guns?”
“Gotta be. The one that John called ‘nigga.’ ”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” I stripped off my jacket, balled it up, and slid it behind John’s back. Then I yanked off my ski mask and placed it over the hole in his front. John screamed, thrashing in my arms as I pressed down on both.
“Hang on, John. Hang on, man. We’ve got to stop the bleeding.” I ran my hand across my face, realizing too late that it was covered in John’s blood.
“J-just gonna lie here for a b-bit . . .”
“What the fuck you doing, Tommy?” Sherm yelled. “Put your mask back on.”
“Screw that! We’ve got two dead bodies, Sherm. Two people have died. Two!” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “And John probably isn’t that far off. We need to get the hell out of here, yo.”
“What do you mean two? I only shot the one guy.”
“The old guy,” I pointed, “is having a heart attack. He’s probably dead by now.”
“He’s okay, mister.”
Our heads snapped around at the same time. It was the kid, Benjy. He smiled at us, lying calmly next to his mother again. I looked at the old man and he was okay. In fact, he looked better than okay, better than he had from the moment we’d entered the bank. As if to verify this, he swallowed hard, adjusted his glasses, and spoke.
“I’m fine. Must have just been my angina acting up. If you boys leave now, why, I don’t think any of us saw anything. Right folks?”
“Shut up and lie back down.” Sherm warned.
I was too stunned to reply. I’d seen the guy with my own eyes and I knew it wasn’t angina. He’d been dying. His heart had quit on him. But now he looked fine. He was back to normal—
healthy.
Before I could mention this to Sherm, the glass in the front door exploded. A split second later, I heard the shot.
“Drop!” Sherm pulled me down with him.
“That’s your ass, motherfucker.” Kelvin strolled up to the door and calmly raised his pistol. The smile on his face was terrifying. It vanished when he saw us.
Sherm hollered, “Kelvin, what the fuck?”
Kelvin paused, staring in confusion at the figure in the black ski mask that somehow knew his name. He was jittery and sweating, and I could tell that he was tweaking. He’d been using whatever drug he was dealing that day, and he was now higher than a kite. Probably crack or crystal meth— whatever it was, he was jacked to an insane level from it.
“Sherm? That you, dog?”
“Hell yeah it’s me, man. Put that shit down, yo.”
“Sherm, you crazy goddamned Mick. Check you out, pulling a bank job and shit.” He laughed, shaking his head in stoned disbelief.
“I-I d-don’t w-want t-to d-die . . .” John moaned. “D-don’t l-let h-him . . .”
“What the hell are you doing, Kelvin? What are you on, man?”
“Careful,” I whispered, “looks like he’s mad fucking juiced. Stoned as shit.”
“I can see that,” Sherm hissed back. “Just watch your ass.”
We were clustered together around John, and Kelvin sighted on each of us, moving his pistol back and forth. I thought about pulling mine out, but if I did, I’d have to let up the pressure on John’s wound. Already the blood had soaked through the ski mask and it was quickly becoming a sticky mess in my hands.
“Check this shit out,” Kelvin continued, as if we were having a friendly talk in a bar. “I was finishing a transaction and shit in the alley behind the Chinese place. Two kilos and cash, a sweet fucking deal. Did me a little celebrating right before I got here— just enough to get me buzzed. Must have done a little more than I thought, know what I’m saying? And then— the cherry on top of the fucking ice cream. Finished up the deal, then I saw your boy there, sitting in his car like he was waiting for something. Motherfucker looked nervous and he should have.
