Seeing the gun always makes the difference. Held just right, the teller sees the chambered round, head-on first, reflected by the overhead fluorescent. Nice touch, as if the bank designer liked the idea of tellers pissing themselves.

The only thing better than having them see it is having them hear it. Now that damn well gets their attention!

Just as the two cops got his. Two Glocks is a lot of firepower. In your face, so to speak.

R & R, Reynolds and Reinhardt, scuzballs and kickback artists first and second; cops a distant third; and now wearing oily grins as if they’d just hit the mother lode. They had.

No way Hayes was going to argue. He was just a little guy and, outside of banks, he worked hard to be a cipher. On a close look, however, some people would have seen something else behind his steady eyes, something as hard as a diamond drill bit, something that stirred caution.  Bank tellers saw it all of the time. Whatever it was, it was as dangerous as the gun.

Rain was bouncing off the pavement when Hayes darted from the bank. No one noticed him, just one more head down. Like them, scurrying in vain to stay dry in a deluge, he was around the corner and into the stolen beige Neon before the first bank worker stuck his nose out the door. None of that ‘chase the bandit’ nonsense today, not in the rain, not at today’s dry-cleaning prices.

Eight minutes of side streets and alleys, two more on the Promenade Parkway -- a route he’d laid out days ago -- and Hayes pulled up behind his clean car. R & R were waiting for him there. He was busted. Or was he?

Reynolds took the J .C. Penney bag of money, his stubby .38, and then the Remington Bushmaster Hayes carried on a sling inside his car coat – his backup piece. That done, Reinhardt bundled him into the back of the unmarked car, and Reynolds expertly pulled the car into the stream of traffic.

“It’s a miserable day. Too early for a drink, Hayes?” asked Reinhardt.

“Depends where the bar’s located,” Hayes replied.

The cops laughed. Reinhardt poked him in the ribs with the Glock. “We know a good bar. Trust us.”

By then they were out of downtown, headed east toward the docks and refineries. Or the Marshes, a stretch of delta that local history had pegged as an old goombah burial ground.  Hayes knew local historians were on the money. So did R & R.

Reynolds did a hard left, cutting across traffic into a gravel parking lot beside a bowling alley.

Reinhardt said, “The guy who owns this place is a buddy of ours, retired from the Job. Took a couple of rounds from a guy just like you. Now he needs batteries just to have sex.”

Hayes waited for more. They had his score and his shotgun. They had his life in their hands. Worse, they had a friend who maybe had vengeance on his mind.

“He calls the joint ‘Three Strikes’, get it?” said Reynolds. “You’ll like him. He has our sense of humor.”

“This isn’t California.”

“It still means ‘out’ in the games we play, Hayes. Let’s get that drink,” said Reynolds. “Busting desperados is hard work.”

“Booking them is, too,” said Reinhardt. “Hardly worth the effort.”

 Hayes had not a scrap of doubt left – he’d never see the holding pen at Robbery Central. For about a hot minute after the bust, he figured this would be the usual drill: arrest, arraign, make bail; get the hell out of state before more warrants come in – a lot of them for skipping bail in other states.

Now he almost hoped that the Feds would come over the hill, sun at their backs, and take him down for interstate flight, even bank robbery, which was supposed to be a Fed jurisdiction anyway.

Reynolds and Reinhardt were big men. Reinhard was an all-round sort – head, shoulders, belly, ass. His shaven head didn’t help, nor his eyes. The eyes bugged out froggy -fashion, like people’s with untreated thyroid conditions. Keeping some hair or having eyebrows would have broken the planes a little. Dress beyond a black T-shirt and faded jeans could have helped. As it was, butt ugly would be a compliment.

On the other hand, Reynolds obviously put his bucks into the till at the Big Man’s Boutique. Custom made all the way; probably had monogrammed socks and underwear. He still had all of his hair, as much as remains after a Marine-style buzz cut.  No lice wriggled on this lad unless they were under his fingernails – hard to tell; the nails were growing on a foundation of dirt.; class not – so close and yet so far.

Compared to their buddy, R and R were lightweights. As for Hayes, he was so small, 145 tops, he wouldn’t register on their scale. The only plus Hayes saw in the empty bowling alley was that their buddy was in an electric wheelchair, the Kenworth truck of wheelchairs. He needed batteries for more than sex.

“This is the little chickenshit you were telling me about?” The buddy’s voice sounded like gravel.

“Mackie, meet Edward Hayes. Hayes, meet Mackie. Mr. Hayes brings us money and a Remington.”

“A Remington? At least the little chickenshit buys American,” rasped Mackie.  He began coughing, roiling some serious phlegm deep in his chest, like the Marlboro man just before he quit smoking. When the spasm subsided, he continued.

“Reinhardt, get some beers and let’s do the business. I’ve got a house league coming in here in an hour and then it’s like a zoo.”

“You’re the host,” said Reinhardt. “Why don’t you get them?”

“You’re on your feet.  Just get the beer, OK?  Spare me the crip humor. And maybe some peanuts too.”

“Is this supposed to be Happy Hour or the Last Supper?” Hayes asked.

“You’re a lippy little fuck, aren’t you?” said Mackie.

“Just nervous,” said Hayes.

While Reinhardt was filling the order, Reynolds led in as if he was setting up an interrogation.

“You’re a professional bank robber. You always work alone. The only time the law got close the best they could do was a firearms charge. You paid the fine and walked. The court even gave you back the gun.

“But, you have outstanding warrants in Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Idaho, and, for some reason known only to you, Rhode Island. I didn’t know Rhode Island had anything worth stealing.”

“It hasn’t, at least not now,” said Hayes.

“A good comeback,” said Reinhardt, setting four beers on the table. “You realize we’re keeping today’s score. How does that make you feel?”  

 Hayes shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”

“Not that easy. You spent two weeks putting that two minutes of work together,” said Reinhardt.

“If you know that, you must have put in just as much time.”

“More, which is why we thought we should take a proprietary interest.”

“So, you have the money. Why are we dancing now?”

“Why, for more, of course,” said Reinhardt.

“Drugs are better,” said Hayes.

“Too much competition. There’s so many heads in that trough there’s no room left.”

 “Bank robbing is passé. Even the Feds have lost interest.”

Reinhardt smiled. “Ain’t it the truth?”

“You guys want some tips on bank robbing? Maybe a tutorial?”

“Asshole. We’re not criminals, we’re cops, remember?”

“As a matter of professional interest, how did you locate me?”

“That’s the part we love,” said Reynolds. “I spotted you having a drink in a joint on our pad when I dropped in for the precinct pickup.”

“Maybe it’s time I got some plastic surgery.”

“Not to worry,” said Reynolds.

Hayes waited. Most of the bowling alley was in darkness, not even a glow in the dark fire exit sign. “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.” Not Hayes; never Hayes. He could try leaping up and running out the front door. Of course, there was the matter of the two Glocks.  R & R probably hadn’t had the guns at a practice range since the day they were issued but one of them might get a lucky shot. There was also the matter of the shotgun, which was resting on Mackie’s lap. Hayes knew from experience that missing with a Bushmaster at this range was as unlikely as Mackie hesitating to pull the triggger.

Hard to believe these three had had mothers. Mackie’s, at least, hadn’t been much for teaching her spawn the virtue of cleanliness. Mackie’s shirt had enough food stains to make soup stock or, stretched on a frame, it could have been passed off as a Jackson Pollock mural. Mackie’s hands were big enough the only clue he was holding a beer bottle was an inch of the longneck showing over his grip.

It was Reynolds who finally dropped the shoe.

“We want you to hit a place,” he said.

“And a guy,” said Mackie.

“And you will because ‘no’ isn’t an option for you,” said Reinhardt.

The rain had started up again. Hayes could hear it pounding the front window, pounding the silence in the room. The three men waited for Hayes’ response. They had the patience of people waiting for something inevitable.

To his credit, Hayes didn’t outwardly cave. Inside his head and chest were different stories. Those were hot, and hollow, rushing him into nausea. He sipped his beer; that helped steady him.

Whacking someone was no major thing. He’d done a lot of that in Vietnam. In Idaho too, but those gun-happy fools didn’t have brains enough to know that when someone aimed a shotgun at them from six feet away, you didn’t go for your shooting iron. Three times that had happened in Idaho. Eventually Hayes had grown tired of it and moved on.

Hayes knew what he knew as soon as the three men put it to him. Say ‘no’ and die now. Cooperate and die later, but not much later.

The most he could say was, “Why me?”

“Because we’ll be among the usual suspects, we plan on being elsewhere,” said Reinhardt.

Hayes was puzzled. “Police aren’t among the usual suspects,” he said.

“They are if the Property Room at Robbery Central gets taken down,” said Reynolds.

These guys were an act like the Three Stooges; they all did the talking. Hayes was getting a sore neck swiveling from speaker to speaker. He rose and got himself another beer.

“That still doesn’t explain ‘why me?’”

“Every cop in the city knows you’re operating here, ever since the River Heights Citibank score a month ago. You’re the only thief in town who’d try to take down the cop shop,” said Mackie.

“What, you’re short on psychotics? A guy’d have to be nuts.”

“Or very well informed,” said Reinhardt.

“Let’s get to it,” said Mackie. “The rain won’t keep the bowlers away.”

Reynolds took up the narration. “A month ago we were called to a home invasion in Hampton Glen. We officially confiscated some loose cash we found hidden in the garage.”

“How much?”

Reynolds wouldn’t be interrupted.

“We grabbed it on suspicion it was proceeds of crime. The homeowner didn’t bother trying to explain it. Even if he was still alive, he probably wouldn’t.

“The cash is still sitting in the Property Room, pending further investigation.”

“Why didn’t you just disappear it from the scene?”

“Too many other cops saw it. Now we want it.”

Mackie chimed in. “Plus the day watch property clerk. We want him too, but you can leave him laying on the floor.”

“What did the poor prick ever do to you?”

“None of your fuckin’ business. You do what you’re told,” Mackie shouted.

“Take it easy, take it easy,” said Reynolds.

“When is this supposed to happen?”

“Tomorrow around two. That’s the slowest time. By then the night shifts finds are stored, anything needed for the day’s court cases has been picked up, and the day shift patrols don’t start booking material until two-thirty or three,”

“And until then?”

“You stay with us.”

“Need I ask, what’s in this for me?”

“We’ll give you back today’s score and maybe some extra to run. You also get to be famous,” said Reynolds.

“I figured that part. With friends like you…”

“Can it. Let’s get moving,” said Reynolds.

Back in the unmarked, Reynolds called in to dispatch and was told to proceed to Damien’s Loan & Trust, Hayes’ morning job. Instead, they headed back to pick up Hayes’ clean car.

With Reinhardt beside him, Hayes drove back to his motel to collect his clothes and check out.  Reynolds stayed behind to call in the getaway car. Wouldn’t want to miss some Brownie points.

The wind had subsided. Now the rain came straight down, steady as a river through a broken levee. The sky stayed black. This storm wouldn’t be moving on soon.

Eventually Reynolds directed Hayes to a slatternly stick-built duplex in the ‘burbs’. It was a worn out old whore of a house.

“Your new home,” he announced. “We keep it for a party pad.”

“Great decor. Retro trailer park, very nice,” said Hayes. “Look, if you people want this to work, I need to know a lot more than what you want and when you want it. Like, how much is involved? Why whack someone when maybe I don’t need to? Like what’s the fuckin’ address of Robbery Central? Basic items, you know what I mean.”

“All in good time, Hayes. Settle down, help yourself to a drink or something to eat. We’ll get to it when Reynolds gets here. He’s booking us off for a week. We have time coming and in three hours we’re on a plane to Vegas. At least two ringers are.”

Hayes was not as focused as Reinhard may have thought. Rather, his mind was on his escape, preferably with his money, which was about in the thirty thousand range. The bank job had gone down tickety-boo; four small cash payrolls waiting for pickup behind the commercial counter and everything from the foreign exchange. He had no intention of marching into any cop shop bent on robbery. Nor bent on whacking one of the cops, whatever the reason.

Reynolds showed up around four, lugging more beer and some pizza.

“No donuts?”

“Fuck you, Hayes,” said Reynolds.

They ate, they drank. Then, as Reinhardt tidied, Reynolds laid out the score for Hayes.

“You’re going in as a uniform from headquarters. You’ll have a pickup order for some evidence in an old case. The property clerk, Jamieson, doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, so he’ll let you into the cage to rummage out the evidence. It’s in a back room full of dirt and mouse shit. He’ll especially love that because your uniform will be spotless, as befits a headquarters gofer, and he knows you’ll get flak for the dirt when you get back to your desk.”

“There’ll be cameras,” said Hayes.

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll be made on this anyway,” said Reinhardt. “That’s part of the plan.”

“Yeah, what’s one more warrant?”

“Once you’re in the cage, take out Jamieson and stuff him under the counter. If anyone shows up while you’re still in there, tell them you’re minding the store while Jamieson takes a break.  Tell them to come back later.”

“What we want’s three big green garbage bags. They’re locked in an inside cage to the right of the counter. You’ll need Jamieson’s key to get to them.”

“They’re already sitting on a dolly, so all you have to do is push it out the door, load it in a van, and drive it over here.”

“You don’t need a bank robber to do any of that.”

“We need someone who’s cool under fire and doesn’t mind pulling a trigger when he’s pressed. You’re it, Hayes.”

“Why can’t I simply coldcock this Jamieson?”

“Mackie has an issue. Jamieson was his partner the night his spine was shot away. Jamieson had the shooter dead bang before Mackie was hit but didn’t pull the trigger. Didn’t pull it after, either. The shooter ended up with a ten spot. He’s probably writing up his parole application as we speak.”

“So why doesn’t Mackie hang in until the shooter’s cut loose?”

“Oh, that, too, but in the meantime Jamieson farts along waiting for his pension. That grates on Mackie because full disability isn’t as much as full pension.”

“How’d he buy the bowling alley?”

“He’s a pal. We helped him out.”

“Like the Three Musketeers, I see. How much is in the bags?”

“A million six,” said Reynolds. “The Three Musketeers get five each and you get the balance to run with.”

“I could rat.”

“You’d still face Murder One, a cop at that. No DA would deal.”

“Point taken.”

Reynolds sketched Robbery Central’s layout. Hayes would have to cross the main squad room going in and out.

“How many people?”

“Eight tops, not counting civilians,” said Reynolds.

“It would help if you could pull some of them out on calls.”

“No dice, the uniforms do the first response. Plainclothes only rolls on confirmation. Any calls would have to be real.”

“So use the lunch hour to stick up some liquor stores.”

“Very funny. Look, no one should bat an eye. At that hour everyone’s writing up reports so they can get the hell out at the 3 o’clock shift change. The worst you’ll get is someone asking if you can touch type.”

Hayes was bedded for the night, handcuffed to a cot in the basement. The rain still pounded. He did what he usually did when the pressure of his daily round got him. He slept long and hard.

“Wake up, hero. It’s game day,” shouted Reinhardt as he freed Hayes from the cot frame.

Hayes hoped to drink his coffee in silence. That first one and quiet were the only way he had ever found to take off the early edginess of a day coming down on him. Not to be. R & R were rippin’, ripe, and ready to roll.

“The bank is really pissed at you,” said Reynolds. The dye pack you rigged blew up the manager’s face when he opened the foreign exchange drawer.” The two were laughing.

“I’d hoped I’d get a cop.”

“Hey, not funny, Hayes,” said Reinhardt. “Hurry up the coffee. We have your uniform ready to try on, and we’ve got the paperwork to get you into the cage.”

“I had a thought last night,” said Hayes. “What if Jamieson decides to get the property himself? And what if there’s two or three dicks waiting around for service?”

“C’mon, Hayes, you’re the man with the gun. Shoot one and the rest will be cooperative as hell. Even help you break into the cage if need be.”

“Then what? I shoot all of them? Be kinda noisy.”

Reynolds responded this time. “Bank robbers are supposed to be resourceful. You’ll think of something.”

“Yeah,” said Reinhardt, “figure some contingency plans. Take our word. We know Jamieson and we know the way the mooks in the squad room operate. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Damn, I’d never have thought two guys as big as you’d have brains too. I guess that’s why you’re cops.”

“See? With your fast mouth, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” said Reinhardt.

Nothing except being killed as soon as he delivered. Hayes figured R and R would wait until he was positively ID’d and an APB went out. Then bang-bang, a shootout, him dead, but no clue to the money. Lost and gone forever. Alternatively, there’d be a warrant for a cop killing. Both ends of the stick were shitty. So, for now, Hayes grabbed it in the middle.

The uniform didn’t look custom tailored but it fit well enough except the shoes pinched. He hoped he wouldn’t have to run.

The property request called for several boxes of clothing worn by victims of a serial killer who’d been operating successfully over ten years. He also had another request for the money. Reynolds explained he could show it if he got braced on the way out the door.

“Sounds like a plan, gentlemen,” said Hayes.

“Right down to one more thing, Hayes. Once the money’s in the van, we’ll be behind you all the way in your car.”

“Give him the good news,” said Reynolds.

Reinhardt laughed. “Under the van driver’s seat is a remote control bomb just big enough to blow off your ass if you decide to play games.”

“There had to be something. I assume it’s not big enough to destroy the money.”

“We’ll be off duty cops quick on the scene to put out any fire.”

“To serve and protect?”

“You betcha.”

“What about the two ringers on the Vegas junket? Remember, your hot shot alibis?”

“We only cash them if we need them. You’re not the only thinker in the room.”

“Do I get a gun or do I shoot Jamieson with my finger?”

“Certainly, a Glock just like ours. We’ll want it back butt first when this is over,” said Reynolds. “You understand.”

“No problem. Not my weapon of choice anyhow.”

***

 With the look of a man with a plan, Hayes strode purposefully into Robbery Central’s main squad room. He counted six bullet heads, four of them pecking at old electric typewriters. No wonder their arrest record was so shabby. Definitely, a great city to steal in, even if it rained all of the time.

He buttonholed a jowly denizen in a creased double-breasted suit.

“Where’s the Property Room?” he asked in best martinet fashion.

The jowled one looked up from his file, took in the immaculate uniform, saw headquarters written all over it wherever the word ‘hassle’ wouldn’t fit, and pointed to the back with his thumb. Hayes strode on through, knowing damn well twelve eyes were boring holes into him, wishing him all of the ills of the world.

Jamieson may have been a prick. Hayes didn’t really know one way or another. Didn’t care either. He did exactly everything R & R said he would do. The wretched fuck made Hayes root out the boxes of old clothes.

Once he had them muscled into the front cage, and Jamieson was alone, Hayes said, “By the way, there’s one more thing.” He then explained and Jamieson resigned himself to it.

R&R watched Hayes load the three bags into the back of the van and, then, watched him actually take the dolly back into the building.

“What the hell is he doing?” asked Reynolds. “I don’t like it.”

“Maybe he’s just being cool. You know, the old ‘cool under fire’ crap,” said Reinhardt.

Quick as that, Hayes was back and away they went, van leading, car following.  He doubted a bomb had been placed in the van. He knew R & R were devious bastards but he couldn’t figure them as bomb builders; that took some finesse. Still, when in doubt ... Hayes drove carefully, avoiding sudden stops and potholes all the way back to the duplex, where he pulled the van into the garage.

R & R blocked the driveway with the car. While Reynolds kept a gun on Hayes, Reinhardt helped Hayes heft the bags into the house. Reinhardt hurried to untie and look in the bags.

“I’ll take the gun now, Hayes,” said Reynolds. The order barely made it out of his mouth.

“What the fuck…!” Reinhardt straightened and spun around. For that flick of a moment, Reynolds took his eyes off Hayes.

One quick step closer to Reynolds, Hayes raised his gun and shot him in the side of the head, turned quickly, and put four into Reinhardt. The Glock was surprisingly quiet.

Reynolds was dead, more brain matter spattered on the wall than Hayes had given him credit for having. Reinhardt took longer.

While Reinhardt bled out on the threadbare indoor/outdoor carpet, Hayes reloaded the three bags of grungy old clothes back into the van. He checked Reinhardt for a pulse, wiped down the house as best he could, and drove back to Robbery Central.

Jamieson was waiting for him.

“You’re late,” he said, “and no way can I put in for overtime. The money’s in the old boxes so take them and get the hell outta here so I can go home.”

“Hey, I’m sorry for the trouble but orders are orders,” said Hayes. “ I was told to do the switch in case of a move on the money. Nothing happened, which just goes to prove headquarters isn’t so smart after all.”

“It never is. Get going.”

“I’m outta here. Don’t forget to book those old clothes back in.”

“Screw it. It’s like they never left here. I’ll do it in the morning,” said Jamieson.

Twenty minutes later, Hayes had finished transferring the boxes from the van to his car. He thought about R & R inside the house, soon to settle into rigor. Before he left, he’d cranked the thermostat. “Be kind to bugs,” his grandfather had said. “You never know, you may come back as a maggot after you die.” Yeah, R & R sure had.

He figured he’d be made for the robbery but linking him to the two dead cops would be a stretch no DA would attempt. Maybe the van, but he’d left it two blocks from the house with the keys in it. By the time it was found, it’d probably be burned out in the Marsh.

Hayes decided that before he left town for some place where it didn’t rain so much, he’d go and bowl a few lines. He didn’t need the thirty-odd thou that Mackie was holding but he missed his Bushmaster. Plus, thieves shouldn’t steal from other thieves, especially, not from bank robbers. They’d said it themselves -- bank robbers were resourceful. Plus, Hayes had that certain something just behind his eyes.

Copyright(c) 2003 by Art Montague