THE NEXT DAY, Mitch went down to the Wilton Mall and looked around in the bookstore for books on leadership. There were dozens of them but most of them were full of advice for middle-management professionals. Dressing professionally was a common theme. Red ties were encouraged. So was drinking water, lots and lots of it, while constantly showing a positive attitude. Great leaders must smile and pee a lot, Mitch figured, as he put the last of the books back on the shelf. He decided to try looking for something more practical, but nothing offered advice on robbery.
That was the problem with crime: there was very little helpful literature on it. A simple manual would have been invaluable, written, say, by a guy who had pulled off an armored car robbery. But obviously, anyone who had successfully done that would be trying to lay low and would not want to attract the attention of the publishing industry. The only place you could find people willing to discuss such matters was in jail, where one would be able to find an authority on every aspect of robbery except how not to get caught, which was the most important part.
So he tried to rent a movie about robbing an armored car. After a half hour in the video store, the only film he could come up with was Heat, which he had seen in the theater when it first came out. The guys in that movie just made Mitch feel inadequate. They had thousands of dollars worth of equipment: radios, complex codes, night vision goggles, and M16s. The Robert DeNiro character lived in a beach house. Mitch wondered why people who could afford all that shit didn’t just invest the money rather than rob an armored car. If he had his own beach house, he and Doug would just toke on the deck all day; screw all this robbery crap. Why risk freedom when freedom was great? Mitch estimated it would take him about a year to save up for an M16, let alone all the drills, pistols, duffel bags, and binoculars. He put Heat back on the shelf.
When Mitch got home, bookless and movieless, Doug was sitting at the kitchen table looking at a toothbrush in a clear plastic container.
“What’re you doing, man?”
“I just applied for a job at Chicken Buckets,” he said.
He sounded forlorn. Mitch felt that it was his job as unrespected gang leader to keep everybody chipper, but he was confused as to why Doug would try to find employment just a few days before they were going to rob an armored car. Robbing an armored car involved a great deal of uncertainty, but the one thing you could be certain of was that, whether things went really well or really badly, you damned sure wouldn’t need a job at Chicken Buckets afterward.
“Why?”
Doug shrugged. “I dunno, man. I’ve, like, always had a job. Sitting around all day drives me nuts.”
“What’s with the toothbrush?”
“It’s for a drug test,” he said. “I filled out an application and they gave me this toothbrush to swab my mouth with. You don’t even have to do it there. It’s a take-home drug test. I guess they figured that if you made the guys do it on the spot, they’d never be able to hire anyone.”
Mitch picked up the toothbrush. Instead of bristles, it had a little absorbent sponge.
“Cool, huh? They can test your saliva now,” Doug said, taking the brush back. “The thing is, I don’t even know anyone whose saliva I can use. They give me a take-home drug test, man, they’re basically just asking me to cheat on it, and I’m still not gonna be able to pass it.”
Mitch opened the fridge and cracked open a beer, then sat down at the kitchen table next to Doug and thought about it. Linda? No, she smoked occasionally. The landlord? You didn’t want to ask your landlord to help you pass a drug test. Besides, he seemed a little freaky sometimes, wired up; maybe he dabbled in meth or coke. That would be all Doug needed-to get busted on a drug test for one of the few drugs he didn’t use. “How about Ellie?”
“Kevin’s daughter?”
Mitch shrugged. “It’s human saliva, right? That’s all they need.”
They stared at each other. Mitch burst out laughing but Doug remained serious. He pushed the toothbrush, still wrapped in plastic, toward Mitch. “When you see Kevin tomorrow, can you ask him to have Ellie stick that in her mouth?”
Mitch was still laughing, snorting beer out of his nose. He nodded. He got up and went into the living room to watch TV. Maybe that was what leaders did. They solved other people’s problems.
FEELING UNCHARACTERISTICALLY CONNECTED to the world, Mitch decided to watch the news. There was something about the idea of robbing an armored car that, rather than making him feel removed from society, made him feel accepted by it. While he walked dogs, he was devoting an unusual amount of his time to daydreaming about the good times that awaited him, the beers he and Doug were going to have on the beach on a Caribbean island, the island that always appeared in films, peopled only with thong-clad young women who loved to flirt. Then, upon his return home, the move to Pittsburgh, where he would find a nice apartment downtown, furnish it elegantly with a flat-screen high-def TV and a black leather couch, and finish his education. Maybe he’d get accepted to Carnegie Mellon or Pitt and actually get a degree in something like computer science, then go on to start his own company doing something computer-science related. He’d have money and a nice apartment and plenty of time to figure things out.
The news began to sour his mood, however. They were covering campaign speeches of various political candidates and Mitch amused himself by counting the number of times he heard the candidates say the word freedom. They all said it, no matter what they were running for. The city comptroller could get applause by saying, “FREEDOM.” It was a magic word that instantly overstimulated any crowd full of gullible chumps, and what other kind of crowd went to see one of these yokels give a speech?
Freedom, Mitch thought to himself. Who would try to enslave us? We’re a military powerhouse thousands of miles from anyone. Mitch imagined most countries in the world kept their heads down and hoped the U.S. wouldn’t notice them, praying that a mineral or ore desperately needed for American creature comfort was never discovered on their soil. Freedom, my ass. The only real threats to freedom were the guys giving the speeches, even the city comptroller, who Mitch just didn’t like the look of.
Doug came in, bringing the bong with him, and sat. “Wanna hit?”
“Maybe in a little bit.”
Doug set about packing the bowl and Mitch watched him rather than the TV. Doug was careful and meticulous. The bowls he packed somehow always hit better than the ones Mitch packed for himself. Doug possessed an attention to detail that Mitch knew he would never master, some fundamental difference in brain function that probably would have been evident even in early childhood. But Doug would never have thought of, nor planned, the robbing of an armored car. Everyone had their skill set, Mitch decided. Perhaps he had been born for this very purpose, to rob armored cars. He sure as hell had never felt born for anything else he had tried.
“It’s on for Friday,” Mitch said. “We meet at two o’clock.”
“Why two o’clock? I have to hand in my drug test at Chicken Buckets at three o’clock.”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Mitch groaned. “You’re just gonna have to be a little bit late.”
Doug shrugged. “OK.”
That was cool. Mitch had been expecting an argument, which he would have interpreted as a sign of Doug’s reluctance to join them. “Chicken Buckets,” Mitch said with a half-smile. “That place sucks.”
“Their chicken’s not bad. They have a special deep fryer that, like, pressure-cooks it.”
“Do you really want to work fast food? You’ll have to wear a paper hat.”
Doug shrugged again. “No spending money for six months, right? What the hell else am I gonna do?”
Mitch nodded, impressed that Doug was taking the plan seriously enough to have thought that far ahead. What at first he had interpreted as an unwillingness on Doug’s part to accept that things were going to change was in fact a well-thought-out extension of their plan. Doug was a team player. No need to worry.
“It’s going to be fine, man,” Mitch said.
Doug nodded, not looking up as he readied the bong for the day’s first use. “Hey man, could you change the channel? There’s gotta be something else on. The news is bullshit.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Kevin took over the walking of Ramone because he wanted to get a feel for the area outside the bank. Everything had to be planned down to the last second. Kevin felt a rush of excitement just standing in the spot where the robbery was going to occur.
There’s where we’ll park, he thought, looking at a place across the street from the bank. There was a recessed alcove between two buildings which would provide a small amount of cover. This is where Mitch and Doug will stand and wait for the armored car. It will park right here to unload. Kevin walked across the street, gauging the distance. It would take two, three seconds at most to run across the street with big bags full of money. Big bags full of money. He liked the sound of that. Then the Impala would fly off around the corner and onto the dirt road into the trees by the drainage ditch-a four-and-a-half-minute ride. He had timed it four times. Then into the pickup truck piled high with landscaping equipment. The big bags of money would go under the tarp. Ski masks and identifiable clothing would come off.
And away they’d go.
Speed was everything. It had to be fast. What were the variables, the factors that were out of their control? Maybe a cop would notice the old Nevada plate on the Impala. Couldn’t do anything about that. He’d take care to park with the rear of the car up against another car, so the plate wasn’t visible. What else? The time the armored car arrived. It was usually punctual, right at three, Mitch said, but it could be late. They’d have to be prepared to wait a few extra minutes. The ski masks might be a problem. Obviously, you couldn’t put them on too soon or people would start getting weird. You couldn’t stand around wearing a ski mask next to a bank. They’d have to agree on the exact moment the ski masks would go on and try to keep themselves as hidden as possible until that time.
Cold weather, or rain or snow, would really help. That would make heavy headwear less noticeable and reduce visibility. A good snowstorm might even delay the police’s arrival, but it might also delay or even cancel the armored car’s arrival, so it had to be just the right severity. There were always things out of your control that could help or hurt, Kevin thought. They’d have to be on the top of their game. Definitely no getting high before the robbery. They’d have to make that a rule. Kevin took out the little notepad he had brought with him and wrote No getting high.
Under that, he wrote, Cold weather, rain, good.
That was it. He was done. This thing was going to happen.
“THAT’S IT?” MITCH was looking at Kevin’s notepad. “‘No getting high’? ‘Cold weather, rain, good?’” Mitch laughed as he tossed Kevin’s attempt at scientific organization onto the couch. He noticed Kevin looked annoyed, even hurt, so, using his new leadership skills, which he was developing as he went along, he said, “Prints, man. We gotta write something about wearing gloves around the car at all times.”
Kevin picked up the little notebook. Prints he wrote.
“Prints,” said Doug.
“Dude, did you get the ski masks?”
“Not yet.”
“You know it’s tomorrow,” said Kevin. “What the fuck are you waiting for? What about Tasers? Did you get them?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Tasers might be a bad idea,” said Mitch. “We’ve decided to go without the Tasers.”
“Why? What if-”
“If we can’t get the money without Tasers, we’re just not getting the money,” Mitch said. “I looked it up online. If you rob someone without a weapon, it’s a whole different deal. It’s, like, two years max. But if you’re even carrying a Taser, it adds like three years to it.”
Kevin thought about this for a few seconds, then said “All right.”
There was a tense silence in the room, which had never happened during their planning sessions before. Within twenty-four hours, it would be done, over. Kevin, who had recently watched a documentary about D-Day, imagined that they were the Allied generals the night before the invasion. Nothing to do now except wait for the time to be right. And, of course, get some motherfucking ski masks.
He looked around the room at his partners as if seeing them for the first time: Doug, who seemed strangely distant, removed from the whole thing, as if he still hadn’t made up his mind to go through with it, and Mitch, who seemed highly motivated, energetic, yet bothered about details. That was a good sign. He wondered what they thought of him. How did he look right now? Stressed? Distant? Determined? He realized what the mood in the room was-it felt like they were all waiting for another one to call it off, and no one would speak up. He felt the need to leave before anyone, most likely Doug, backed out.
“I’d better be getting home,” Kevin said. “Linda has some errands to run, and I have to take care of Ellie.”
“Hey man…” Doug said, rising from the couch. Here it comes, Kevin thought. He’s going to back out. Fine. He and Mitch would do it and have more money to split. “Can you do me a favor?”
Kevin squinted at him. “What?”
Doug handed him the little toothbrush wrapped in plastic. “Can you get a swab from Ellie’s mouth with that? I need it for a drug test.”
Kevin looked at the toothbrush. “Yeah, sure.” To make Doug feel better about asking, and because he thought Mitch was secretly laughing, Kevin added, “I had her pee in a cup once when I was on parole.”
Mitch laughed out loud, a welcome sound in the tense room. “Get outta here, man. See you tomorrow.”
The way he said it, the words had significance beyond their meaning. It really was as if they were all heading for the beaches of Normandy in the morning. Kevin liked the feeling of drama, the sense that everything insignificant now had historic and powerful meaning in their lives. Turning the doorknob. Was this the last time he would ever turn this doorknob? Going home and seeing Ellie. Would that be the last time he would see her? He cleared his mind. He didn’t want to think about that.
“See you tomorrow, dudes.” He slammed the door. Either way, this was his last night as either a broke man or a free man. Time would tell.
IT WAS SNOWING. That alone cheered Kevin up, especially as the Weather Channel hadn’t predicted it. Kevin saw it as a good omen, a sign from god, and kept repeating how good it was until Mitch finally asked him to stop mentioning it.
“It’s just snow, man,” he said. Mitch, who was a practicing atheist, imagined that if god really did exist and actually took an interest in an armored car robbery, he would be more likely to side with the guards.
“Did you get the ski masks?” Kevin asked Doug as he climbed into the pickup. Doug wordlessly pulled from his pocket a handful of old, worn green wool caps, into which he had painstakingly cut eye holes. Kevin stared at them.
“Dude, are you fucking kidding me? Why didn’t you just buy new ski masks?”
“What’s wrong with using these? You can use them as ski masks.”
“Was it because you were worried we weren’t going to pay you back? For ten dollars’ worth of ski masks?”
“Dude, those’re fine,” said Mitch, who was concerned that one of the others might try to pick a fight intentionally so that the whole plan would disintegrate. Now was not the time to bicker, couldn’t they see that? But Kevin, who’d apparently had his heart set on black ski masks, wouldn’t let it go.
“Would it have been so hard to go to the mall and buy a nice set of black ski masks?”
“I don’t have a car anymore,” said Doug. “So yes, it would. And at the end of the day, do you think we’re all going to be sitting around going, ‘Ya know, man, everything would have gone so much better if only our ski masks had been a different color.’”
“I’ll drive the Impala out there,” said Mitch, ignoring both of them. He was gripped by a fear that everything was going to fall apart, which made him talk fast and loud to drown them out. “I’ll follow you,” he said to Kevin, making firm eye contact to draw him away from the ski mask conversation.
“I’ll ride with you,” said Doug, getting out of the pickup. It might be better that way, Mitch thought, because it would put an end to the childishness. Kevin nodded, and Doug slammed the door shut.
“What’s his problem?” Doug asked as they got into the Impala. “Excuse me, but I thought this was a robbery not a fashion show.”
“No big deal, man. He just got hung up on details.”
“But what the-”
“It’ll be fine,” said Mitch, cutting him off. “Put your gloves back on.”
Doug had been idly pulling one of his gloves off, apparently forgetting that the night before they had spent an hour wiping down every part of the car that might contain a fingerprint-underneath the dash, the radio, the fuel filter, the wing nut that fastened the air filter to the engine, everything. All they needed now was to absentmindedly touch something and have to do it all over again.
“Dude, this car drives like shit,” said Mitch, who was having trouble getting it up to fifteen miles an hour as Kevin sped off in front of them. “I thought you fixed it.”
“The engine works fine,” said Doug. “It’s getting gas. You gotta let it warm up a little more.”
Mitch floored the accelerator and the Impala bucked and chugged then shot ahead, banging Mitch’s head against the headrest. Then the car began to buck and chug again, nearly smashing Mitch’s head into the steering wheel.
“I put new gas in it, high octane,” said Doug. “I figure it had been sitting for a long time, so the shitty firing was because there was water in the gas.”
“How much gas did you put in? The needle’s almost on empty.”
“Two gallons,” said Doug.
“Two gallons? Why didn’t you fill the tank?”
“That high-octane stuff is expensive. Why throw money away? We’re only going to drive it a few miles.”
“This is our fucking getaway car? Jesus,” Mitch snorted. He pulled over and called Kevin on his cell. “Dude, we gotta stop for gas.”
“Didn’t dipshit put any gas in the tank?” Mitch was holding the phone close to his ear just in case Kevin said something like that. The last thing he wanted right now, when it seemed like things were actually going to happen pretty much as planned, was confrontation.
“OK,” said Mitch, as if Kevin had said something agreeable. He hung up and they pulled into the first gas station, the one where the Mexican girl worked. It occurred to Mitch that Doug hadn’t mentioned her in a while.
“You want to pay for it?” Mitch asked, thinking that giving Doug a chance to talk to the Mexican girl was doing him a favor, then realizing too late that he was basically accusing Doug of being cheap. Doug got out silently and went into the store. Mitch watched through the window as he paid the girl without talking to her, for the three hundredth time. Perhaps when you were on your way to commit a felony wasn’t the best time to put your moves on a girl.
“Ten bucks,” said Doug as he got back in the car. “That’s all I got.”
Mitch nodded and filled the tank with high octane. Funny, he thought, that Doug hadn’t mentioned the Mexican girl in a while. He used to talk about her all the time, planning what he thought were clever ways to engage her in conversation. Something had been going on with him, something he hadn’t been talking about. While pumping the gas, Mitch recalled other ways Doug had been acting weird-his nervousness around Kevin, his cryptic phone conversations. Then his mind switched to the conversation he had had with Kevin the day before. Linda knew about the Ferrari.
That was strange. Only the three of them knew about the Ferrari, and he knew neither he nor Kevin had told Linda. That left only one of them.
Holy shit. Doug must have told Linda.
He stopped pumping and stared into space for a few seconds while he tried to get his mind around why, exactly, Doug would have told Linda about the Ferrari. What could possibly have motivated him to do that? Why had he been hanging out with Linda at all, for that matter? Did the Doug-Linda connection have something to do with Doug not mentioning the Mexican girl? Fuck it, they were on their way to rob an armored car. Was it really the right time to start worrying about this?
When he got back into the car, he looked at Doug for a few seconds and Doug looked back.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Mitch kept staring at Doug.
“Dude, you’re freaking me out. What?”
“Nothing.” He started the car. “Come on, let’s go get this done.”