THE SNOW WAS beautiful. Not beautiful in the sense of aesthetically appealing, because Mitch hated snow. It was beautiful in the sense of making it difficult for police officers to chase and apprehend you. It was starting to stick too, which was even more beautiful. The only way this could not go perfectly now was if the bank closed early or the armored car never showed up.
Kevin parked the pickup on the dirt road by the drainage ditch they had been staring into just the day before, facing toward the road for a quicker exit. Mitch exited the driver’s seat of the Impala and turned it over to Kevin, who got in wordlessly. Mitch liked the fact that no one was talking, as if they were commandos who had mastered their responsibilities so completely that words weren’t necessary.
As Kevin pulled out of the dirt road, he asked, “You guys gonna talk with British accents?”
The British-accent thing had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, but Mitch didn’t really think that dialogue was going to play much of a part in the day’s events. Besides, the mood that had spawned the British-accent idea, one of pot and partying, was absent in the car, where stress and fear and concentration had taken over.
“Nah,” said Mitch. After that, no one spoke.
Kevin pulled onto Westlake Avenue and they passed the bank. He drove about a hundred yards down the street and then turned around. The street was deserted except for them, every parking space along the curb empty.
“Shit,” Mitch said. “I hope the bank doesn’t close.”
“It’s still open right now,” Kevin said, “and if it’s open, they’re going to need a cash delivery.”
Kevin looked at his watch. “Ten minutes, if they’re on time. You guys want to wait across the street?”
“It’s freezing,” said Mitch. “I think we’ll just stay in the car for a few more minutes.”
“I need to stretch my legs,” said Doug. He got out, slammed the heavy door of the Impala, and walked across the street without another word.
Kevin looked at Mitch. “Is he all right?”
“Is he ever?”
They watched Doug take up a position across the street, shivering in the little alcove by the antique store.
“Go tell him to at least pull his hood up,” Kevin said. “He doesn’t have to pull his ski mask down yet, but it’s probably best not to walk around bareheaded.”
“Shit, there’s no one around,” said Mitch. “It don’t matter.”
Kevin was bumping his knee repeatedly into the steering wheel, so Mitch said, “Are you getting jumpy?”
“No,” said Kevin, sounding more intense than Mitch had been expecting. “I just think you should go talk to Doug. There’s something wrong with him. He’s not talking and he’s fucking standing in the street bareheaded when we all agreed to wear ski masks. The guy’s been on the verge of fucking this up since day one, you know? First of all, he doesn’t even do the one fucking thing he was given to do, which was buy ski masks, and now we gotta wear these fucking things.” His eyes blazing with rage, Kevin held up the old wool cap with the eye holes cut out, his fingers sticking through the holes derisively.
“All right,” said Mitch. “I’ll go talk to him.” He got out of the car and was aware of his feet crunching in the snow as he crossed the silent street. He wondered if instead of helping, the snow would serve as a hindrance, as it was recording his footprints for the investigators. He made an effort to grind his feet into the slush to make the footprints less distinct.
Mitch went and stood in the little alcove, shivering next to Doug. “You all right, dude?”
“I’m fine.” Doug lit a cigarette and watched as an enormous SUV turned the corner and stopped right in front of them, blocking their view of absolutely everything. There were now two cars on the street, the Impala and the SUV, which was black and had tinted windows and was idling right in front of their little alcove.
“What the fuck is this guy doing?” Mitch asked.
“Dude, I don’t know about this,” Doug said.
Mitch had figured it was coming, but he had hoped that Doug would just keep his reservations to himself until the robbery was over.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t need money this bad, man. I mean, I can work at Chicken Buckets. I should be at Chicken Buckets right now, handing in my drug test.”
Mitch knew Doug felt this way and he had, in fact, always known. Every sign pointed to it, from the poorly prepared car with two gallons of gas in it to the cut-up ski masks, yet he had been denying it to himself, pretending Doug was still an enthusiastic team player. They should have left Doug out of it and he and Kevin should have been there alone. But it was a team effort and Doug was always part of the team.
“Well, shit, man. I wish you’d have said something before now.” He lit a cigarette, aware that Doug was basically asking him permission to go. He didn’t want him to. If Doug left, Mitch knew that nothing would ever be the same between them, that their friendship would basically be over. “Why’d you let it go this far?”
Doug began shifting his weight from leg to leg, and Mitch could never recall seeing him more uncomfortable. For a moment, they watched the black SUV, in which, Mitch now realized, there was a teenage girl being taught by her mother how to parallel park. Over and over, the SUV lurched awkwardly toward a parking space at an extreme angle, then stopped, then jerked forward.
“I gotta tell you something,” Doug said.
Right then, Mitch heard angels singing. There was a clanking and whirring of the heavy chains on the tires of the armored car as it turned the corner. And there it was, old, battered, and lurching, a monolith of scarred metal, parking right in front of the bank. Mitch could see, behind the windshield wipers, the familiar faces of the old guy and the fat guy. They were right on time, despite the snow. God, you had to love this company’s punctuality.
“There’s the truck. Look, is this about you and Linda?” he asked, hoping to move the conversation along. At the mention of her name, Doug looked like he had been punched. “I know about that,” Mitch added.
“How, how… Does Kevin know?”
“No, of course not. Dude, look, I’ve got to rob this thing, OK? If you want out, go ahead and take off. I’ll see you later.”
Before he could finish the sentence, Doug was running off into the street. Right behind the SUV, which inexplicably accelerated backward, knocking Doug down with a loud bang of metal and a yelp of pain.
“Awwww!” Doug screamed as he fell into snow. The SUV slammed to a halt. Mitch, who hadn’t moved, saw the passenger door fly open, and a middle aged woman hopped out, looking panicked.
“Ohmigod,” she was saying. “I’m so sorry. My daughter is learning to parallel park…”
Still standing in the alcove, Mitch saw the elderly guard come over to help Doug up. And then, right behind him, the fat guard, waddling over. From his vantage point, he could see inside the SUV, where a teenage girl was sitting with her head in her hands and appeared to be crying. But he wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking about the fact that both guards were helping a groaning Doug to his feet.
His legs moved before he could think about it. He darted along the side of the building, his feet crunching in the snow as he pulled his ski mask down. There they were-two big brown leather bags, just sitting in the truck with the door open. Mitch reached inside, wrapped his arms around them both, pulled them towards him, and, clutching them to his chest, ran over to the Impala.
“Go, go, go!” he yelled at Kevin, who was sitting in the idling Impala, wearing a ski mask. Mitch opened the back door of the Impala, threw both bags of money into the backseat, and climbed into the front passenger seat. Behind him, he heard someone scream, “Hey!”
“What about Doug?” asked Kevin as he put the Impala in drive. The Impala sputtered and lurched forward.
“Go, go, go!”
Kevin punched the Impala and they shot out into the street, where Mitch could see both guards running toward them. The fat guard was fumbling with the gun on his holster. Kevin drove right by him. The older guard slipped and fell in the street.
“Ouch,” said Kevin as he drove by the old man. He pulled up next to Doug, who was standing next to the woman who had been in the passenger seat when the SUV hit him.
“Get in the fucking car!” Mitch screamed. He leaned into the backseat and tried to open the back door for Doug. The woman he had been talking to about the accident was staring into the Impala, now looking even more horrified than she had a few seconds before as she regarded two men in ski masks.
“British accents!” Kevin was yelling.
Doug didn’t seem to be understanding that he should get in the car, so Mitch leaped out and in one smooth movement grabbed his coat, opened the back door of the Impala, and started to shove him in.
There was a gunshot and a yelp of pain.
“Jesus!” Mitch screamed. He looked over at the fat guard, who was crouching in a combat position back where the Impala had driven by him, a smoking pistol in his hand. Mitch knew that he hadn’t been shot. Had Doug? Where had the yelp come from? He shoved Doug all the way in and slammed the door.
“Go, go, go!” Mitch shouted. Kevin gunned the accelerator and they skidded up to a stop sign. Mitch could feel the car sliding, tractionless, in the snow.
“Don’t stop! What the fuck are you doing? This is a getaway!”
“I’d rather not be hit by someone coming the other way,” Kevin said calmly, talking through the ski mask. He accelerated through the intersection.
“Owwww,” Doug moaned.
“Dude, did you get shot?” Mitch stuck his head into the backseat, where Doug was lying on the bags of money, clutching his leg. He didn’t answer.
“Man, I think Doug got shot,” Mitch said to Kevin.
Kevin pulled up his ski mask. “No fucking way,” he said.
“That fat bastard was shooting at us. I heard a shot.”
“Yeah, I heard a shot too.” Kevin looked into the rearview mirror. “Doug, man,” he yelled. “Did you get shot?”
“Awwww,” Doug moaned. “What are guys talking about? I got hit by a car. I think I broke my ankle.”
Mitch leaned back over the seat, looking for blood, or a bullet hole. “You didn’t get shot?” He began to pat Doug down, trying to find a wound. He felt relief welling up inside him as his search yielded nothing.
“Will you stop touching me?”
“I’m not touching you. I’m trying to see if you got shot.”
“I didn’t get shot, man. What the fuck are you talking about? I got hit by a car.”
“You’re sure you didn’t get shot? You don’t, like, feel funny?”
“Can you feel your legs?” Kevin shouted. “Can you feel your legs?” He started to crane his neck backward, and they nearly careened off the snow-slicked road.
“Dude, will you just drive?” Mitch snapped.
“Yeah, I can feel my legs. I can feel one ankle which feels like it’s, like, fucking broken.”
Mitch began to believe that Doug had not, in fact, been shot, and relief washed over him. He couldn’t see any blood and Doug was being his usual self.
“We got plenty of pain pills,” Kevin said. “When we get home, just take some pain pills.”
“I intend to,” said Doug.
Mitch sat back down in the passenger seat. “That’s something you won’t have to tell him twice,” he said to Kevin.
They pulled onto the dirt road, which was now snow covered. Kevin parked the car as far back into the trees as he could.
“Man, I sure wish there was a ravine around here we could push this fucker into,” Mitch said.
“This’ll have to do,” said Kevin.
“Awwwww,” moaned Doug.
“Come on, you big pussy,” Mitch said. They grabbed the bags and loaded them into the truck, under the tarp, then pulled the tarp tight to prevent anything from falling out. Mitch peeked into one of the bags, but all he could see was another bag.
“Don’t look now,” Kevin said. “Later, later.”
They got into Kevin’s truck, with Mitch helping Doug, who was noticeably limping. Kevin cleaned the snow off the windshield. He fired up the truck.
“Ski masks off,” Kevin said. “Make sure you’ve got your ski masks off.”
Mitch was still wearing his. He pulled it off and nodded to Kevin. Doug had never had his on.
They sat for a second in the truck, listening to the country radio station to which Kevin left it permanently tuned.
“Dudes,” Kevin said, before putting the truck in gear. “We did it.”
THEY WERE SITTING in Doug and Mitch’s living room, high on the adrenaline from the robbery. Doug’s ankle was propped up on the coffee table, wrapped in ice, though Mitch thought he was exaggerating the pain as an excuse to eat more pain pills. The swelling didn’t look that bad and Doug had never exactly been John Wayne when it came to minor injuries.
Mitch turned the TV on to wait for the five o’clock news as Kevin dumped the bags out onto the living room floor. Inside the bags were smaller, blue bags, made out of seemingly impenetrable plastic, with locks on them. They regarded the locks, then the bags, wondering which would be easier to cut through.
“We need bolt cutters for the locks,” Kevin said.
“I bet I can get through the plastic with a steak knife,” Mitch said. Then he tried doing exactly that until, after three attempts at stabbing the bag, he cut himself. “Fuck!”
“I have bolt cutters at home,” Kevin said.
Nobody wanted to wait for him to drive home and back. They shook the idea off.
“This is like the shit they make bulletproof vests out of,” said Mitch.
“Kevlar,” said Doug helpfully.
Mitch stabbed the bag again. The knife just bounced off, cutting him again and spattering him with his own blood. “Fuck!”
“Dude, I bet you can rip that lock off with a wrench,” Doug suggested. “Or two wrenches. I’ll hold it, and you…”
Before he had finished, Mitch ran out to their cluttered back porch to grab as many tools as he could find. He brought back two wrenches, a razor knife, a pair of pliers, and a hammer and threw them onto the living room floor. Then he began stabbing and smashing everything that seemed to be keeping the bags closed. As he was doing this, he thought, What if we can never get these bags open? After all this, the Ferrari, the pill-selling, the planning, and the robbery, what if we end up just sitting here forever with god knows how much money on the floor, still in its indestructible bags? Maybe they would get busted and be national laughingstocks, a twenty-second-long bit on CNN about the three guys who robbed an armored car and couldn’t figure out how to get the GODDAMNED MONEY OUT OF THE BAGS!
A lock snapped off in his hand.
“Thank you!” he cried in relief. He dumped the money all over the floor, and they looked at each other in surprise. There was a lot of it.
No one spoke. It was if they couldn’t believe they had actually done this, accomplished their goal of successfully robbing an armored car. Until they saw the money, none of it had been real. In complete defiance of all logic, all three of them had been expecting something other than stacks of bills to fall out of the bag-promissory notes or letters of credit or rare coins-half convinced that today would be just another day that they got fucked by circumstance. But here it was. Money. Spendable American money.
“Shit,” said Kevin, breaking the silence. “Look at that.”
“Count it,” said Mitch. “I’m gonna work on the other one.” He grabbed the tools and began savagely beating the lock on the second bag. By this point he was bleeding pretty severely, soaking the blue plastic in streaks of red. By the time he heard a crunching of metal indicating the second lock might be giving way, the bag looked like someone had slaughtered a pig on it.
“Jesus, dude, go wrap that,” Doug said. He limped over from the couch as Mitch dumped the second bag onto the floor. More money. He stood up and regarded his living room floor, covered in bills of various denominations, Kevin studiously counting them and setting them in neat piles. Blood dripped from his hand onto the gray, matted carpet. He was panting.
“Go wrap your hand, man,” said Doug again.
Kevin, sitting on the floor, counting to himself, said, “Get a calculator too.”
MITCH WENT UPSTAIRS and looked in the medicine cabinet for some gauze or Band-Aids and saw himself in the mirror. Except for the blood, he looked exactly the same. It surprised him. He had expected a fearsome monster to be staring back at him. He was a criminal now and he had imagined that his appearance would have changed accordingly, that his new status would be more obvious to the world.
The sink was turning red with his blood. The only thing in the medicine cabinet was a bag of hundreds of pain pills. He shrugged and took two, then winced, remembering the itching he had experienced last time. The hand didn’t really hurt that much. He just wanted something to calm him down.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he was suddenly overcome with a feeling of dread. This couldn’t keep going as well as it was going. Nothing in his life had ever gone this well. It was going to fall apart, and soon. He had to tell the others.
He wrapped his hand in toilet paper, which was turning red and soaking through before he could even finish, so he unwrapped it, held his hand up high like he remembered being taught in his first-aid class in the army, and did it again. It worked. By the time he had a decent bandage wrapped, the bathroom also looked like he had slaughtered a pig in it. He went back downstairs, the feeling of dread still with him.
“Did you bring a calculator?” asked Kevin. He was surrounded by money which had been organized into piles, perhaps six or seven of them.
Mitch shook his head. “Use your cell phone,” he said. “Doesn’t it have a calculator?”
Kevin nodded. “Good idea.”
“What’s with the piles?”
“Each one is twenty grand,” Kevin said, going back to counting.
“Shit,” Mitch marveled. Each little pile could buy a better car than he had even owned, or pay rent for two years, or… or anything. The possibilities were endless. He looked at Doug, who was sitting on the couch, similarly awed by the piles of cash.
“You still want a job at Chicken Buckets?”
“I’m thinking, maybe, like, fuck Chicken Buckets,” said Doug cheerfully.
Despite himself, Mitch laughed, and sat down on the couch next to him. “I’m thinking about leaving town,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’ve just got a bad feeling.”
Doug said nothing. Then the news started, and Doug turned the sound up.
“Tonight, our top stories. The Pittsburgh Zoo might be getting a panda. And a daring daylight robbery in Westlake leaves an elderly man fighting for his life. Those stories and more, when we return.”
“Fighting for his what?” Kevin had stood up and was staring at the TV.
“Dude,” said Doug. “Fighting for his life? What, do you think he had, like, a heart attack or something?”
“And they’re blaming it on us,” said Kevin.
Mitch shook his head, disgusted but, unlike the others, not surprised. “I told you I had a bad feeling.”