Heisted

“And there goes another woman,” Charley said from the passenger seat, “look at her too. That dress.” He let out a whistle. Errol didn’t look. He simply flipped the pages of his black book, each page turn flashing drawings of the interior of the building before them. Bank codes. Account numbers. Delivery truck routes. Personal information on each employee. Until he finally reached the page where he marked how many people come to this particular bank on Tuesday mornings before 10am. He added a tally mark to the “women” column.

“What’re the numbers?” Charley asked, still staring at the woman in the dress as she entered the bank.

“Acceptable,” Errol responded. A clichéd black sedan pulled up beside them, as both of their heads turned quickly. They recognized the two men in the front seat and shared a nod between the four of them. The doors to the cars flung open as the men pulled down ski masks. Their firearms appeared from the hiding places in their cars.

“Quick in and out,” The Other Driver shouted. They all nodded and sprinted across the street toward the front of the bank. The Other Passenger of the other car stopped outside, holding his gun next to his side to conceal it. The remaining three burst through the front door; The Other Driver’s gun went off almost instantly, vomiting a barrage of bullets into the ceiling, followed immediately by a small snowing of drywall dust.

“Everyone. Ground,” his voice raged across the small bank. Everyone complied, except for Herbert, the elderly security guard who fumbled with his standard issue revolver. Charley grabbed him hard, yanked the revolver from Herbert’s holster and pushed the old man to the ground. The Other Driver made his way to the manager with Errol. In the managers office the manager stood against the rear wall with her hands up while a young man stood in front of her desk with his hands up. The Other Driver knocked the man to the ground, “Stay down or regret every decision you made today.” The man covered his face.

The Other Driver grabbed the manager by her bicep and began to drag her out of the office, “You know the drill,” he said to the room. The manager screamed and Errol nodded.

Errol waited a moment as the The Other Driver and the manager left the room. He pulled his little black book from his rear pocket and placed it on the desk before sitting in front of the manager’s computer. He flipped to a page labeled “(Kenny) Loggins” and immediately began typing in the laptop. Another couple of page turns left him on an account numbers page. His fingers echoed off the mechanical keyboard as obnoxious amounts of money left accounts and began appearing in several others. Errol’s eyes stared on with intense focus until a woman’s scream came from the lobby. His head shot up quickly. Charley had the woman in the dress up on her feet and pushed back against a desk.

“Oh, come on,” Errol sighed and pushed away from the computer.

The young man watched as Errol left the office and after a brief moment of hesitation crawled across the floor to behind the desk. The young man, Conroy, had only been talking to the bank manager in hopes of procuring a small loan in the amount of $11,264 to buy a used van. For his band. So they could tour. And make it big. Now, Conroy’s band wasn’t amazing by any means, but all the members were confident in their ability to tour, put on a good show and maybe sign with a big label. But all they needed was a van and the monies to buy it. So they decided to pool what little money they had, dress Conroy in his dad’s best suit and send him into the bank. The rest of the band waited in their sorry-excuse-for-a-car, panicked when they saw armed men go into the bank and immediately began filming the outside of the bank on their cell phones. (She’d just told Conroy “no,” in case you were curious. The $437 dollars they raised wasn’t quite enough to secure the van loan.)

Conroy stared at the screen, sat upon his knees to hide behind the monitor, his eyes racing as he tried to figure out what exactly was happening. Several accounts were zeroed out and several more with well over millions of dollars sat in front of him.

A shout came from the lobby as Errol threw Charley to the ground. “This isn’t how this goes, and you know it.”

“What’s happening out here?” The Other Driver shouted as he came out of the vault with a large, black, square bag. He handed it to Errol and looked down at Charley.

“Your boy here is deviating from the plan and trying to harass this woman,” Errol said, pointing at the woman in the dress. The Other Driver looked over at her and then to Charley on the ground.

“You think it’s smart to mess up my operation, and leave your DNA on that woman? Let alone the additional mental trauma you’d cause her from not only being robbed at gunpoint, but then to be molested by some two-bit piece of garbage?” The Other Driver stated. Errol stared at him, not expecting such a woke response.

“Now get your shit together and get in the vault or I’ll leave your DNA all over this floor for the police to identify later,” The Other Driver finished. There it is, Errol thought.

Charley pushed himself from the ground and followed The Other Driver back to the vault. Errol slung the bag over his shoulder before starting back to the manager’s office.

Conroy abruptly slipped back behind the monitor and before dropping to the ground his eyes rested on the little black book, open neatly on the desk. “Take it,” he heard the band’s singer’s voice sing in his head. His hand touched the page, as his eyes scanned the list of bank account numbers. “Do it,” the drummer’s voice echoed now in his head. Conroy’s hand began to shake as Errol’s footsteps grew louder, his heavy boots stomping against the flooring. He ducked down, the little black book sliding off the desk with his hand. He slammed down on the ground with his back against the desk.

Errol’s footsteps were booming as he entered the manager’s office and immediately noticed the missing young man. “Where you at kid?” Errol shouted, not angrily, but almost curiously. Conroy crawled quickly away from the desk toward the back wall. Errol entered deeper into the room and watched him crawl.

“Just stay out of the way and you’ll be fine kid,” Errol said as he spun around the desk and started running his finger over the dollar amounts that had been transferred to the accounts listed in his little black book. He began deleting any trace of what he’d done there and then quickly logged out.

“Time to go,” The Other Driver’s voice echoed from the vault into the lobby. Errol reached down for the little black book, his head followed when his palm smacked against the bare desk. His eyes squinted as his jaw tightened. His head snapped to his left and he locked eyes with Conroy.

“Where’s my book?” Errol’s voice had changed and it scared Conroy. Conroy cowered back into the corner, the book tightly curled between his fingers. Errol took another step forward, feeling the anger rising in him. “Give it to me,” he said extending his hand out. A gunshot rang outside of the bank.

Errol’s head whipped to the lobby as The Other Passenger ran inside and slammed the glass door shut. He lifted his gun as the door exploded inward, sending the glass raining down across the marble floor. The Other Passenger fell back to the ground and let out a horrible scream.

“Now,” Errol’s voice shouted back at Conroy. He bent down and grabbed the top of the black book but Conroy wouldn’t let go. Not out of spite for Errol, but his fingers were locked tight in fear. Shouting came from the lobby, as more gunshots echoed in the lobby as a squad of SWAT officers stormed the bank. Errol’s eyes never broke from Conroy’s.

A spray of bullets filled the managers office, ripping through Errol’s ribs and the bag of money on his back. He let out a scream as he fell against the back wall and money rained down all over the room. The two stared at each other as Errol’s breathing became labored. Conroy placed the little black book gently on the ground, the cover now bent. The gunshots and screams of bank hostages and police seemed to become distant to Conroy. His gaze shifted from Errol’s fading eyes to bundles of money splayed out on the floor around him. He cautiously looked out of the bank manager’s door. No one was nearby. His eyes went back to the money, and before he knew it, he was putting $20,000 worth in freshly-wrapped 100-dollar-bills into the inside pocket of his dad’s best suit jacket pocket. Conroy’s breathing slowed as Errol’s eyes drifted down to the black book. He reached out with a bloodied hand and placed it on top of the black book.

“Clear,” A shout came from the office next to the manager’s. A SWAT officer spun into the doorway of the manager’s office, his gun raised. He moved in deeper and found the two on the floor.

“Are you ok, kid?” The officer shouted. Conroy just stared at the slow breathing Errol. He slowly began to nod. The officer grabbed his radio, “I’ve got one hostage in the manager’s office. I need someone to take him out with the others.”

After only a moment, another officer appeared and helped Conroy from the ground. His eyes stayed on Errol, however, until he was forced around the corner. In a whirlwind, he was rushed outside with the other bank hostages. He stood with his shoulders sagging amidst the middle of a large circle of police cars with their lights flashing. Paramedics rushed into the bank as other officers closed off the scene. Other hostages were giving statements. Conroy’s eyes searched the crowd of onlookers, only to find the rest of his band, front and center.

Detectives began to gather statements as Conroy tried to focus on his breathing, the look of Errol’s eyes stuck in his mind.

A paramedic approached Conroy, “Are you ok? There’s blood on your face.”

Conroy snapped out of his trance and touched his face, seeing small drops of blood on his fingertips, “It’s… it’s not my blood.” The paramedic nodded and moved to the next hostage. He removed his coat carefully and held it between his hands. A detective approached him, “Come with me, please,” Conroy’s eyes snapped up to him and his chest tightened. He’d been caught. He knew it. “I need to get your statement,” the detective finished.

Conroy started to follow the detective and then stopped a second, “Can I give my coat to my friends?” He asked and pointed at his bandmates.

“Sure, kid, I’ll be right over here,” the detective said and walked over to a squad car.

Conroy cautiously made his way to his bandmates.

“Dude! Are you ok?!” The Singer shouted. Conroy handed over the jacket, “Put this in the car.” He said calmly, “I’ll be back.”

He turned and began walking toward the detective as paramedics passed between him and the detective’s squad car. Conroy watched as they rushed Errol by on a gurney, an oxygen mask on his face. They locked eyes again, and Errol lifted his hand and pointed an index finger at Conroy. As they reached the ambulance the pointed finger rotated became a very subtle thumbs up. Conroy exhaled deeply and went to the detective.