An Impossible Job for the Worst Crew Imaginable

Everything went exactly according to plan. Better than, actually. We even pulled it all off with time to spare. And that meant there wasn’t anyone on our trail. We were getting off scot-free -- most of us with the biggest score of our lives. A life-changing amount of cash.

Actually, that’s exactly what pulled our rag-tag band together. The score was too good. The kind of good that would make you work with people you knew you couldn’t work with and see right past all the red flags. Yet, somehow, it all still came together. An impossible job for the worst crew imaginable, Scooter had christened it.

Always the joker, that Scooter. Maybe that’s why he was the first to go.

There was no need for formalities at the meet-up, as we were all intimately familiar with one another. It was a small industry, so most of us had either worked together before, developed bitter professional rivalries over time, or been involved in a more carnal fashion. Sometimes all three. And those that hadn’t met were at least familiar with everyone’s reputations. As such, Dutch kicked off the whole thing by getting right into the nitty-gritty of it all.

“For those driven exclusively by numbers,” Dutch bellowed, always knowing exactly what to say and when to say it, “each of the people in this room will take home a twelve-point-five percent share -- after, of course, the boss lady takes her twenty-five off the top. That leaves every one of us with roughly two-and-a-half-million non-sequential, all-American, green-as-can-be dollars to take home. Good? Good.”

As Dutch pontificated, I took note of each specialist pledged to our criminal cohort.

Scooter, the driver, was at my left, chewing the stem of a plastic marigold flower -- his idiosyncratic signature. I always liked Scooter. And I would have liked to get to know him a little better…

Beyond him, there stood the Bluto Twins -- named, I assume, for their uncanny resemblance to Popeye’s top-heavy nemesis -- both expert demolitionists. With most twins, they either got along swimmingly or they hated one another. With the Blutos, it was both.

Dutch, our sharpshooting fearless leader, stood across from me. He had been in the game too long and had made more enemies than anyone I had ever met, but he was damn good at his job, so nobody ever did any complaining.

Lastly, to my right, Mona and Lisa -- just awful code names, but these fresh-outta-high-school girls could crack any and all modern security grids and automated systems. They were… valuable. I was just worried about whether that value would make up for the collateral.

“Trixie,” Dutch barked, “are you listening?”

“Yeah, boss,” I replied. “But, for everyone’s sake, you wanna repeat that last bit?”

Dutch frowned, a look I had become quite accustomed to over the years.

“One more time, but just the hits,” the old man said. “We clock the convoy on 7th, Mona and Lisa will sync everyone’s timers and make sure we got all-greens on the stoplights headed out of the city. I’ll be perched on Cornwall Tower to take out the support vehicles. Scooter will take the Blutos in behind the transport, while Trixie lays down a spike strip and spooks any onlookers. Once the transport’s tires are blown, the Blutos will blast the hatch, transfer the goods, and send Scooter on his way. Then, the Blutos will head down into the subway, blow the supports, and drop the transport truck into the tunnels. That should give everyone else time to clear out, lay low for a bit, and we’ll meet back up here in a couple of days. I’ll send an all-clear by text. Even if they don’t think we’ve taken to the tunnels, they’ll have to follow protocol and make that a part of the search, which should thin out the piggies enough for all of us to get out safely. Everyone got it?”

“What if we have bad phone reception?” I asked.

Dutch laughed.

--

And that’s exactly how everything went down. Honest to god, I had never been a part of a smoother job. I should have known then it was suspicious. But I was riding the high of a job well-done just like everyone else.

Scooter called me the day of the meet-up, which was odd -- or it should have been. We had a strict no-contact policy in place during the cooling-off period, just like always. But Scooter and I had an… understanding. Still, I knew better than to piss off Dutch. I wanted to answer, desperately, but I didn’t.

The next call came from Trevor, the eldest (by a whopping three minutes) of the Bluto Twins. Again, I didn’t answer. But I listened to the message he left. I couldn’t make out much -- Trevor was gargling like a fish, probably choking on his own blood -- but I heard what I needed to hear. Somebody double-crossed them and they were coming for all of us.

That was when I decided to leave the safe house. And it was a good thing, too, because the old cannery went up in a ball-o-flames just a few minutes later. Whether that was because the double-crosser thought I was still inside or they were just covering their tracks, I had no idea. But it didn’t matter.

It would have been easy to just cut and run, but then I’d have no money and no idea who was trying to kill me. I figured, the best way to get my money and learn what the fuck was going on was by going to the meet-up, just like we planned. So I did.

--

Dutch was waiting for me when I got there, gun in hand and a pair of duffle bags at his feet -- the same ones Scooter was supposed to have filled with our score.

“Where’s the boss lady?” I demanded.

“Hell if I know,” the old man said, casually tossing his revolver back and forth in his hands.

“Mona and Lisa?”

“Late, but that’s to be expected.”

“The twins?”

Dutch exhaled, “They didn’t make it. Something, not sure what, happened at their safe house. The twins are dead. We’ve got a fox in the henhouse, it seems.”

“Does that mean a bigger share for the rest of us?” I asked.

“You know,” Dutch chuckled, “I always liked that about you. All business, all the time. Except with Scooter. Never could figure that one out. How’s he doing, by the way?”

“Beats me,” I growled. “I thought he’d be here, too.”

The door swung open and, squawking like cockatoos, Mona and Lisa stumbled inside, clearly drunk or drugged-up or some combination and clearly unaware of our current predicament. Dutch didn’t even say hello to them. He just stood up, raised his gun, and fired two shots -- one through each of their heads.

That was my moment and I didn’t hesitate. While the gunshots still reverberated through the room, I unholstered my own weapon and pointed it at Dutch. He turned and raised his gun toward me.

But he was too slow.

I pulled the trigger and a slug of hot lead buried itself in Dutch’s torso, right about where his heart should have been. He dropped his gun and fell to the ground.

“I never would have thought it’d be you,” I said.

“Yeah,” Dutch groaned, “that’s kind of why I thought I’d get away with it. He was calling you when I got him, you know. Scooter. I think he really liked you.”

“Fuck you,” I replied.

“Tell you what,” Dutch groaned, putting pressure on his wound, “you go ahead and take one of these bags and we go our separate ways. That seems fair, right? We can both get out. Here, look, that’s like forty-four million dollars each. I’ll show you.”

Dutch, propping himself up against a wall, pulled one of the duffel bags onto his lap and unzipped it. Inside, where there should have been piles of loose cash, there were instead thousands of plastic marigold flowers -- Scooter’s idiosyncratic signature. Dutch’s jaw dropped.

“Son of a--”

I smiled and pulled the trigger. And then I heard a small chime. A notification. From my phone.

I pulled the device out of my pocket to see an alert. New Voicemail, it read.

I need a new phone plan, I thought. I hit the play button and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Hey Trix, it’s Scoot,” the message began. “Listen, I did something. No. I hid something. And I need to tell you where to find it…”