Carry On

He went by the name Blue. And the other one went by the name Red. You don’t use real names when you’re working with professional criminals.

And the other guy, they called him Green. Or they did, when he still had a heartbeat. Green lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, Red’s knife lodged in his chest.

“You saw how he was acting!” Red screamed defensively. “He was gonna tell the boss!”

He probably was. The boss just sent them on the biggest score of their careers. Blue had done nine jobs with Red and Green. Every single one of them had gone flawlessly. Never once did Red act like a maniac. Not til lucky number 10. Red said they should split with the money. Keep it all to themselves. Not give the boss his cut.

An argument between Green and Red broke out… and only because Green shat on Red’s plan before Blue could. Red’s solution was to put a blade in Green’s chest cavity.

He turned to Blue. “So? The two of us? Our shares are even bigger now.”

Red glides across the room to the door to peak outside. It’s quiet outside… for now. Blue move towards the lifeless body he once worked with. He grips the knife’s handle and slides it out of him. Ooh, there’s no way you don’t feel that. As if his soul was attached to the blade. Green didn’t deserve this. Blue stands up and Red rushes back over to him.

“What’s it gonna be, Blue? We gotta make a decision!”

They can’t go back to the boss. Not under these circumstances. But how can Blue go through with this? Tying himself to this loose cannon… and how are they going to secure more work? This was supposed to be a quick job, in and out.

Red snaps his neck back towards the door, snaps it back, fire in his eyes. “Alright, fuck this! If you’re not—

Blue swings the knife at Red’s face, slashing him across the cheek. Red screams in agony and drops to the floor. Blue snatches one of the three duffel bags and bolts out of the building. This was the only solution.

*******

Blue strolls through the poorly lit parking garage. A blessing and a curse. No one can see his eyes as they dart back and forth, scanning every crack and corner. But it’s also terrible to try to view all your surroundings. He gets the same feeling approaching this building every single time. Something about this place. He shouldn’t be here. But he also needed to get as far away from that last place as he could.

Blue approaches the slimy green elevator doors. Is it a nasty paintjob or just a filth trap? The down arrow above the elevator illuminates a dingy off-white color and lets out a soft and muffled ding. Blue stops 10 feet from the elevator. He needs to wait to see who is on this elevator.

The doors slide open slowly and painfully. In the elevator stands McGuinn, a big smile creeping over his lips as he spots Blue.

“Crosby!”

Blue now goes by Crosby. New city. New name. And he didn’t pick his own name. That came down from Mr. Z. Also not a real name. Noticing a theme?

McGuinn approaches Crosby, arms outstretched and gives him a big hug he doesn’t want. It’s alright. McGuinn’s a good partner. Maybe the only one who can get away with this. He and Crosby have pulled fourteen successful jobs together. Usually with the other two, Parsons and Hillman.

McGuinn releases Crosby from his bear hug. “Mr. Z called you down here too?”

Crosby nods. “Very mysteriously too. Says he’s shaking things up?”

“He is. But unfortunately, that’s all I can tell you.” McGuinn’s smile fades. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”

Crosby moves towards the elevator, gets in and presses the button to floor four instinctively. McGuinn spins on his heel and looks back.

“Fuck it, I’ll tell you. Looks like he’s calling everyone in. Passed by some other dudes in there that had to be from the other teams. One guy even had this gnarly scar on his face.”

The elevator doors shudder and begin to slowly screech shut. Crosby waves to McGuinn and looks to him with gratitude as he may have just given him life-saving information without even realizing it.

The elevator doors open. Crosby takes only two steps out and stops. It is 28 steps down this hall to Mr. Z’s office. A lot can happen in 28 steps. And once he has passed 10 steps, he is in no man’s land. If there is any man with a scar on his face and Crosby has already passed 10 steps, he could be in serious trouble.

Of course, Crosby suspects the man with the scar on his face is Red. They’re in the same profession. Crosby, then Blue, had to find a new city after that debacle. Red would have had to do the same, if he made it out of there. It’s been more than three years, but Crosby still remembers his stupid face, his upside-down smile, his beady eyes, his upturned nose. It’s like God, or Genetics, were playing a cruel joke on this man at birth.

Then again, a scar on the face? That has to be pretty common in this line of work. After all, they’re all professional criminals. That is a hazard of the job. Anyone here with a scar on their face… well, that doesn’t have to be Red.

Crosby begins walking down the hall to Mr. Z’s office. On the lookout for a man with a scar on his face. Not Al Pacino’s Tony Montana. Not Harry Potter. Someone who falls somewhere in between those two. Granted, if your two endpoints are Tony Montana and Harry Potter, essentially everyone in the world falls in between them. You can’t get more opposite than those two.

Crosby passes 10 steps. No man’s land. Probably should’ve come with a piece. Although, Mr. Z has that strict rule about only using his guns. At least Crosby has this knife in his belt, ready at a moment’s notice.

Passing 20 steps. Even if there was a man with a scar on his face here, it doesn’t mean he is still here, necessarily. If he is anywhere, he is likely in Mr. Z’s office. Passing 25 steps. Mr. Z has always been a suspicious character. And he has never called people in individually like this. Crosby’s team always comes in together for assignments. And the other teams do the same, at least that’s what Crosby has been told. He’s never met anyone from the other teams.

28 steps. Crosby reaches for the doorknob to the office and the door is yanked open out of his reach. Mr. Z is on the other side, pleasant smile on his face. “Crosby. Finally. Come on in.”

It was strange being in Mr. Z’s office with just him and without the other three. “How has it been with Team Byrd?” He asks bluntly. “Fourteen jobs, right?”

“No complaints,” Crosby admits. “We work well together. You put together a good team.”

“Fourteen jobs.” Mr. Z paces towards the shitty window and peers outside. As if he can see a damn thing. It’s been washed less times than a day-old baby. “That’s too many jobs together.”

“Too many?” Crosby is confused.

“Fourteen times the four of you could’ve been seen together. It’s the same for Team Buffalo and Team Hollies. Twelve jobs. Eleven jobs. Those groups could’ve been seen together too many times. People could notice. Suspicion could arise. We’re shaking things up. I have a new assignment for you. But you’re not working with anyone from your usual team. You’ll be working with someone from each of the other teams.”

Per usual, Mr. Z pulls a manilla folder out of his desk. He hands it to Crosby. The folders are always dry and sad in his hand. But he knows the content inside is worth a room full of treasure. Crosby peels the folder open and scans the papers.

“New team name. Crosby, Stills and Nash.” Mr. Z says plainly. That’s cute. So, that’s where the name Crosby came from. He’s been planning this for a while. Mr. Z finds some incredible jobs for them, but he is strange as all Hell.

“You shouldn’t need your guns at all,” He continues, reaching back into a drawer in his desk. “But it’s one piece each. Six rounds each piece. One job. 24 rounds. If you need more than that, you’ve already failed. You better come back with over 20 left.”

Math is not this guy’s strong point. Crosby takes the gun from him. It’s already loaded. He feels its weight in his hand, examining it like he has to put a price tag on it later. He feels Mr. Z’s eyes on him. He suddenly feels very uncomfortable.

“Passes inspection.” Crosby says to lighten the mood.

Mr. Z laughs and points to the door. “Get out of here.”

*******

Crosby waits in the diner, back booth, back to the wall, eye on the large windows that stretch to the ceiling, eye on the only door into the establishment. Only door he knows of anyway.

Working on a job with two people he’s never met. McGuinn mentions having seen a guy with a scar on his face. And the feelings Crosby has gotten from Mr. Z… they often leave him uneasy. That’s why every stroll into that office has been treated like a march behind enemy’s lines. Can he trust this guy? Is he setting him up? Who is the guy with the scarred face? Is that guy on this new team?

Crosby sips his mug of coffee as he glances inconspicuously out of the window and at the bank across the road. A good 100 yards from this diner, but through an unobstructed view. Everything still looks normal over there. But will everything be normal in this small team? The coffee doesn’t necessarily taste good, but just in case it winds up being Crosby’s last coffee, he convinces his brain that it is delicious. That it has all the notes his perfect cup of coffee contains. Bold flavor, slight hint of cinnamon, he savors it and makes it up to be one of the best cups of coffee he has ever had. On any other day this would be your typical cup of shitty diner coffee. Today, it is black gold.

The stupid, cliché bell above the front door rings as it opens and Crosby has never loved a stupid, cliché bell quite as much as he does right now. A man enters, somewhat tall, curious look in his eyes. No scar on his face. He looks around the diner with an innocent curiosity. He finds Crosby’s table and locks on it. He smiles. And then he approaches.

He slides down into the booth with Crosby as if he had been sitting there all along. “Crosby?”

Crosby nods. “And you are?”

“Nash.” He extends his hand. Crosby shakes his hand. Well, two thirds of the band is together. “Any movement yet?”

Crosby shakes his head. “None yet. But should be any moment now. You got the other guy’s number?”

“Sure do.” Nash joins Crosby in staring out the window. “You been doing this long?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I have. All my life basically.”

The manager of the bank waddles his fat ass out of the front door on cue. He shuffles towards his luxury car, yanks the door open and plops himself inside.

“That’s him.” Crosby says to Nash. He chugs the rest of his coffee. “Let’s go.”

Crosby and Nash walk swiftly towards the road, leaving the diner behind them. Nash is on his phone, texting. His thumbs move quick and furious. The phone is slid back into his pocket. The two wait by the road.

“Ever since I was a kid people have called me Sticky Fingers.” Nash offers his anecdote while Crosby anxiously awaits their ride. “Been doing this shit since I was 13.”

Crosby nods, hardly interested. This Nash guy is alright. He’s just some guy. But who the fuck is Stills going to be? Could it be Red? Is Crosby about to be thrown into a job with someone who likely wants him dead? And is this guy going to be his driver?

Crosby glances at Nash. They wear the same thick black coats that Mr. Z provided. Their ski masks both rolled up into beanies atop their heads. Crosby slides his hand into his coat pockets. There’s the gun in the right pocket. Turning that safety off. And there’s his knife in the left pocket. Nothing Mr. Z provided or knew about. He slides his hands back out. A white van approaches in the distance.

“Mr. Z said ski masks down before we’re in the van, right?” Crosby sputters quickly to Nash.

“Did he?” Nash looks perplexed. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yep.” Crosby pulls his ski mask down. Any excuse to hide his face before this Stills guy shows up. Nash doesn’t even question it. He pulls his ski mask down too. The van’s tires spit out gravel and pebbles as it rolls towards them. The tires lock and the van skids to a stop right in front of them. Crosby jumps in the front, Nash hops in the back, the doors barely shut before the van takes off.

Crosby peers out of his eyeholes at the driver… his ski mask is also on. Even though the assignment didn’t call for that. The assignment didn’t call for anyone’s ski masks to be on at this point. But here they all drive, the three of them, ski masks on, rolling down the road to the bank.

Stills steps on the brakes, not at all worried about the sight of a van screeching to a halt in front a bank. He speaks his first words. “Hurry up.”

Crosby and Nash jump out of the van. ‘Hurry up.’ Not enough to go off of. Could it have been Red’s voice? Maybe. Over three years without hearing his voice, it’s hard to remember. But if he sees that face, he will know it in an instant. Not to mention, it should have shiny, red scar tattooed on it.

Crosby and Nash work well together. As if they had always worked together. Nash sneaks up on the guard, knocking him down as Crosby pulls his gun out and scares everyone away from their stations. Like two fifths of a gritty hip hop group they yell in unison, “Everybody, puts your hands in the air!” They obey, but they are sure not waving them like they just don’t care.

Everybody is scared out of their minds. Crosby hits his registers, Nash moves to the other side of the bank to hit his. Crosby positions himself in the exact center while Nash goes into the back room with an employee. Just as Crosby checks his watch and realizes their time is about up, Nash emerges with the goods. This guy is good.

The two move swiftly out to the van. Tossing bags in the back of the van where Nash jumps in to seat himself. Crosby throws himself into the front seat next to this ski mask behind the wheel. The van screams out of the bank parking lot and onto the main road.

The sun is already setting, everything is getting dim. The road, the surrounding pine trees. That’s the beauty of robbing a bank in November just before closing time.

Crosby’s hand is securely on his gun inside his coat pocket, index finger hugging the trigger, barrel pointed at Stills. His ski mask is still on. This guy still hasn’t spoken three words. Why is he being so quiet? And what is Crosby going to do if this is Red?

Red will want him dead, so he would have to act quickly if his cover is blown. And what happens if he unloads this gun into Red? How will Nash react? He doesn’t know Nash. And then what’s Mr. Z’s reaction to all this? No, he can’t go back to Mr. Z if this all goes down. A man like Mr. Z would end a man over this. This is going to have to be another situation like the last one. Carry on, find another city to work in. Leave everything behind. Just take the Go Bag. That’s it.

Nash pulls his ski mask off. “Woo! It’s hot in this shit! We can take these off now, right?”

Crosby and Stills look at each other from behind their ski masks. Is this about to happen? Stills begins to peel his mask off, Crosby readies the joint in his index finger, massages the trigger. Stills pulls his mask clean off revealing a big scar across his face, his face which is not Red’s. Just a regular face.

Crosby breathes a silent sigh of relief. It’s not Red. He realizes the trigger of his gun is warm from the heat coming off his index finger. He relaxes his hand, removing the finger from the trigger, sliding his hand away from the piece entirely. Crosby pulls his face mask off. His entire face is sweating, he wipes it dry.

“You guys were quick. Good job.” Stills is a man of few words.

Nash is the opposite. “How much longer til we reach this Young guy?”

“Young guy?” Crosby turns in his seat to face Nash.

“Yeah, Young. We get out of the van, get in his tan Corolla, the most common car on the road in this area.” Nash explains. “Because after all that back there, people are bound to be looking for a van, but no one will be looking for a Corolla—am I the only one who read through the whole assignment?”

“No, you’re not.” Stills responds with his eyes never being taken off the road.

“I didn’t have that part in my assignment.” Crosby is getting worried. Why wouldn’t he have the full instructions? Was he being set up? He always suspected Mr. Z of being a snake. “I thought it was just three of us.”

“Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.” Nash reminds Crosby of the full band name. That’s right! Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young! Often shortened to just Crosby, Stills and Nash. Which is ironic considering Young had the biggest solo career of them all afterwards. And why would Mr. Z give Crosby the shortened name along with a shortened assignment?

This worries Crosby more. He readjusts in his seat.

“So, Stills, how’d you get that scar?” Crosby tries to ask casually.

“Gave it to myself.” Stills responds as if it is the most natural conversation ever. “In solidarity with my brother after someone he worked with carved his face up.”

Alright, so Stills is a psychopath. A psychopath that is completely capable of being brothers with a maniac. And they have matching face scars. Fantastic.

The tan Corolla is just ahead, past an intersection. Stills rolls through the intersection and stops the van even with the Corolla. In the driver’s seat sits Red, now Young, still with his stupid face, his upside-down smile, his beady eyes, his upturned nose, but now with a shiny red scar across his face. It is brutal looking. As the van stops, Young locks eyes with Crosby.

“You son of a bitch!” Is all Young has to say. Stills spins towards Crosby with confused anger in his eyes. Crosby thinks, ‘Sorry Stills. I don’t even know you. But any brother of my enemy, is my enemy.’

But what Crosby says is, “Shit, man.” And then two pops from his gun through his coat and into Stills’s chest. He smacks against the driver’s side door. Crosby reaches over, flings the door open, kicks Stills out onto the pavement, hops into the driver’s seat and mashes his foot on the gas pedal. Three shots ring out from Young’s gun into the side of the van as Crosby steers it away and speeds down the road.

“What the fuck are you doing, Crosby?!” Nash has been flung like a rag doll in the back of the van, trying to regain his balance.

“Just trust me! This Young guy, he is a maniac! He wants me dead.” Crosby starts firing out the window back at Young’s car as it is just behind them. Four shots, one manages to hit the grill and then… click, click, click. Fuck, that’s right! Only six bullets!

A shot is fired and takes out the driver’s side mirror. Crosby flinches and jerks the steering wheel, the van dips off the road into the dirt. He whips the wheel back and pulls it back onto the pavement. Nash crawls into the front seat. Young starts to pull up along the passenger side of the van. Nash fires his gun out several times, connecting with the windshield.

Young fires once more and takes out the passenger side mirror. Nash fires back at Young a couple more times and then… click, click, click.

“Fuck this stupid six bullet rule!” Nash repositions himself in the van and turns to Crosby. Crosby is pushing the van as fast as it can go. This road stretches on for a while. No intersections up ahead. Suddenly, Young’s car bashes into the driver’s side of the van, jamming the back wheel and sending the van spinning into a cyclone. Both cars spin out of control and crash off the road into the guardrail.

Crosby peels his face off the steering wheel. Crimson red blood mingles with jet black debris all across his forehead. He blinks his eyes painfully, trying to restore some clear vision.

Nash looks to Crosby. “What do we do now?”

Crosby starts counting out loud. “Three shots into the side of the van. One for each mirror. He’s just got one bullet left.”

“He wants to save that shot for you.” Nash says. “He isn’t going to waste it if he doesn’t know who is who, right?”

Young pulls himself from the tan Corolla. Gun in hand. He marches towards the back doors of the van, unaffected from the crash. He flings the doors open without hesitation. In the back of the van stands two people, both in identical thick black coats, both with ski masks pulled over their faces. Young raises his gun. He points it at one guy. Then the other. They both stand still. Young points the gun at the guy on the right and pulls the trigger. His last bullet rips into the guy’s chest and flings him backwards.

The other guy charges and leaps out of the van, tackling Young to the ground. Blow after blow is landed on Young’s scarred face. And then a shot to the ribs. Young wheezes. The ski mask is lifted off the face of the aggressor. It’s Crosby. Young locks eyes with him again.

“You son of a bitch!” He manages through clenched teeth.

“Hey, old man.” Crosby smirks. Hand on his knife, he plunges it down with all his might. Young moans and writhes in pain. Ironic, the very same knife that Young started all this madness with… is the same one that is ending it.

A car screeches to a halt 20 feet behind them. The madness isn’t over yet. Crosby yanks the empty gun out of Young’s hand and tugs his mask back down.

A voice from behind Crosby. “Oh my God! Is everything okay? How can I help?”

Crosby faces the voice. Some poor idiot that decided to stop and do the right thing. And he is driving a tan Corolla.

“You can help by getting on the ground, now!” Crosby draws the empty gun on this guy who doesn’t know the difference between an empty gun and a loaded one. His arms fly into the air. “Lay next to him!” Crosby motions towards Young’s dead body.

The guy lays next to Young. “Is this guy dead?”

“Shut your mouth!” Crosby redirects the gun at the guy and he shuts his mouth. Crosby fetches a screwdriver from the van and goes to work. Unscrewing the license plates from this poor guy’s car and tossing them to the pavement.

Then, he begins unscrewing the license plates from Young’s tan Corolla. He scans both ends of the road. No one yet. But the cops should be showing up soon.

As he rushes the plates over to the unscathed Corolla, the guy looks up again. “Are you taking my car?”

“Calm down, you got another tan Corolla right there!” Crosby motions to Young’s Corolla that is kissing the guardrail, metal twisting out of it in every direction. “Most of that will buff right out. I thought I said to shut your mouth!”

The guy mashes his face back into the pavement and clenches his mouth shut. And there are the sirens. Crosby needs to stop spending so much damn time talking to this nobody. He’s got to get these plates on quickly. Front plate secure. Back plate secure. The sirens are louder, but he still can’t see anything. He’s probably got just enough time to grab one thing from the van. He can manage to grab one bag and book it out of there. That should be plenty.

Crosby leaps into the back of the van, several bags are strewn about. And then there lays Nash. He groans in pain. How can he leave this guy?

Crosby jumps out of the back of the van with Nash in his arms and rushes him over to their new ride. He throws him in the back, jumps in the driver’s seat and takes off. The speedometer needle jolts up like a rocket taking off. They need to get as far from that crash as possible before they cross paths with the cops. But they also need to slow their speed before they cross paths with the cops so they don’t arouse suspicion. And Crosby needs to pull this ski mask off, or else he will absolutely look suspicious.

The ski mask is thrown to the passenger seat. The speedometer needle rises. 65. 70. 75. The sirens are so loud now. The pine trees are thick and high, they cover any bend in the road. You can’t possibly see around them. The cops could be just around the next bend.

80. 85. His speed climbing. The sound of the sirens rising. They’re deafening.

Crosby mashes the brakes, their speed slows dramatically. It drops to the mid 30’s just as the cops whip around the bend in the road. Crosby lets off the brakes and lets the Corolla coast. Three cop cars zip past them, never slowing down.

Crosby was apparently holding his breath for the past two minutes and lets out a huge breath. He glances in the backseat at Nash, laying down. He can’t even tell if he is still breathing. What is he going to do now? How much time could this guy possibly have? He went through the trouble of grabbing him, he has to at least try to save him. But he can’t just bring him to a hospital. Where the hell can he bring this guy?

Nash groans and sits up in the back seat. Crosby’s eyes slam open.

“Fuck, that hurt!” Nash yells.

“Uh, it should have.” Crosby is in disbelief. “You were shot in the chest.”

Nash unzips his thick dark coat. He reveals several fat stacks of cash taped around his chest. One in the center has a big divot in it from the bullet. Nash removes that stack of cash and tosses it aside.

“That stack is worthless.” He begins removing the other stacks of cash. Six of them. “The rest of these look fine.”

“What did—when did you--?” Crosby is flabbergasted.

“Ever since I was a kid people have called me Sticky Fingers.” Nash smirks. “Been doing this shit since I was 13.”