by Ed Gorman
"How much can you take out?"
"I can't give it to you."
"You see this gun, man?"
"Yeah. I see it."
"You know what happens if you don't crank some serious money out for me?"
I had to explain after all. ". . . so, you see, can't give it to you."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"Somebody's already got dibs on it."
"Dibs? What the hell does 'dibs' mean?"
"It means another robber has already spoken for this money."
He looked at me carefully. "You're crazy, man. You really are. But that don't mean I won't shoot you."
"And there's one more thing."
"What?"
"I can't remember my pin number."
"Bullshit."
"It's true. That's why I've been standing here. My mind's a blank."
"You gotta relax, man."
"I know that. But it's kind of hard. You've got a gun and so does the other guy."
"There's really some other dude holdin' your old lady?"
"Right."
He grinned with exceedingly bad teeth. "You got yourself a real problem, dude."
I closed my eyes.
I must have spent my five minutes already.
Would he really kill Laura?
"You tried deep breathin'?"
"Yeah."
"And that didn't work?"
"Huh-uh."
"You tried makin' your mind go blank for a little bit?"
"That didn't work, either."
He pushed the gun right into my face. "I ain't got much time, man."
"I can't give you the money, anyway."
"You ain't gonna be much use to your old lady if you got six or seven bullet holes in you."
"God!"
"What's wrong?"
My pin number had popped into my head.
Nothing like a gun in your face to jog your memory.
I dove for the ATM machine.
And started punching buttons.
The right buttons.
"Listen," I said as I cranked away, "I really can't give you this money."
"Right."
"I mean, I would if I could but the guy would never believe me if I told him some other crook had taken it. No offense, 'crook' I mean."
"Here it comes."
"I'm serious. You can't have it."
"Pretty, pretty Yankee dollars. Praise the Lord."
The plastic cover opened and the machine began spitting out green Yankee dollars.
And that's when he slugged me on the back of the head.
The guy back in the car had hit me but it had been nothing like this.
This time, the field of black floating in front of my eyes didn't even have stars. This time, hot shooting pain traveled from the point of impact near the top of my skull all the way down into my neck and shoulders. This time, my knees gave out immediately.
Pavement. Hard. Wet. Smelling of cold rain. And still the darkness. Total darkness. I had a moment of panic. Had I been blinded for life? I wanted to be angry but I was too disoriented. Pain. Cold. Darkness.
And then I felt his hands tearing the money from mine.
I had to hold on to it. Had to. Otherwise Laura would be injured. Or killed.
The kick landed hard just above my sternum. Stars suddenly appeared in the field of black. His foot seemed to have jarred them loose.
More pain. But now there was anger. I blindly lashed out and grabbed his trouser leg, clung to it, forcing him to drag me down the sidewalk as he tried to get away. I don't know how many names I called him, some of them probably didn't even make sense, I just clung to his leg, exulting in his rage, in his inability to get rid of me.
Then he leaned down and grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled so hard I screamed. And inadvertently let go of his leg.
And then I heard his footsteps, retreating, retreating, and felt the rain start slashing at me again. He had dragged me out from beneath the protection of the ATM overhang.
I struggled to get up. It wasn't easy. I still couldn't see. And every time I tried to stand, I was overcome by dizziness and a faint nausea.
But I kept thinking of Laura. And kept pushing myself to my feet, no matter how much pain pounded in my head, no matter how I started to pitch forward and collapse again.
By the time I got to my feet, and fell against the rough brick of the building for support, my eyesight was back. Funny how much you take it for granted. It's terrifying when it's gone.
I looked at the oasis of light in the gloom. At the foot of the ATM was my bank card. I wobbled over and picked it up. I knew that I'd taken out my allotted amount for the day but I decided to try and see if the cosmic forces were with me for once.
They weren't.
The only thing I got from the machine was a snotty little note saying that I'd have to contact my personal banker if I wanted to receive more money.
A) I had no idea who this personal banker was, and
B) I doubted if he would be happy if I called him at home on such a rainy night even if I did have his name and number.
Then I did what any red-blooded American would do. I started kicking the machine. Kicking hard. Kicking obsessively. Until my toes started to hurt.
I stood for a long moment in the rain, letting it pour down on me, feeling as if I were melting like a wax statue in the hot sun. I became one with the drumming and thrumming and pounding of it all.
There was only one thing I could do now.
I took off running back to the car. To Laura. And the man with the gun.
I broke into a crazy grin when I saw the car. I could see Laura's profile in the gloom. She was still alive.
I reached the driver's door, opened it up and pitched myself inside.
"My God, what happened to you?" Laura said. "Did somebody beat you up?"
The man with the gun was a little less sympathetic. "Where the hell's the money?"
I decided to answer both questions at once. "I couldn't remember my pin number so I had to stand there for a while. And then this guy—this black guy—he came out of nowhere and he had a gun and then he made me give him the money." I looked back at the man with the gun. "I couldn't help it. I told him that you had first dibs on the money but he didn't care."
"You expect me to believe that crap?"
"Honest to God. That's what happened."
He looked at me and smiled. And then put the gun right up against Laura's head. "You want me to show you what's gonna happen here if you're not back in five minutes with the money?"
I looked at Laura. "God, honey, I'm telling the truth. About the guy with the gun."
"I know."
"I'm sorry." I glanced forlornly out the window at the rain filling the curbs. "I'll get the money. Somehow."
I opened the door again. And then noticed the white envelope still sitting on her lap. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you, sweetheart."
She was scared, that was easy enough to see, but she forced herself to focus and smile at me. "I love you, honey."
"Get the hell out of here and get that money," said the man with the gun.
"I knew you wouldn't believe me."
"You heard what I said. Get going."
I reached over and took Laura's hand gently. "I'll get the money, sweetheart. I promise."
I got out of the car and started walking again. Then trotting. Then flat-out running. My head was still pounding with pain but I didn't care. I had to get the money. Somehow. Somewhere.
I didn't even know where I was going. I was just running. It was better than standing still and contemplating what the guy with the gun might do.
I reached the corner and looked down the block where the ATM was located.
A car came from behind me, its headlights stabbing through the silver sheets of night rain. It moved on past me. When it came even with the lights of the ATM machine, it turned an abrupt left and headed for the machine.
Guy inside his
car. Nice and warm and dry. Inserts his card, gets all the money he wants, and then drives on to do a lot of fun things with his nice and warm and dry evening.
While I stood out here in the soaking rain and—
Of course, I thought.
Of course.
There was only one thing I could do.
I started running, really running, splashing through puddles and tripping and nearly falling down. But nothing could stop me.
The bald man had parked too far away from the ATM to do his banking from the car. He backed up and gave it another try. He was concentrating on backing up so I didn't have much trouble opening the passenger door and slipping in.
"What the—?" he started to say as he became aware of me.
"Stick up."
"What?"
"I'm robbing you."
"Oh, man, that's all I need. I've had a really crummy day today, mister," he said. "I knew I never should've come in this neighborhood but I was in a hurry and—"
"You want to hear about my bad day, mister? Huh?"
I raised the coat of my raincoat, hoping that he would think that I was pointing a gun at him.
He looked down at my coat-draped fist and said, "You can't get a whole hell of a lot of money out of these ATM machines."
"You can get three hundred and that's good enough."
"What if I don't have three hundred?"
"New car. Nice new suit. Maybe twenty CDs in that box there. You've got three hundred. Easy."
"I work hard for my money."
"So do I."
"What if I told you I don't believe you've got a gun in there?"
"Then I'd say fine. And then I'd kill you."
"You don't look like a stick-up guy."
"And you don't look like a guy who's stupid enough to get himself shot over three hundred dollars."
"I have to back up again. So I can get close."
"Back up. But go easy."
"Some goddamned birthday this is."
"It's your birthday?"
"Yeah. Ain't that a bitch?"
He backed up, pulled forward again, got right up next to the ATM, pulled out his card and went to work.
The money came out with no problem. He handed it over to me.
"You have a pencil and paper?"
"What?"
"Something you can write with?"
"Oh. Yeah. Why?"
"I want you to write down your name and address."
"For what?"
"Because tomorrow morning I'm going to put three hundred dollars in an envelope and mail it to you."
"Are you some kind of crazy drug addict or what?"
"Just write down your name and address."
He shook his head. "Not only do I get robbed, I get robbed by some goddamned fruitcake."
But he wrote down his name and address, probably thinking I'd shoot him if he didn't.
"I appreciate the loan," I said, getting out of his car.
"Loan? You tell the cops it was a 'loan' and see what they say."
"Hope the rest of your day goes better," I said, and slammed the door.
And I hope the rest of my day goes better, too, I thought.
"Good thing you got back here when you did," the man with the gun said. "I was just about to waste her."
"Spare me the macho crap, all right?" I said. I was getting cranky. The rain. The cold. The fear. And then having to commit a felony to get the cash I needed—and putting fear into a perfectly decent citizen who'd been having a very bad day himself.
I handed the money over to him. "Now you can go," I said.
He counted it in hard, harsh grunts, like a pig rutting in the mud.
"Three goddamned hundred. It was supposed to be four. Or five."
"I guess you'll just have to shoot us, then, huh?"
Laura gave me a frantic look and then dug her nails into my hands. Obviously, like the man I'd just left at the ATM, she thought I had lost what little of my senses I had left.
"I wouldn't push it, punk," the man with the gun said. "Because I just might shoot you yet."
He leaned forward from the backseat and said, "Lemme see your purse, babe."
Laura looked at me. I nodded. She handed him her purse.
More rutting sounds as he went through it.
"Twenty-six bucks?"
"I'm sorry," Laura said.
"Where're your credit cards?"
"We don't have credit cards. It's too tempting to use them. We're saving for a house."
"Ain't that sweet!"
He pitched the purse over the front seat and opened the back door.
Chill. Fog. Rain.
"You got a jerk for a husband, babe, I mean, just in case you haven't figured that out already."
Then he slammed the door and was gone.
"You were really going to tear it up?"
"Or let you tear it up. Whichever you preferred. I mean, I know you think I still have this thing for Chris but I really don't. I was going to prove it to you by showing you the letter tonight and letting you do whatever you wanted with it."
We were in bed, three hours after getting our car towed to a station, the tow truck giving us a ride home.
The rain had quit an hour ago. Now there were just icy winds. But it was snug and warm in the bed of my one true love and icy winds didn't bother me at all.
"I'm sorry," I said, "about being so jealous."
"And I'm sorry about hiding the letter. It made you think I was going to take him up on his offer. But I really don't have any desire to see him at all."
Then we kind of just lay back and listened to the wind for a time.
And she started getting affectionate, her foot rubbing my foot, her hand taking my hand.
And then in the darkness, she said, "Would you like to make love?"
"Would I?" I laughed. "Would I?"
And then I rolled over and we began kissing and then I began running my fingers through her long dark hair and then I suddenly realized that—
"What's wrong?" she said, as I rolled away from her, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.
"Let's just go to sleep."
"God, honey, I want to know what's going on. Here we are making out and then all of a sudden you stop."
"Oh God," I said. "What a day this has been." I sighed and prepared myself for the ultimate in manly humiliation. "Remember that time when Rick's sister got married?"
"Uh-huh."
"And I got real drunk?"
"Uh-huh."
"And that night we tried—well, we tried to make love but I couldn't?"
"Uh-huh." She was silent a long moment. Then, "Oh, God, you mean, the same thing happened to you just now?"
"Uh-huh," I said.
"Oh, honey, I'm sorry."
"The perfect ending to the perfect day," I said.
"First you find that letter from Chris—"
"And then I can't concentrate on my job—"
"And then Ms. Sandstrom threatens to fire you—"
"And then a man sticks us up—"
"And then you have to stick up another man—"
"And then we come home and go to bed and—" I sighed. "I think I'll just roll over and go to sleep."
"Good idea, honey. That's what we both need. A good night's sleep."
"I love you, sweetheart," I said. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to . . . well, you know."
"It's fine, sweetie. It happens to every man once in a while."
"It's just one of those days," I said.
"And one of those nights," she said.
But you know what? Some time later, the grandfather clock in the living room woke me as it tolled twelve midnight, and when I rolled over to see how Laura was doing, she was wide awake and took me in her sweet warm arms, and I didn't have any trouble at all showing her how grateful I was.
It was a brand-new day . . . and when I finally got around to breakfast, the first thing I did was lift the horoscope section from the paper . . . and drop it,
unread, into the wastebasket.
No more snooping in drawers . . . and no more bad-luck horoscopes.
SURROGATE
That spring I began following fourteen-year-old David Mallory home from school. I always borrowed a car from one of the other lawyers in the firm, and I always wore a hat with the brim low over my face.
With all the talk of child molesters in the news, I knew what people would think if I ever got caught trailing him. To make things worse, his father, Stephen, was my racquetball partner three days a week. We lived on the same upwardly mobile street, attended the same upwardly mobile church, and drove the same kind of upwardly mobile car. Their family BMW was blue; ours was red.
Most days, David went straight home from school, a ten-block walk that skirted a shaggy wooded area where the neighborhood kids liked to play.
After a week of tailing him, I was about to give up. Then came the rainy day when he met the tall boy at the south end of the woods and handed him what appeared to be a white number ten business envelope.
I used my binoculars so I could get a better look at the other boy. He was blond, freckled and thin, though it was a sinewy thinness that suggested both strength and speed. He looked to be about fourteen but there was an anger and cunning in his face that you don't often see in kids, not in our kind of neighborhood anyway.
He opened the envelope, peeked inside and gave David an angry shove. I couldn't hear their words but I didn't need to. The tall boy was disappointed by what he'd found inside and was obviously making this clear to David.
He lashed out and grabbed David by the jacket and hoisted him half a foot off the ground. He flung the envelope to the ground and then slapped David twice hard across the mouth.
Then he let David fall in a heap to the ground.
The only sounds were the light rain thrumming on my borrowed car and the faint irregular pulse of an engine badly in need of a tune-up. In the rain and the faint fog, the tall boy stood over fallen David, still cursing him.
He brought a leg up and kicked David in the stomach.
David went backwards, splayed face up on the winter brown grass.