* * *
ARTHUR hadn’t been a big drinker for years, and he now remembered why.
He was terrible at being hung over. His eyes looked like two red sunsets. He was lying face down, hanging on to the desk in his claustrophobic little office, as if he were in a hurricane and the desk were his only hope of anchor. He’d gone through two pots of Eva’s coffee and a roll, and taken several aspirin.
Nothing was helping. The only reason he’d made it to the store at all was that Moe had insisted on driving.
And had berated him the entire way.
He was up to no good, and Moe could tell by the odd hours and the carrying on with this woman he knew didn’t exist.
Arthur had looked over at his pudgy mouth flapping and flapping mercilessly and wondered what would happen if he simply leaned over and threw up in his lap.
“Look at you, Pop, your life is going to hell.”
“Aw, God, Moe, shut up. Turn on the radio, anything, but just close your mouth.”
“No. I will not. Whatever it is that you’re up to is going to get us all in trouble.”
“I had a date—”
“Ha! At your age?”
“Why do you say things like that?”
“Because you know and I know there is no woman—”
“There is.”
“Okay, what did you do last night on this supposed date?”
“We had dinner at Gianni’s.”
“Bull.”
“All right, you’re right. I didn’t have dinner at Gianni’s with her.”
“There, you see?”
Arthur looked over at his son.
“I’ll tell you the truth. I sold her the wrong-size bullets to go with a gun I sold her the night before.”
“Pop—why would you sell her the wrong-size bullets?”
“Because I think she might be planning to kill herself and I don’t know what to do.”
There was a silence as Moe chewed this over in his head.
“You see, Pop, you can never be honest with me! Jesus Christ! Well, you’re on your own. And if something happens, I’m not going to come to your rescue. I got a wife and kids and—”
“A dog and a cat, I know.”
Arthur sank down on the car seat and listened to his son rattle on about the whole thing.
He was still lying face down on his desk thinking about all this when the door to his office was opened.
“I’m going out on a repair, I’ll be back before lunch, you want anything?” Moe’s voice was gruff.
“No.” And with that the louse slammed the door.
Arthur pulled himself up in the chair and rubbed his face. He couldn’t just sit here anymore. Sitting here was making him dizzy and nervous. He had to move around out in the sun and the air.
He wondered how Dottie was doing with the gun. He checked his watch. It was ten-thirty. He could slip out now, go back up to his house, get on his disguise and be back down at Dottie’s in an hour and a half.
* * *
TEARS WERE streaming down her face. It was impossible. She couldn’t figure out how to get these big bullets into the tiny little holes. She threw the gun and watched it skate in circles along the linoleum floor.
She’d been had!
And now she had absolutely no money left, and no money coming in, and all she had to show for it was two new outfits and a gun that didn’t work.
She was at the end of her rope.
That was the only thing she could think of. She’d been screwed. She couldn’t even rob the bank with the gun, bullets or no bullets. She couldn’t get the barrel to snap back into place. Every time she thought she’d succeeded, the stupid thing flopped out the side.
How could this happen? She’d gotten so close and now this. So what was the alternative? Taking the train up to the Bronx and throwing the thing in his face came to mind. No, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
She wiped her eyes wondering about what to do when she suddenly got an idea. She stood up and walked over to the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the ragged manila envelope. She pulled out the square of folded magazine pages, of which there were maybe twelve, and she began scanning the page for what she was looking for.
Her eyes landed on a section titled, “How I Did It.” She picked up the pages, walked over to the couch, turned off the television set, sat down and began to read.
It was Friday.
It was noon.
She had three hours to learn how to rob a bank without a gun.
* * *
“IF THE PROCEDURE is not listed on our list of approved treatments for the condition, then we do not pay for it.”
“I don’t give a damn! I got this lump they’re gonna cut out if I can’t get this other thing done! Now, youse people are my only medical insurance. They got a experimental procedure that might save me going in for surgery. And that means youse aren’t paying all them hospital costs. Now don’t it make sense—”
“I told you. We do not have approval for the procedure—”
“Youse listen to me! I don’t give a damn what the hell list you got, this whole program sucks!”
“I’m getting the guard—” the woman screamed at Teresa.
“You go right ahead. I paid my taxes just like everybody else. I got no other form of insurance. You pay for medical procedures and I got one here I wanna use!” Teresa was now screaming at the woman, leaning into her face so she was almost nose-to-nose to the woman.
And that was when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and she turned and looked up at a guard.
“You get your goddamn hands off me!” she yelled and in a flash she’d been lifted off the floor and was being carried through the hallway, through the crowded waiting room and out to an elevator.
By the time the guard had taken Teresa down through the lobby she was crying. She was pushed through a revolving door and stood in front of the building.
She couldn’t believe it. They’d thrown her out onto the street.
* * *
ARTHUR stood in the hallway outside Dottie’s door. He’d been standing there for two hours. He could hear her moving around inside under the blare of the television set. He held on to the monogrammed case which contained his picks and again debated letting himself inside.
And then what?
He could grab her and take her up to Rye and try to talk some sense into her. And then Dottie would probably whack him one right across the chin and storm out swearing she wasn’t going to commit suicide.
He didn’t know what to do, so he was going to wait. The fact that she was still at home maybe was a good sign. And what could she do with a gun with the wrong-sized bullets?
* * *
DOTTIE stood in her bedroom looking at herself in the full-length mirror attached to the inside of the closet door. She had made her plan, and now it had taken her an hour to choose an outfit.
She had opted for the little Chanel knock-off and a pair of black pumps with very low heels, which she could walk fast in, even run in, if necessary. She had decided not to wear jewelry on the basis that it would just be stolen from her, so she had taken off her earrings, the pendant her mother had given her that she always wore, and lastly, her wedding ring.
After digging around in her closet she found the large black straw hat she had worn to Nathan’s funeral. It had a wide brim and a heavy ribbon circling the center. She’d taken a black chiffon negligee she’d never worn out of her bottom dresser drawer and with a pair of scissors cut the skirt part off. She pushed the fabric into the ribbon on the hat, making a thick veil which covered her face to the shoulders.
Somehow she thought it would be easier if her face was hidden; they wouldn’t be able to see how afraid she was.
She had taken great care to put on makeup, and doused herself with what was left of a tiny bottle of My Sin perfume. A scent would be memorable and identifiable, and if the holding cell at the Sixth Precinct was smelly, it would cover it up.
She stood at the mirror giving herself one last look.
Stiffly she walked out into the kitchen, pulled out a green laminated-fabric tote bag, and slung it over her shoulder. That she would use to put the money in.
She took one last look at her apartment and slowly opened the door. In the hallway she could hear the sound of someone running up the stairs.
She locked the door and began down the stairs. It was two-fifteen.
Arthur stood pressed against the wall on the landing above, desperately trying to control his breathing so it didn’t seem so loud. He’d made it up the whole flight of stairs in three steps, thanking God he was still in good-enough shape. He listened to the sounds of her footsteps as they got fainter. He waited until he heard the front door open and close, and then he made a dash for it. He ran down the flights of stairs taking the steps two at a time. He couldn’t lose her.
Dottie squinted into the bright sunlight as she walked down the street. The sun was going down earlier and earlier, and there was actually a bit of a chill in the air. In the sun it was still hot, and the sky and the air were crystal-clear; it was a beautiful fall day.
She found herself walking faster and faster across Washington Place, toward Sixth Avenue. When she got to Sixth the light turned red and the heavy Friday-afternoon traffic stopped moving altogether up the avenue. She looked up at the clock on the Jefferson Courthouse one last time. She’d always loved that clock and that building.
Nathan, Jr., had always told her it was a castle. “A big magic castle, Mommy,” he’d said.
But there were no magic castles or knights errant.
She was alone.
She felt her face begin to crack, and she stared straight ahead. The light turned green and Dottie walked stiffly and quickly across the avenue. Her heart was beginning to pound as she walked up past St. Anthony’s Church and saw the Chemical Bank building.
She could see the guard’s back and his gun holster as she approached the doors. She stood shaking like a leaf, at the side of the door, breathing deeply. She’d gotten here too early. It was only twenty of. And for some reason she refused to walk inside until exactly ten of three.
Arthur stood staring at her from behind the small planted garden in the triangle where West Fourth and Washington Place split. There she was, standing back in front of that bank.
There was something about that bank.
He darted across the street and up to the corner. He quickly made it across, to the side the bank was on, glancing at her as he ducked around the corner. She was pulling the veil over her face. He stared at the door on the other side of the bank.
He felt his legs propel him inside.
She knew if she stood still one second longer she would begin to panic and then she would lose her nerve, and once she lost her nerve she would never get it back. No, she had to do it now. Today. She thought back on the magazine article and suddenly echoing in her brain was Arthur’s voice explaining how you grab a gun from a guard.
She’d fallen asleep listening to his blow-by-blow instructions the night before.
She took a deep breath. She set her jaw tightly and slammed open the glass door. Dottie was standing directly behind the guard. It was five minutes to three. There were five people on line and two tellers, and one visible customer service person. Two construction workers walked down the steps, waved to the guard, and left, apparently for the day. There were no lights on inside, just the temporary ones, meaning that the computers were down as well. The people on line were impatient now, as the tellers were doling out cash by hand.
A woman stared at her, she swallowed and looked at the floor.
Dottie stood frozen, not quite being able to move. The hand on the clock moved. It was four minutes before three now. Dottie began to feel the floor go out from under her. She was sweating and she kept trying to move, to do anything.
Arthur stood at one of the deposit-slip tables and kept his eyes glued to her. She was just standing there in that silly funereal hat with the veil over it. He wished he could see her face through it.
He glanced away for a moment and that was when it happened.
Two women, one with a newborn in a Snugli, walked in, knocking Dottie into the guard.
“What the—” she heard the guard’s voice as he began to turn around.
Automatically, with the sound of Arthur’s voice on that television show talking her through it, Dottie reached over to the guard’s right hip.
Snap.
In a second, her hand was around the gun handle and she had slid it out of its holster with the smoothness and ease of a professional.
She stepped back holding the gun, and as if being led through it by Arthur’s voice she cocked it, just the way he’d shown her in the store two nights ago.
“Step back against the wall, sir. I am robbing this bank.”
Behind her she heard a woman gasp, “Oh, my God!”
The fat man who’d followed her all the day before looked up and his mouth dropped open. And for a second he looked familiar.
Nobody moved.
“AGAINST THE WALL, NOW!” Dottie screamed out.
The guard’s hands were up in the air and he had taken a couple of steps backward. She looked over at the customer service desk and saw a woman pick up the phone.
“Put it down. What’s the matter with you? I have a gun,” Dottie screamed. “Everyone over in the corner and get over by the tellers’ windows!” she ordered.
No one moved.
The woman continued to dial the phone. And Dottie was left with no other alternative. She pointed the gun to the ceiling, closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
The bullet hit the surveillance camera above the door, knocking it off its stand, and ricocheted with a thunderous ping.
All of a sudden the guard was on the floor holding his arm.
“Oh, my God. She shot him!” someone yelled.
The guard began screaming and there was a small pool of blood beginning to collect under his arm.
All five people stared at Dottie, who was openmouthed. She suddenly snapped to. “Anybody else? Against the wall, NOW. You, come out from behind the desk; tellers, out of there or I swear to God I’ll shoot somebody else!” she yelled, and in a flash people ran to the corner.
A man in a very expensive suit ducked his head out from behind a big door behind the Customer Service desk, and Dottie pointed the gun at him.
“You too. Anybody else back there?”
He went pale, shook his head and joined the small group now huddled halfway between the customer service desk and the tellers’ cages.
And Arthur MacGregor was still leaning against the deposit desk in utter shock at what he was witnessing.
She wasn’t planning to commit suicide.
She’d been planning to rob this bank.
What a jerk he was. He’d even watched her case it the day before.
There was no clear line of thought about what he could do about this turn of events. And then it hit; there was nothing to do.
She was armed.
She was robbing a bank.
And Arthur, like the other customers and the employees, was going along for the ride. After all these years to be on the receiving end of a bank job, he couldn’t help but appreciate the symmetry in that.
Dottie stared over at the fat man who was just standing there, gaping, and she pointed the gun at him with a certain satisfaction.
“You too!” she said harshly and waved the gun toward where the other people were huddled.
So Arthur took out his cane, hobbled over to where all the other victims were and joined the circus watching two women try and bandage the guard’s arm.
Dottie took a deep breath and walked over to the small Indian woman who’d closed her account the day before.
“Open the door,” she ordered and she watched the teller’s eyes slide over to the man in the suit, who nodded, pale. The teller opened the large door to the tellers�
� area and Dottie stepped inside.
Meanwhile, the two women who had pushed Dottie into the guard were kneeling over the poor man.
“Meg, diaper bag!” one woman ordered. “It’s okay, let me look at it,” she said, leaning over the guard, who was now shaking and beginning to go into shock. She gently pulled his hand away from his forearm. He’d been grazed, the bullet had gone through cleanly.
“Diaper,” she said, holding her hand out, and immediately the second woman placed a Pamper in it.
“What are you going to do?” the second woman asked.
“Wrap it,” the first woman said, unfolding the diaper. She gently slid it under the man’s arm. He gave a howl.
“Okay, okay,” she hushed him.
Arthur’s eyes darted over to Dottie. She was pulling this off like clockwork, he thought, and an odd tinge of pride went through him. She’d disarmed the guard spectacularly well and these two women were now creating the diversion as if they were her partners.
She was just doing dandily, he thought proudly, assessing the situation.
The bank employees and customers were busy watching the two women work on the guard as Dottie was busy behind the tellers’ area.
The area consisted of a long counter behind the glass, with high stools. Money was laid out carefully in denominations from singles to thousands in rectangular gray steel boxes which were inset in the white counter.
She pointed the gun at the bank teller. The woman was maybe twenty-five, and was definitely a first-generation immigrant from India. Arthur’s voice from the night before prompted her to read the name on her teller badge. Her eyes then looked her in the face. She looked as if she was going to be sick. Dottie quickly handed her the laminated tote bag.
“Money, in the bag, please, Ms. Varishnu.” And she watched the woman look puzzled at hearing her name said so politely, and for some reason, she seemed to relax. She blinked and nodded, and Dottie and she began working their way from one end of the counter to the other.
And Dottie could not believe the police hadn’t gotten there yet.
Arthur, meanwhile, was smiling from ear to ear.
He was quite enjoying this. She’d even remembered to address the woman politely by name. Ah, Dottie O’Malley, you must have kept quite a close eye on me all these years, he thought. His eyes dropped back down to the guard.
Bank Robbers Page 15