*
George Hope hit the Sacksville Farmer’s Bank mid-morning.
‘This is a robbery!’ he cried, waving about Keppel’s Smith and Wesson revolver. ‘Everyone down on the floor. If anyone is still on his feet, I’m going to do some spring harvesting, and my plough is fully loaded.’
Gasps of panic and diving bodies was just the response Hope wanted. It meant the residents of Sacksville had not yet grown flippant to bank robberies in their town. There were eight customers in queues to the two tellers on duty and they became a tangle of limbs and bodies on the floor.
The one man who remained on his feet was the big bellied bank manager. He was stunned that his bank was being held up for the second time in just a matter of days. And he became fixated upon Hope, perplexed that on the previous occasion Hope had been wearing an expensive, stylish black suit, whereas this time it was a cheap, brown checkered monstrosity: it was simply inconceivable to him that a robber who had gotten away with thousands of dollars would return so soon after dressed no better than a pauper. In fact, he became convinced that if he gave his shocked senses time to steady, it would be a different man he was seeing behind the black handkerchief - the calm hazel eyes gazing over it would change colour and the smooth, cocksure voice coming through it would change into something different.
Hope could see his bewilderment and was amused by it. ‘Glad to see me? I’m becoming a regular customer.’
Anger flushed over the bank manager then and despite himself gnarled, ‘Why have you returned? There are police and a whole army out there looking for you.’
‘I have already encountered the law enforcement in these parts and they proved most agreeable hosts. Detective Longworry and his squad in particular were very nice. They provided me with this lovely suit I am wearing today and they have planned a nice champagne reception with the New York press, which unfortunately I will be unlikely to attend, indisposed with the pleasant task of spending all the money you’re going to give me right now. If there are any objections, I’m all ears. Otherwise, it’s time to get to work.’ He tossed an empty canvas bag at him. ‘Fill it up, fat boy.’
The bank manager swallowed his anger, quite certain that Hope was as deranged as he was dangerous; and besides which, the touch of money excited his fingers: he had learnt that from the previous robbery when he had shoveled a good thousand dollars into a bag, and the irony was not lost on him: a bank manager who could only live out his obsession with money during a bank robbery, scooping notes with wild abandon into a fast filling bag – the feeling of pure release had lasted longer than any other emotion associated with the robbery. And almost miraculously this was his chance to experience it again.
Hope watched over his work and could not fault its intensity. He turned his attention to the other hostages who were now all splayed out across the floor, including the old timer security guard who had still not been persuaded by events to reach for his gun.
‘In case there are any tears down there on the floor,’ said Hope, walking amongst them, ‘you can relax. Not because of all those police in town looking for bank robbers – that doesn’t seem to be doing any good. You can relax because I’m only taking money from over the counter and not the savings you were misled into bringing here with assurances that it would be safe, assured indeed by the manager now shovelling money into my canvas bag - doing a good job of it too.’ He pointed one of the guns right at the manager’s forehead. ‘But that will be enough. Give it over.’
The bank manager reluctantly swung the bag onto the counter.
Hope pulled it out of his hands and glanced appreciatively inside.
‘Nice work. If you want to know why I’ve come back so soon, it is merely because easy money is the most pleasurable to spend, and the money here is so easy I’m even happy to leave some behind in the vault for a rainy day.’
He sprung forward, cracking one of the pistols across the bank manager’s temple, dropping him flat.
‘But my bankbook is painful, I’m afraid to say.’
He leaned over the counter to see that the bank manager was looking up with the kind of blank gaze that could be had out of a coffin – a thin line of blood was trickling down his cheek. Hope immediately stepped back to the elderly security guard.
The old man cringed reflexively with the attention. ‘This is suicide, son,’ he blurted out. ‘Money is not worth dying for.’
Hope extracted the revolver from the man’s side holster and replaced it with a wad of notes from the canvas bag. ‘Try to draw and you’ll withdraw,’ he chuckled hoarsely. He straightened and shouted at the hostages, ‘Stay down on your stomachs with your eyes closed and I’ll deposit some of my earnings into the pockets of one and all. The bank will not be able to claim it back, for how will it know what is theirs and what is yours. It will be the perfect crime. And you will be successful bank robbers in your own right. You will come to experience how intoxicating the feeling can be. And how profitable is its success.’
He collected up the tellers’ money bags. He grimaced with a stab of pain from his pierced shoulder and cracked ribs that pierced the cocaine numbness that had come with breakfast at the Eternal Pigmy Tavern. It didn’t last long. He walked up and down the line of stiffly expectant hostages before abruptly marching out of the bank. He had a pleased grin, aware there was no better method in keeping the hostages still than offering to pay for it. They would be waiting for their promised share of the spoils and when they finally realised they had been duped, the bitterness would be palpable. They would do everything they could to see Hope apprehended and sent to the chair, including telling the press every last detail of what had transpired. Hope was counting on it.
The Sacksville street that greeted him outside the bank was quiet, which was just as well as he neglected to check for traffic as he crossed it towards his idling stolen Chevrolet. He swung into the driver seat, tossing the money bags to the side. The engine started cleanly though stuttered and backfired in the acceleration out into traffic. Never mind. He had stolen worse. And he would soon be changing vehicles again anyway. He felt not the slightest sense of ownership: journeys were not roads or wheels, they were battles.
Death of the Extremophile Page 48