I fumbled the plastic gun out of my pocket and pointed it at him. “Don't move a muscle,” I bellowed. “Instruct your people to fill our bags or I'll put two bullets in your fat gut. Believe me, I can't miss."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Wiggy push a bunch of crumpled plastic bags through the grille. They came from Safeway and I swear they're the same ones we used on our last job. Wiggy never throws anything away.
By now he'd recovered his breath enough to say, “Fill the bags. Quickly. Unless. You want. To see. Your boss. Shot.” He sounded eerily like an automaton. The woman started to cry, but she began to stuff bundles of money into the bags.
The manager stood, feebly protecting his paunch with his hands. I kept the gun trained on him while I screamed at the other, younger man. “Help her! Now!” and he suddenly jerked into life and started stuffing bags too.
I was jubilant. Energy surged through every cell of my body. I had no idea what a sense of self-worth there was to be gained from pointing a plastic gun.
"Tie the bags,” Wiggy growled, “and throw them. Over. The grille."
Bags sailed over the grille and dropped at our feet.
We'd done it. All we had to do was pick up the bags and leave.
Or not.
The door at the top of the stairs swung open and a man in SecureCorps uniform walked through humming a tune from Guys and Dolls.
"Hi there,” he said. “Cashed up, everyone? Ready to go?” Then he saw Wiggy. Then he saw me. Then he heard thunderous crashes from the stairs below.
He drew his weapon.
The young man behind the counter started to cry loudly.
Harold charged through the door.
Wiggy swung his baseball bat.
I picked up as many bags of cash as I could manage.
Harold fired his gun. A huge lump of plaster detached itself from the ceiling and fell on the SecureCorps guard's head just as Wiggy's bat connected.
"Oh farkin ‘ell,” yelled the SecureCorps guard, who was wearing protective headgear but went down in a pile of rubble anyway.
Harold fired his gun at the manager, who seemed to be making for his panic button. The manager went down.
I said, “That wasn't supposed to happen."
"Don't just stand there,” Wiggy said, grabbing a couple of carrier bags in the hand that wasn't wielding the bat.
"Huh?” said Harold. And for once I could see what he meant: A real live gun, with real live ammo, going off twice in a confined space leaves you with real live tinnitus. It had never happened to me before. But then I'd never worked with Harold before.
We scrambled for the door. On the stairs Wiggy remembered to remove his mask. He pulled mine off, too. And snatched the plastic gun out of my numb fingers. Harold stumbled down after us, picking up his walking stick from where he'd left it at the bottom, and unwinding his scarf from around his head.
I didn't even want to look at him. Wiggy, The Gent, and I had never, in all of our long careers, ever used live firearms. No one had ever been hurt except for the odd whomp with a baseball bat when persuasion didn't work. Harold was supposed to be the look-out. He was supposed to have warned us about the SecureCorps guard and not charged in afterwards firing a live gun.
I wanted to drop everything and run away from all of them. A lifetime of YMCA lunches didn't seem so bad anymore. I tore off The Gent's coat and carried it over my arm, hiding some of the Safeway bags. As I'd feared, my hair was a mess.
We stepped out into the bright autumnal street and Wiggy spun round to face Harold. “What. The hell. Did you. Do that for?” he wheezed.
"Say again,” Harold said. “Come on, we got to get back to the car. Elsie, give me a hand. My hip's knackered."
"I'd like to knacker your thick skull,” I said. I wanted to leave him but I couldn't without endangering the rest of us. “Why the hell didn't you warn us?"
"Huh?” He leaned heavily on my arm and we limped up the High Street towards Cristettes Kitchenware and Novelties.
Wiggy started shouting, "Why the hell didn't you—"
"Shut up,” I said, “anyone could hear.” Except Harold.
Harold didn't even hear the police sirens as three police cars raced past us to the betting shop. My heart was staggering and my vision went speckly. I heard the gunshots and saw the manager tumble all over again.
I'm not quite sure what happened then because the next thing I remember clearly was The Gent helping me out of the car next to my block of flats. He carried a large Cristettes bag which he gave me when we got to my door.
"What's that?” I asked, and The Gent sighed diplomatically.
Apparently I'd had a funny turn in Cristettes and insisted on buying three baking trays, a set of glass candleholders, and a large wok. He reassured me that I'd paid for them with my own money. He said that the staff in Cristettes were very nice to batty old ladies and had thought nothing of it.
"I'll make you a cup of tea,” he said sympathetically.
"No, no, I'm quite all right,” I said, wondering what on earth I'd do with another wok. This wasn't the first funny turn I'd had in the last year, and for some very odd reason I always seem to buy a wok. But I didn't want to tell The Gent about it. “How's the tooth?” I asked, to distract him.
"Your oil of cloves worked a treat,” he said. “I tried it in the car while I was waiting. The tooth's nearly stopped hurting. You're more use than a pharmacist, Elsie.” Which, of course, is why we call him The Gent—he lies to make other people feel good. But he did look better.
"Wiggy'll be along when he's dropped Harold and dealt with the car.” He made sure I was sitting comfortably and then he went away to make the tea.
I sat and wrestled with my wayward mind, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Why had I felt so wonderful with a plastic gun? So dismal with a live one? Had I drawn attention to us in the shop? What would happen now we were guilty of robbery with violence, maybe even murder? But most of all I wanted to know what went wrong.
I didn't find out until Wiggy showed up when The Gent and I were on our third pot of tea. He turned on the TV for the local news before dropping like a rock onto my sofa. His face was grey with fatigue.
"Harold,” he said. “Not my favourite. Person. Big mistake. Working with him."
The Gent poured him a cup of strong tea and we waited while he recovered his breath. “Where's the money?” he asked first.
"Ah yes,” The Gent said, “we need to talk about that.” He gave me a sidelong glance and then spoke directly to Wiggy. “At the moment it's in Elsie's laundry hamper. I know she usually keeps it in her chest freezer, but when I looked in there I found there wasn't enough room. Elsie, do you know you have four woks in your freezer? Wiggy, she's got four woks in her freezer. I know it's where she hides stuff, but why hide four woks?"
"It's none of your business what I keep in my freezer,” I said. “Why aren't we talking about what went wrong at the betting shop?"
"Hold on,” Wiggy said, turning up the volume on the TV. “This is about us. Look."
What we saw was black-and-white grainy footage from a surveillance camera somewhere in the ceiling of the betting shop. We watched fascinated as two shadowy figures entered and then one of them skipped around like a goat pointing a gun in all directions.
"That can't be me,” I said. “I don't jump around.” The Gent and Wiggy said nothing.
Jerkily the two behind the counter began filling bags. The film froze while the newsreader said, “Witnesses describe being threatened by two men wearing masks. The third member of the gang only made his appearance after the arrival of an employee from the security firm who should have transported the day's takings to a night safe."
"Two men?” I said. “That's wonderful. We're home free.” Again The Gent and Wiggy stayed silent.
The film continued with the leisurely entrance of the man from SecureCorps, shortly followed by the muffled figure of Harold. The newsreader said, “As you can see, the footage ends abr
uptly when the third man shot out the security camera. The manager of the betting shop, who only survived what he describes as certain death by a trained marksman when he ducked behind the countertop, said, ‘These men were armed to the teeth and very violent. They terrorised my staff in what was clearly a meticulously planned raid.’ Police are asking anyone who witnessed three men fleeing from the scene to contact them immediately."
"Fleeing?” Wiggy said, turning off the TV. “Harold flees at the speed of a rocking chair. What's up, Elsie?"
"I thought Harold shot the manager,” I sobbed. “I thought..."
"I know, I know,” Wiggy said. “Have you got a handkerchief, Gent? The old broad needs mopping."
The Gent passed me his handkerchief, politely pretending not to see my streaming eyes and nose.
Wiggy said, “Who knew Harold even had a real gun? Maybe he wasn't lying about the South London gang after all."
"It's unforgivable,” The Gent said. “We made it quite clear to Harold—no real firearms. He knows how we work. We have a reputation."
"He wasn't supposed to be there,” I said, blowing my nose on The Gent's immaculate linen. “He was supposed to be the lookout, but where was he?"
"Ah yes,” Wiggy said. “Don't think I didn't ask about that. Very loudly. Guess what?"
"What?"
"He had a beer in the pub, remember? So he's standing outside the newsagent waiting and watching and, stripe me pink, his bladder starts playing up. So the silly old bugger goes to take a leak. On his way back, he sees the SecureCorps guy disappearing upstairs and all he can think of to do is follow him up and shoot him."
"He was aiming at the man?" The Gent asked, horrified.
"That's what he said."
"I'm too old for this,” I sniffled.
"I have to take the blame,” The Gent said. “If I hadn't been too much of a wimp to go to the dentist we wouldn't have gone to the pub. If Harold hadn't drunk a pint of bitter his weak bladder wouldn't have been a determining feature of this fiasco."
"Don't let's talk blame,” Wiggy said firmly. “Because I might have to admit I'm not fit enough for this kind of life anymore. If I hadn't been out of breath Elsie wouldn't have had to take charge—which she's obviously unsuited to do. I feel directly responsible for her whatchamacallit."
"What?"
"Don't get arsey with me, Elsie. You had a ... er ... an emotional episode in Cristettes."
"Just a momentary confusion,” The Gent put in tactfully. “You were splendid in the betting shop."
"Thanks,” I said. “But Wiggy's right. I have been having, well, memory lapses. I'm taking St. John's Wort and fish oils and something else I can't remember. But I should have told you."
"Told us what?” Wiggy asked. “That you're a mad old bat? Gee, what a surprise."
"Maybe all three of us should think again about the active approach,” The Gent said. “Maybe the way to go is technological."
"I haven't got a computer,” I said. “It's too late for me to learn, and anyway I can't afford it."
"Yes, you can,” The Gent said. “Besides what we took from the betting shop you've got...” He turned to Wiggy. “In her freezer she's got dozens of oddly shaped packages labelled ‘Leg of lamb’ and ‘Ham hock,’ which, believe me, are not legs of lamb or hocks of ham or even sides of beef."
"You're mistaken,” I said. “I'm a vegetarian. I don't buy ham hocks."
"We know,” The Gent said. “You've got a freezer full of cash under all those woks. You're like a squirrel who's forgotten where she hid her nuts."
"She's certainly nuts,” Wiggy said. “But she might be right, Gent: We might just be home free. No one saw us."
"Of course they saw us.” I waved at the TV. “They called me a man."
"Exactly,” said The Gent. “They called two doddery old men and one dotty old lady ‘three very violent men.’ Longevity makes us invisible and prejudice renders us incapable."
"Apart from ripping off a betting shop,” Wiggy said, “our second most serious crime was to get old."
"But it saved our asses,” I said.
"Maybe,” The Gent said, “but not for long."
"Don't worry.” Wiggy consoled me. “He doesn't mean the cops. He means the Grim Reaper."
"Oh, that's all right then,” I said.
Copyright (c) 2007 by Liza Cody
[Back to Table of Contents]
ONE GOOD ONE by Chuck Hogan
Art by Mark Evans
* * * *
Chuck Hogan sold his first crime thriller at age 26, while working in a video store. His 2004 novel, Prince of Thieves (Scribner), won the Hammett Prize, and a film version is now in production at Warner Brothers. He says he was inspired to try his hand at short fiction when he met one of the great current masters of the form, Ed Hoch. This is Mr. Hogan's second short story. His latest novel, The Killing Moon, is just out from Scribners.
Milky got home about nine that night, sweating and shivering like he had the flu. Which he did. He had the street flu; he was in a bad way. He opened the door to the house on O Street (Best thing about living on O Street? You only have to walk a block to P.) trudged up the stairs to the third-floor apartment, and watched his shaky hand try to fit the key inside the lock.
Ma was at the table. In her housecoat. Her close-set eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and Milky knew instantly.
"Why, Eddie?” she said. Grief tuned her voice up a notch. “Why?"
Edward Francis Milk felt his gut drop, like a sack of garbage hitting the floor.
He said, “What, Ma?"
"You know." Her hands, worn like old dish towels, gripped her crossed arms tightly in hopeless self-consolation. “I know it when I see it."
"Ma."
"Eddie, you promised me. You always promised. My little boy..."
The guilt. Milky was thirty-one years old, still living with his mother. Then the anger. Milky was thirty-one years old, still living with his mother. “What were you doing in my room, Ma?"
"You been away two days. No phone call, no nothing. I'm scared, I'm all alone. What'm I supposed to do? Sit here and wait?"
"Not go through my things."
"I was going to call the police. Report you missing. You should thank the man above I didn't."
"I was ... I was working."
"You used to want to be a cop.” She wept for him now. “You'd put on Dad's shirt and hat and pretend you was him..."
This memory had lost all traction with him, the number of times she retold it. “Ma."
"Jimmy's passing killed him. Not the grief of it. The shame. Having it in our house? In his house? He told me, your father did, he said, ‘Eddie ever does it, Eddie ever follow in Jimmy's footsteps, out of my house he goes. Put him right the hell out.’ You know I got to honor that, Eddie.” She looked at Eddie's father's picture, framed and standing on top of the stove. Him in his transit-cop uniform. A smaller photo of Jimmy laughing on the front steps was next to it. “This is still his house."
"Ma."
"Now I got to put you out.” She pushed herself up from the chair, and in her housecoat nearly flew to the sink. She clung to it as though hands from the floor had her by the ankles, pulling her down. “My baby boy. I should of dragged you to church with me. Should of dragged you. You're leaving me all alone in the world!"
"Ma.” He just couldn't do this now. “Ma, sit down."
"Where you been all this time, Eddie? Where?"
"Working, Ma.” He hit his chest where the letters MBTA, for Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority, were stitched over the pocket. Milky had been fired five months before, but still left the house most mornings dressed for work. For her sake.
"Two days straight, and no call?"
"Work is work, Ma."
"How could you bring this evil down upon me? You're all I got, Eddie! Daddy's in heaven and Jimmy's in the ground and you ... you..."
She felt her way back into the chair, a handkerchief clutched in her hand ove
r her heart. She looked gray. She wasn't breathing right.
"Ma. Ma, listen to me. Where is it? Tell me what you did."
"How you could bring it in this house after your only brother..."
"Ma, where'd you put it?"
"I didn't touch it!” Her arm fell dead on the table. “I don't touch that stuff. I know better."
"Ma.” Milky grabbed a seat, pulled it near. Her voice was like raccoon claws scraping at the insides of his eyes. He ran his hand through his hair and it came back wet with scalp sweat. He wasn't moving out. He wasn't going nowhere except down the hallway to his room to cook a foil and do up. “Listen to me, Ma."
"Both my boys, these drugs..."
"Ma, shut up!"
He wasn't yelling at her. He was yelling at himself.
"Look,” he said. “This is something I'm not supposed to tell. Not to anyone. Not even my own mother. No one, you understand?"
He got right up again and paced in the kitchen. His angst was real. This was a leap off a cliff. A Hail Mary pass. The kind of lie that had no end, but he knew he had to follow through anyway, and hope for some miracle. He was too dopesick to argue with her. He was sweating like an egg left out on the counter.
"Ma, it's this way, okay? I'm a cop. Not really a cop—not a full cop. Not yet. But I'm on that track. I'm working for them now, you see? Undercover. And this—this breaks every rule in the book, me telling you here. If only you hadn't gone into my room..."
He spun around, gripped a handful of his own hair. He wished he could rip it out. Focus the pain on his flesh, instead of underneath where it wriggled through him like bloodsucking worms.
"But Eddie, how could—"
"I worked it out with them. They know Dad, of course—they remember him, they all still talk about him. And they approached me about maybe doing this ... and I tell them, I says, ‘I got some priors, some trouble in my youth, maybe a little even beyond juvie.’ And they says, ‘That little stuff we can work out. If you can show and demonstrate who you are now. Make up for those mistakes, balance the books. If so, then clean slate.’ ‘'
EQMM, March-April 2007 Page 26