Jackie said, “We should’ve driven to Five Points South to the Pancake House. They have the best turkey sausage in Alabama. Cora, remember when we went there after that job we did at Region? We ate and then went shopping at the Pinnacle. And we met those nice gentlemen.”
Eddie Coyle said, “Shut up, Jackie. Shut up and feed your piehole before I feed it for you.”
Jackie threw a half-eaten biscuit at Eddie Coyle, hit him in the center of his forehead.
Bishop laughed hard. I did too. Then Eddie Coyle laughed. His lip was swollen and my face was bruised. And we laughed. Cora didn’t say anything. Her expression said that she wouldn’t say another word to Jackie until Chick-fil-A was open on Easter Sunday. After that, Eddie Coyle, Bishop, and I chatted like brothers. Jackie sat next to me with her hand resting on my leg, claiming me as her own.
I said, “Bishop, tell me that story about that robbery up in Memphis, Tennessee.”
“Which one are you talking about?”
“The funny one you always used to tell Rick and Sammy, the one about those idiots who tried to rob First Tennessee and ended up in that newspaper for criminals.”
Bishop laughed harder. “You mean the one about the idiots who tried to rob First Tennessee over by the University of Memphis? Those idiots tried to run in the bank with their weapons drawn, then got stuck inside the revolving doors. They tried to shoot their way out, but the glass is bulletproof, so they ended up shooting each other, then begging for medical assistance.”
Everyone laughed except Cora. She wasn’t there anymore, not mentally, not emotionally. She was angry. She was nervous. She wanted to run but she had to stay.
Jackie’s hand rested on the table. I reached over and held her hand as we laughed.
Abbey Rose’s novel rested on the table between us, that reminder in plain sight.
Cora asked Eddie Coyle for one of his Marlboro Blacks. She excused herself, went outside and smoked, then came back inside and walked around the gift shop until we were done.
I understood where we stood. And I knew this was the final fork in the road. And I knew why. It wasn’t because of Eddie Coyle. In the big picture, Eddie Coyle was nothing but a flea on the shoulder of God. With Cora, I had clung to the first four years of our marriage. Cora only remembered the last two. I remembered the joy from the first time we made love. She remembered the pain from the last. As they said, there were at least three sides to every story. Ours had been the economy. Love. And the truth.
The truth was something neither of us would understand. It was beyond our grasps.
The last few hours felt as if I had been on an unpaved road that was as long as three trips to Los Angeles and back. My soul had processed the five stages of grief in a matter of hours and my heart was exhausted.
Eddie Coyle said, “Let’s go over this one more time before the next time.”
We talked through the job one more time. And when we finished, I excused myself and went to the men’s room. After I closed the door and made sure it was empty, I put my fedora on the counter, then reached inside my suit pocket, moved my father’s pocket watch to the side, and felt the bullet that had killed Rick. I moved it to the side and took out the bottle of Vicodin. I popped another pill and stood in front of the mirror, shaking and holding off a panic attack.
When I came out of the men’s room, I ran into Cora. She was going inside the ladies’ room. She was startled to see me, just as startled as when she had seen me back at Thumbs Up. We were alone, face-to-face, no Eddie Coyle watching over her. Cora and I stared at each other for a moment that lasted beyond eternity, an awful eternity that put razor blades inside my stomach. It looked as if she was struggling to breathe, both of our stares hot like the sun on each other’s winter-dried skin. It looked like she was going to come to me, hug me, kiss me, and cry.
Then, with an abruptness fueled by inner demons, failures, and disappointments, we moved on.
When we finished breaking bread, Cora directed and Eddie Coyle drove us to the Courtyard by Marriott, a hotel that was situated below the Colonial Pinnacle, a seventy-five-acre one-hundred-million-dollar shopping center built on a rocky hillside standing high above Promenade at Tutwiler Farm, all rising over I-459 South. If it had been a sunny day, the view would have been spectacular. Six Flags over Jesus was down below, built across the street from Eastminster, as large as a coliseum with five levels of parking, sparkling and looking out of place in Trussville. A section of annexes was down below. Five of them looked as new as the church. The sixth annex stood out as being old and was probably there when the institution purchased the land. Once the job was done and the loot was divided, I-459 would be our escape route.
Eddie Coyle met with the inside man, the disgruntled sheep that Cora had befriended when she had worked at that gentlemen’s club in Detroit. His face was nothing to look at, which explained why he went to dark clubs that allowed women to have conversations in exchange for money. He was built like a gorilla with short, strong arms and a ridiculous receding hairline on a high forehead. Cora went to deal with him while Eddie Coyle and his brother stayed ten feet away and played the bodyguard role. The churchman had come to make sure it was still a go.
He told them who was scheduled to work on Sunday, and there had been no changes.
That done, we drove up to the top of the hill. Eddie Coyle, Bishop, and I went inside Jos. A. Bank and bought new suits, ties, and shoes. Jackie went shopping at Ann Taylor. Cora bundled up in her heavy wool coat and fedora and headed toward New York & Company and did the same. They wanted to dress the way the locals dressed.
Then we headed down Highway 11 and rode by the megachurch one more time. The annex was in the back and I wanted to do a drive through the church grounds and make sure nothing had changed that would stop us from exiting as planned. I needed to see the entrance and exit route firsthand. Later on I would need to see the stage-two vehicle and make sure it was running. I would need to drive it for a few minutes just to make sure there would be no mechanical surprises. It was part of what we did. We checked all the entrances and exits. The church was beautiful and looked as out of place there as I felt in my own life. That edifice of glass and marble was where the citizens of Birmingham and her surrounding cities went to stand side by side in prayer.
Silence held us all as we sat in the van and concentrated, focused on the mission ahead of us.
Back at the safe house, we congregated in the kitchen. Eddie Coyle called another meeting and we talked over the plans again, each player saying out loud his or her role in this operation, each stating his or her obligation from top to bottom. We were like actors who were tired of running our lines. Eddie Coyle seemed like a calm director, but he was nervous.
My hands opened and closed and palms sprouted sweat as we solidified everything.
Cora was going inside. Her contact was going to disable the cameras and open the door for her. She was going to be dressed in a wool pantsuit, like a new age churchwoman who’d stepped off the cover of Vogue, dressed the way she used to dress on Sunday mornings when we used to go to church, only she would have a Bible in her hand and a loaded gun inside her purse. Jackie was going inside too. That had been the plan all along, before Sammy and Rick had died, before Jackie had bedded me. Two beautiful women in church clothing, wearing church hats and heavy coats, walking inside with PTL smiles and displaying all of the stereotypical vulnerabilities and distractions a woman had to offer. Any guard or deacon they saw along the way would relax, and if needed, those same men would open doors to let the Bible-carrying women inside the annex. That was what men did. That was the vulnerability of man, his desire to protect and nurture and love what and whom he hoped would love him in return.
Bishop and Eddie Coyle would march in behind the women and take over.
I was responsible for two getaway cars, stage one and stage two.
I reminisced about my days as a white-collar worker. I thought about the days I had worked on the line. I remembered my life bef
ore Cora. I remembered Henrick and Zibba and water came to my eyes. Then I forced myself to focus and think of Eddie Coyle and his friends.
On a dark Sunday, I would go to church and end my Great Recession. And I would pull the plug on my marriage at the same time. It had been on life support and now it was time to kill the power. Everything must change. Hallelujah, and may we all hold hands and burn in hell.
20
Two minutes had gone by.
During those elongated minutes I hadn’t taken a breath. The engine of the van was running and the windows were fogging over. As a blanket of gray clouds blocked the sun, I’d parked in the rear of the Six Flags over Jesus. There was nothing back there except five other inactive annexes and a steep hill that led to the Marriott Courtyard on Roosevelt Road. We couldn’t be seen from the hilltop or the streets. I checked the time and looked toward the metal door with blooming impatience.
Snow was falling and there was ice on the roads, and I hoped the flow of traffic remained favorable on Highway 11. Less than three minutes ago when we had pulled into the parking lot, there had been a long line of cars heading both back toward Chalkville Road and in the opposite direction that led toward the interstates 59 and 459.
They had entered the building as planned. They would have taken care of any extra problems, any extraneous people they encountered, left them all wearing plastic-tie handcuffs with balaclavas pulled over their heads. That completed, Eddie Coyle and his brother would have rushed down the concrete stairs into the basement and stormed inside the secret room that held the vault. As they stood over a table filled with money and checks, the treasury team would have been thrown off guard. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Seeing guns and men and women in hoods would’ve said it all. While Eddie Coyle and Bishop held their guns, Jackie and Cora would have taken whoever was working to opposite sides of the room, then put plastic ties on their wrists and ankles before covering their heads with material that plunged them into darkness. Instructions would have been given to stay silent. Then Eddie Coyle and Cora, the masterminds of this job, maybe they would’ve stood side by side with Jackie and collected the money. Bishop would’ve stayed in lookout position, his gun ready to shoot anyone who moved, the same for anyone who walked inside the basement door.
Enough time had passed. Then I remembered the vault and the details of the diagrams. My mind was on the money from the three services, but I had forgotten about the vault and whatever was stored inside. Based on what Cora’s turncoat had told her, Eddie Coyle and friends would be shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at five hundred thousand dollars. There could be more. Either way, the culmination of six months of bank robbing and planning was before them.
I adjusted my fedora and looked at my pocket watch again. No sirens pierced the Sunday morning air. We needed an extra man, someone who was posted around the corner. But this was the plan. All remained calm. All remained gray. I hoped that Eddie Coyle, Jackie, and Cora were frantically throwing money inside of bags.
I wanted my one-hundred-thousand-dollar bailout package.
I was done with Detroit. I had decided last night. I could leave there, leave this behind me and go to Aruba. I could get my life back together. I could finish up grad school in Mexico City. I’d have several job offers in a matter of months.
My eyes went to the metal door on the side of the building, where the team had entered.
A police scanner was on, one earphone inside my left ear. There were a thousand problems in Birmingham, but there was nothing going on in Trussville. The parking lot out front was busy, but only five cars were back there. The winter storm was to our advantage. If it had been a spring or summer day, the rear lots might have been crowded. No one wanted to park back there and walk three hundred yards to receive his or her blessings.
Another minute went by.
As I opened and closed Sammy’s switchblade, as I looked at the dash and stared at the bullet that had gone through Rick’s body and sent him to his death, as I felt the weight from a loaded nine-millimeter inside my suit pocket, fear didn’t have its claws in me anymore.
I wasn’t supposed to leave the car. That was my number-one rule, to stay with the car.
My eyes went to the door in search of the people I was responsible for, but no one came to the door.
There weren’t any sirens, none that I could hear.
There wasn’t anything being broadcast on the scanner. There were car accidents and stalled cars, but there was no call for police or militia to grab their guns and head to this area.
Four minutes went by.
Then five.
Then six.
This was different. It would be different if this was a bank robbery and four minutes had gone by. Four minutes inside a bank would turn the exterior of the institution into another Dog Day Afternoon. I left the engine in the van running and opened the door, pulled on my fedora, and stepped outside into the falling snow. Something felt wrong. I had to go find out what. I made a handful of rapid steps toward the door on the side of the annex, and then the door opened halfway. I stopped where I was, waiting to see who was going to emerge.
The metal door closed hard.
That frightened me.
I looked back at the van, then my eyes went to the five-level parking structure. Cars were moving, but none were coming this way. I faced the annex and took another step toward the closed door, the weight of the nine-millimeter weighing down the left side of my wool coat. The metal door opened again, but no one rushed from the edifice, no one came outside.
Snow dampened my fedora and clothing as the chill tried to numb my bare hands.
Seven minutes had gone by.
As the snowfall thickened, I saw Jackie, her frame tall and full. Her hair was wavy and her dress had polka dots, a dress that was meant for another era but hugged her frame in ways that made a man believe in both God and the Devil. Her church hat was blown away and her hair lost a battle with an unexpected gust of wind that slapped her mane across her eyes and temporarily blinded her. I anticipated seeing Eddie Coyle and his friends emerging behind Jackie, each of them moving at breakneck pace and carrying similar, if not equal, loads.
My heart became a hammer trying to beat itself free while I searched in vain.
Jackie was lugging a green duffel bag, one that had the emblem and name of the megachurch stitched on its side in black and gold, a bag that had the weight of hundreds of thousands of dollars. The bag slipped from her hands and its weight almost pulled Jackie to the ground, but as snow fell she gritted her teeth and with unbridled determination she gripped the straps on the bag and dragged it across the dirty and wet ground, the bag married to one hand as her other hand held her gun.
She was alone. And she was bleeding, blood dripping down her right arm, spilling over her drawn weapon, and creating pink spots in the snow. All that was missing was a jazz score from the Chico Hamilton Quartet.
When her eyes met mine, I saw four things: betrayal, lust, greed, and murder.
Jackie dragged the bag halfway, then stopped and caught her breath before she moved her hair from her face and said, “Dmytryk. I have the money. We have the money, baby.”
I put my hand inside my pocket and touched the nine-millimeter.
She came toward me wearing a stressed, pained smile that highlighted her imperfect skin. Her ruthless walk and unrestricted exotic-ness could disarm the average fool. She had disarmed Sammy. And in some way she had disarmed me. I admit that. She looked like a sufferer, a woman who had been done wrong by life and many men.
I looked at the door again, but no one came out. I didn’t see Eddie Coyle and the rest of his disciples.
I snapped, “What happened?”
“We have the money. Look at the bag. This is what we came for.”
My breath fogged as my words rushed from my mouth. “Where is Eddie Coyle?”
“Dmytryk . . . I’ve been shot. . . . I need you to get me out of here.”
“Where is Bishop?”
“Where is my wife, Jackie?”
“I’m your wife. I was your wife last night. And I’ll be your wife again tonight.”
“Where is Cora?”
“I’m your wife and you’re my Sammy and we’re going to get my kid and go on our honeymoon. Stop talking and do your job and help me with this bag and get us in that van and get us out of Alabama before the cops come. Put the money in the van, baby, and let’s go.”
We could’ve left right then.
But behind Jackie, I saw them. Not Eddie Coyle or Bishop or Cora. I saw Rick and Sammy. They ran out of the same metal door Jackie had just exited, Rick firing a gun. Sammy was wounded as Rick carried him and the bags of money. Sammy’s head opened up again. And so did Rick’s chest. This time the bullet that had killed Rick kept going until it hit my chest.
I jerked but felt no pain. Half of Sammy’s head was gone. The bag of money inside Rick’s hand exploded and money flew to the skies. Suddenly the weight of the world and all the stress felt as if it hung from me like shackles doing their best to pull me to my knees.
Jackie said, “Cora left you for Eddie Coyle. She left you for this money. You can leave them all. You can beat them and send them postcards and tell them to go straight to hell.”
My wife was inside that building and I had every right to leave her, trade abandonment for abandonment. But this moment wasn’t about Cora. And it wasn’t about me. This moment was about two men who had been left for dead in Los Angeles. It was about Rick and Sammy and everything that had gone bad at Wells Fargo. I had panicked then, but today I wouldn’t repeat the same. Jackie came toward me, dressed in black and white and filled with anger.
Tempted by Trouble Page 23