Uncle Dust

by Rob Pierce

  Theresa stepped up close and whispered. “I hate you. You gotta come back, so I can make you suffer.”

  I took her by both shoulders. “Hurt me now.”

  Her arms broke free and her hands grabbed my throat. I let her hold me there, smiled all the way, until her mouth was on mine and her hands dropped.

  ***

  The bank was called First National Security. There was one security guard and he stayed outside. He was a bored looking white guy with a seventies moustache, nothing extreme for that decade, the sort of thing only an ex-cop would wear. He might be able to handle himself.

  I wore a moustache of my own, salt and pepper like my wig. I felt like nodding to the guard in ugly moustache solidarity, but restrained myself. I walked in wearing a dark blue suit jacket, gray tie, white shirt, and black slacks and shoes. The moustache was new, but the rest of my face was clean shaven for the first time in days. I’d looked considerably grubbier when I came in the day before, wrote a fake name on the customer service clipboard and sat on a couch five minutes before walking out unserved.

  It was a narrow bank, one desk for the manager and four slots for tellers. Two tellers were working, the other slots were closed. One person stood in the regular line, a couple of people sat on the couch, plus one at the desk with the manager, a large, tired-looking woman with an artificial smile. I stepped to the back of the regular line and stood, adrenaline racing but my body motionless.

  Basic bank transactions are usually done at the ATMs, so a short line inside doesn’t guarantee fast service. I forced a slight smile onto my lips and looked around the room without moving my head. I waited as though patient and held my hands against the sides of my pants. I didn’t want my sweat dripping to the floor.

  I stood in that spot five minutes. The room was air-conditioned but I felt hot the whole time, hoped the perspiration was only under my clothes and not on my face. This was where the good nerves and the fear came together. The woman before me stepped up to a teller, and I shuffled forward to where she’d stood. My hands remained at my sides, pressed against my pants, not in a coat pocket where they might crumple my note.

  Two men stood in line behind me. I’d noticed them coming in the door, didn’t look at them now. It was my turn to approach a teller.

  She was college age, Asian, and I liked her smile as she greeted me. I didn’t want to hurt her, or even scare her.

  “A withdrawal,” I said, and removed the note from my pocket. I’d written on the back of a withdrawal slip

  I HAVE A GUN

  GIVE ME ALL THE MONEY YOU CAN REACH

  NO ALARMS OR I WILL SHOOT YOU

  She didn’t gasp or sigh, didn’t move or make a sound, stood there reading.

  “I know it’s a lot,” I said softly. “But I’m in a hurry.” I reached out with one finger and tapped the top line of the note. She looked at me, saw something in my face or in herself. I watched her hands, made sure they didn’t dip lower than they were supposed to. Suddenly she opened a drawer and started piling bills on the counter.

  “Look like you’re counting them,” I whispered. “They can go here.” I passed her the standard blue bank deposit bag I’d wedged in my other coat pocket.

  Her hands busy on the counter, my eyes flickered side to side, but if the other teller noticed anything it didn’t show. To the people in line I was some businessman slowing down their day. I swallowed hard, wanting to speed her up, expecting something to go wrong and trying to anticipate so I’d react when it did.

  The girl put the last of the large bills into the bag, followed it with a stack of tens, then a stack of fives. I’d have taken the ones too but the timer on my phone went off. “That’s enough,” I said. “Give me the bag and remember.” I tapped the note with my finger again, saw her eyes drop to the words. I crumpled the note and returned it to my pocket.

  She pushed the bag across the counter. It bulged. I stuck it inside my coat and turned away.

  “Thank you,” I said, and walked quickly toward the door.

  If she set an alarm it would be a silent one, but I listened anyway. It would be stupid to alert me before I got outside, but I wondered if the security guard had a beeper. I opened the door and he stood a few feet away, facing the bank. I looked at him and nodded, took two steps forward, about to turn away and walk down the street. He had a pistol on his right hip and his hand suddenly dropped near it. I pivoted quickly. He looked at me casually; I couldn’t tell what that meant. My left hand held the money bag, my right reached inside my coat and removed my .45 from its shoulder holster. I swung the pistol and slammed it into the guard’s temple. He dropped, and I hit his temple again as he fell. I ran.

  I turned the first corner and got into the car I’d stolen a couple of hours earlier, pulled away from the curb at the first opening and cringed at the yellow light. I hit the brake, couldn’t take a chance on running a red. So I sat there, pushed my teeth together tight, and listened to the approaching sirens. Fuck, they’d better not be close when the light changed. Fuck.

  I sat and waited. I hate waiting. I tore off my coat and tie, bent down and removed my wig and moustache, and stuffed them with the money and my pistol under the passenger seat. I could have made that light. I knew the guard would be there, maybe I panicked, but when I looked at the old guy I couldn’t tell if he knew anything. Anyway, he didn’t know much now. The camera knew more.

  The light finally changed and I drove through the intersection. The sirens were closer but they came from east and west and I drove north. Once I got into the hills I just had to hole up until it was safe. Even though I’d been disguised I didn’t want my face seen in town for a few days. That wasn’t quite what I’d told Theresa, but it was more than she needed to know.

  It didn’t take long to get from city to suburbs. From here it was only a couple of miles into the hills. Expensive homes were up there, once you drove along enough empty winding roads. I wasn’t going that far. I got onto one of those nowhere roads, saw the curve I was looking for and pulled onto the shoulder. I slowed the car to a crawl and let it dip off the shoulder. It thumped down onto a dirt path. I kept my foot light on the brake and the car rolled slowly downhill. I turned the wheel enough to ease behind some trees. The car wasn’t visible from the road.

  I got out and stepped forward ten yards, to where my own car was parked. I popped the trunk and removed a suitcase. Back at the stolen car, I opened the passenger side door, took everything I’d stashed under the seat and stuffed it into the suitcase. I closed the suitcase and ran a flashlight underneath the seat and throughout the car’s interior. Nothing left behind, I shut the door, returned the suitcase to my trunk and drove away. I had a motel reservation five miles from here. I’d stay there until it was safe.

  ***

  “Ten days,” Theresa said. “You told me one or two.”

  I pushed the door open farther and stepped into the apartment. “That’s what I thought. My business doesn’t work like that.”

  She shut the door. “I kept waiting to hear you were in jail or dead.”

  “I did things so it didn’t turn out that way.”

  “This is how it’s always gonna be with you.”

  Her voice stayed flat, and I knew she wasn’t asking. She was getting it. “I don’t want to go back to prison. There’s no banks there.”

  Theresa laughed. I figured we were good.

  ***

  I met Rico for coffee at noon. It wasn’t raining, or too cold with leather jackets, so we sat outside.

  “I called you,” he said, his back to the café wall, his eyes to the street, “cuz Tenny got work.”

  I angled my chair beside his, looked out on the street as well. We were dead men if anyone attacked us through the wall; outside of that we’d see them coming. I smiled as I sat. “Tenny always got work.”

  Rico nodded, settling his mass into the mid-sized chair. I sat comfortably in mine; he overflowed his. “It’s a little busy right now. There’s money to be made.�
�

  “Thanks, Rico. But it ain’t my kind of work.”

  “Maybe not.” Rico sipped at his coffee, his cup barely visible behind his large hand. “But you’re good at it. And the money’s good. I know you say there’s always money in banks, but it ain’t what it was.”

  We both spoke quietly. I leaned my head out, made sure no one was approaching. “It’s enough. And I like what I do. It’s the right kind of rush for me.”

  Rico sat silent a minute. “Yeah. But it’s a small town, there ain’t that many banks. And word is you got a family now. Thought maybe you want something steady.”

  The small town didn’t matter. There were banks all up and down the freeway. It was better in a town where no one knew me. But the other part made sense. “Yeah, you know, me and family. Who knows what that means?”

  “Well, if you decide it means family…”

  “I’ll call you.”

  We drank our coffee. Rico had to get back to work, I had to go nowhere. I didn’t know which of us was better off.

  ***

  Rico was the first guy I ever saw use brass knuckles. Tenny sent us down to get information. Rico usually went alone, and I was a fucking kid, but things were getting rough and Tenny thought I’d be good muscle. Rico was supposed to show me the ropes.

  The guy was called Shooter and I guess he’d earned it. Rico took three guns off him then threw Shooter down the alley where I waited.

  Rico handed me one of the pistols and found places in his clothes for the others. They weren’t little weapons. Shooter wasn’t little either, tall and muscular, but Rico was a lot wider, built like a truck. Shooter was on his hands and knees. Rico stepped around and faced him. “Who you report to.”

  Shooter said nothing. Rico kicked him in the neck. Shooter dropped flat on his belly.

  “Who you report to, who they report to. We get it all, one step at a time.” Rico brought a boot down hard on Shooter’s lower back. Shooter grunted, but he didn’t say a word. Rico kicked Shooter in the ribs and stepped back. “Work our way up the food chain.”

  Rico didn’t need the name; Tenny wanted some corner boys scared, wanted back some neighborhoods he’d lost. Shooter ran a busy one.

  Shooter rolled onto his side and looked up at Rico like he’d spit at him but he did nothing, said nothing.

  “I want one name.” Rico put the brass knuckles on his right hand. “I ain’t hurt you yet.”

  Shooter probably wanted to sit up but couldn’t. He sure as hell didn’t want to talk. Rico let him lie there and catch his breath a minute.

  “Sit,” Rico said.

  “So you can knock me down?”

  “Shoot you if you want. Sit.”

  Shooter forced himself to his knees and faced Rico.

  “One name.” Rico patted his brass knucks.

  Shooter said nothing, looked straight at him. Rico patted the knucks again. The stare continued. This wasn’t good. Shooter’s balls were bigger than his brain. He should have known Rico was the same.

  Rico leaned down and launched a straight right at Shooter’s mouth. Shooter ducked sideways and the knucks grazed his cheek. He’d barely been touched but he fell back with a howl and coughed blood. Rico shook his head, looked disgusted because he’d missed.

  Shooter’s head pitched forward and a word or two came out. Blood came out too, but not too much. If Rico hit him clean he’d be spewing teeth. Shooter pulled his head back and rasped, “Tiny.”

  “Tiny who?”

  There was a little blood on the brass knuckles. Rico swiped them clean with his pinky, licked the blood off his finger.

  Shooter took a couple of deep breaths. His eyes stayed on the brass. “Coleman. Tiny Coleman.”

  Shooter wasn’t hurt bad but he was scared shitless. Rico looked at me. “Walk away now. Me and my boy got private business.”

  Shooter’s eyes were wide and his head shook but I wasn’t here to learn a damned thing from him. Rico said walk away and I walked away. Didn’t look back when I heard the next scream either.

  ***

  I ran with Rico a lot of years after that, but that was the only time we worked together on a muscle job. We just liked each other. Rico hadn’t taught me much about muscle work but I picked up on two main things—attitude and no witnesses.

  “It was him,” Rico said, when we met a few days later. “He played macho the whole way. He was gonna come for me. Plus, I know Tiny. He don’t control nothin but a little dice game. I been down here a long time. I know all the little shits.” Rico laughed. “I’m lucky.”

  No, I thought, you’re psychotic, and I’m glad you’re on my side.

  ***

  Theresa really liked me, and that made it worse. She’d done that stupid thing with Davis, warned him or trusted him, but she wasn’t disloyal, only a little soft. Soft could get me in as much trouble, but I figured it might be worth it. If it was, I needed another source of income, something where the victims didn’t talk.

  ***

  “This time of year, half the teams don’t care if they win.” Rico watched the TV over the bar, spoke without looking at me. “People bet on em anyway.”

  I watched the screen too. “There’s always sucker bets.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin. There’s a lot of suckers in December. Some of em welsh on bets and I got to collect. I love this time of year.”

  Onscreen, a linebacker burst through and slammed into the ballcarrier’s ribs, picked him up and dropped him. The runner fell back hard. “Ooh,” I said. “Sweet. So, Rico.” I looked at him but he didn’t turn. “Tenny still need another collection man?”

  “Busy as I been? Yeah, I bet that job’s still open.” Rico grabbed some pretzels from a bowl on the bar. “You’d be surprised how many guys can’t do it. They don’t like hurtin people or they can’t stop hurtin people.” Rico shrugged, washed down his pretzels with a beer. “The job’s about collectin, that’s all. People take it personal.”

  I laughed. Rico sounded like my old man: “I don’t hit because I’m mad. I hit so you’ll learn somethin.” The difference was Rico was a gangster, he was reasonable. When he hurt someone it was strictly business. My old man was kidding himself. He’d start with a reason, but every stroke of the belt was harder than the one before. Whatever pissed him off built until it blew. He didn’t hit me often, but when he did, I wanted to kill him or be killed by him, I wanted it over. I didn’t know about my own temper.

  “I’ll try not to hit,” I said. “I might like it too much.”

  “Wrong.” Rico watched the game. “You’ll hit. And it’s okay to like it. Just know when to stop.”

  ***

  It wasn’t raining so I walked from the bar, let the cold air sober me some as I walked home. I got off the main roads to where the businesses were fewer and smaller and there were homes in between. There was a park on the way and I cut through it. Kids played football on a baseball field. I turned up that way to watch. I stopped about twenty yards from the field.

  The field was wet and the basepaths were muddy, and the pitcher’s mound was only a few yards from one of the goal lines. The kids wore long sleeve shirts and jeans and sneakers, their clothes and their hair covered with mud. It was four on four, all the boys young, probably ten to twelve. I walked toward the field. The center snapped the ball and went out for a pass along with two of his teammates, each covered by a player from the other team. The fourth defensive player, smaller than the others, stood at the line of scrimmage and counted aloud, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.” He rushed the quarterback, who had dropped back and was looking downfield. The quarterback scrambled right. He planted and threw the ball long. As he released the ball, the defensive lineman slammed both open palms hard into the quarterback’s chest. The ball sailed beyond reach as the quarterback yelled at the boy who’d hit him. “Do that again and I’ll kill you! I swear I will. I’ll fucking kill you.”

  I didn’t know any of these kids, I had no rooting int
erest in the game, but I liked football. It occurred to me that I liked kids, better than adults anyway. These kids were hitting the age where they turned. I stopped where I was.

  The small kid who’d hit the quarterback talked, not yelling, but loud enough I could hear. “If you don’t wanna play football, Tommy, you can quit. No one at school will know ’til tomorrow.”

  The quarterback shut up. The other players were still down the field, might not have heard what the small kid said. The quarterback stepped away from the smaller boy, and I looked closer at the little lineman. It couldn’t be. Anyway, he wouldn’t want me to see him. I turned away from the field and resumed walking home.

  ***

  Theresa was out when I got home. I opened a beer, found football on TV and leaned back on the couch. The game had barely started. It was third quarter when Jeremy walked in the door. He was covered in mud.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I—”

  “Go take a shower and throw your clothes in the hamper. Come out here when you’re clean.”

  It was still third quarter when Jeremy came back. He wasn’t exactly clean, but the top layers of filth had been removed. And I was on another beer, so the afternoon was passing pleasantly enough. I looked him up and down. “Clean enough for the couch. Have a seat.”

  He sat a foot away from me. He bent forward, I leaned back. “You like football, do ya?” I asked.

  “To play. Not to watch.”

  “Well, if you want to get good, you should watch a little. You’re right, though. It’s better to play.”

  Jeremy looked at the screen. I looked at Jeremy. “You were filthy. Play a little today?”

  “A little.”

  “With friends?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Where d’you play? That little park over here? On the baseball diamond?”

  Jeremy raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes or no, nod or shake, don’t make me guess.”

  “Yeah, I was there.”

  I smiled, finished my beer, squeezed the can shut in my hand and set it on the table beside me. “Tommy a friend of yours?”