Merlot

by Mike Faricy

“You kidding me, lady? You’re sort of famous. Hey, show her the paper.”

  She snatched the newspaper out of their hands. Her image took up a third of the page above the fold. There, under the heading ‘Tons of Fun had by all!’ was a picture of Daphne aggressively attacking a dripping ice cream bar.

  “I’m the laughing stock of the entire city,” she screamed.

  “Hey look,” said some shirtless guy in cut-offs, sporting a beer belly with red stretch marks, “it’s that tons-of-fun broad. Hey, how about a picture, lady? Lick that ice cream and ditch that hat, I can’t get your face,” he crouched down and took aim with his camera.

  She didn’t remember much after seeing red and screaming. Fortunately the police didn’t cite her and the shirtless photographer didn’t press assault charges once Sassie and Misty offered to pose with him. Still, she had to phone someone to give her a ride or the police promised they would take her downtown. She didn’t know who she could call, and then it struck her.

  * * *

  “Shit perfect, an open spot right in front man. Luck is with us, boys,” Lucerne said, looking across the street as they drove past the bank. They were the first words uttered in the car since Elvis had come out of the convenience store restroom and sulked back into the rearseat.

  Elvis had stared out the blood splattered window brooding with what looked like birthday candles stuffed up each nostril, clumps of toilet paper he had shoved up his nose to staunch the bleeding. His face around both eyes had begun to swell, growing darker by the minute. Lucerne guessed that the combination of the black eyes, broken nose and toilet paper crammed up his nostrils might be enough to disguise his appearance.

  Other than a raw patch on the left side of his hair line about the size of a fifty cent piece, Mendel looked none the worse for wear.

  Lucerne swerved into the intersection and waited for a pickup truck to pass so he could make a U-turn and park right in front of the bank door.

  * * *

  Otto had determined that this time he would just wait to speak with Cindy even if she got called away, again. He felt bad she had wasted her night running around looking for him but if she’d only followed his directions none of that would have happened.

  He didn’t notice the two-toned Fleetwood attempting to make a U-turn as he drove past and pulled into a parking spot right in front of the bank.

  * * *

  “God damn it, son-of-a-bitch grabbed our spot,” Mendel yelled.

  Lucerne leaned on the horn. As they drove past Mendel lowered the window and leaned out, giving Otto the finger.

  * * *

  “Otto reached down and touched the forty-five in his belt, secure the moment he felt the cold steel.

  * * *

  “Look, that’s okay, relax. We’ll just back into the lot, make it that much easier to head down that residential street when the time comes,” Lucerne said.

  “Elvis grab that carpet with those AKs and let’s get ready to rock and roll.”

  Lucerne’s cell phone suddenly rang with its distinctive tone, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell!”

  “Yeah?” Lucerne answered with a questioning inflection, looking at Mendel and Elvis, wondering who would ever want to call him.

  “Lucerne?”

  “Tracey?” he asked, recognizing Daphne’s voice as he hit the brakes, jerking the Fleetwood to a stop just as he was beginning to back into a parking place. Elvis had laid the AKs on the back seat and they slid onto the floor.

  “Jesus!” Elvis whined, his tone severely distorted between the broken nose and the wads of toilet paper.

  “We’re supposed to rob a God damn bank!” Mendel roared, pushing himself off the dashboard.

  Lucerne turned his back to Mendel, stuck an index finger into his ear and half whispered, “Tracey, you okay?”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time, Lucerne?”

  “Well, we’re kinda busy with work right now.”

  “I wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency, you know that. Don’t you?”

  “Matter of fact, I think this is the first time you’ve ever called me.”

  “Well, I need help and I didn’t know who else to call. You said you’d be there for me so I was thinking maybe I could take you up on your offer.”

  “Well, I’d be glad to, Tracey, just as soon as I’m done here. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  Mendel glared and gave him the cut off sign.

  “Well, look, I have to get out of here. Could you pick me up?” she asked.

  “Is it that Osborne fella makin’ ya dance with him again?”

  “Not exactly, it’s sort of tough to explain. Have you ever heard of the Beaver Hut?”

  “The Beaver Hut, you mean that strip joint?”

  “The Beaver Hut!?” Mendel and Elvis chimed in unison.

  “Well yeah, see that’s kinda where I am right now. I have to leave, pretty soon, in fact right away,” Daphne said, looking at the young officer standing next to her with his arms folded and a frown on his face.

  “I’ll be there directly, and Tracey, don’t you worry none,” Lucerne said.

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  “What?” Lucerne asked defensively folding his phone shut as he looked over at Mendel.

  “Oh nothing. I was just thinking whenever you’re finished with your little love talk we could get back to the reason we’re fucking sitting here! Now back up and park this God damn boat!” Mendel shouted.

  Lucerne pressed the accelerator down before taking his foot off the brake, screeching the tires, then just as quickly jamming on the brakes an inch before slamming into the concrete curbing, sending the AKs sliding onto the floor again and hurling Mendel forward into the dash.

  “Fast enough?”

  * * *

  Billy Truesdale unbuckled his seat belt while Gary waited for a dented, two-toned Fleetwood Brougham to move.

  “That little weasel, Trevor, is probably sipping a cold beer thinking he played us for suckers,” he groaned.

  “I don’t know, Billy. It’s almost easier just hauling this by ourselves. In half the time it takes him to complain, we got her loaded up and heading back to Central. Hell, the day’s a little more than half over. We got a three day weekend coming up. Somewhere in my immediate future is a cold beer.”

  “Mmm-mmm,” Billy grunted.

  * * *

  Nothing seemed to be working right for Merlot. When he negotiated the purchase of the Saab a week ago he had neglected to ask if the air conditioner and windows worked. Had he asked, the answer would have been a resounding no. Unfortunately, in anticipation of the AC working, he had rolled the windows up, they were now wedged closed. He calculated he had lost about six pounds during the drive to the bank, sweated them off while the temperature in the sun-baked car climbed to somewhere in the neighborhood of 400 degrees.

  The fact that he was wearing his jogging clothes beneath his disguise, plus the shoulder-length wig and mustache, caused him to sweat uncontrollably. Add to that the fact that he wore rubber surgical gloves so he wouldn’t leave finger prints and it all amounted to one big, sweatfest.

  He was sweating so much that the adhesive on his fake mustache failed. He had thrown the thing out the door, while at a complete standstill on the freeway. At least the car radio was working. From it he learned traffic was backed up for miles due to some major accident that had shut the entire freeway down.

  He had hoped to enter the bank in the middle of the noon rush, just get in and out quickly, avoid Cindy, hand his sweaty note to a teller, grab a bag full of money and run. Now he was way behind schedule, and as he drove around the armored car parked next to the bank building he was preoccupied and almost ran into three guys carrying a small roll of carpeting across the parking lot.

  “What the, hey, you God dammed idiot,” Mendel yelled, slamming his left hand on the hood of the Saab and glaring into the driver’s mirrored sunglasses.

  “Watch where in the hell you’re driving, dumbshit
.”

  “Man, you see that freak?” Elvis asked in his nasal tone, keeping the carpet covered AK s tight against his leg. “What a burnout.”

  “Just keep moving, boys, stay together, we’re almost there,” Lucerne said.

  * * *

  “Get a grip,” Merlot said to himself, coasting the Saab to a stop next to a Dumpster. The temperature was 97, the humidity range not far behind, but climbing out of his Saab felt like air-conditioned comfort.

  “He held the empty revolver in his sweat soaked waistband so it wouldn’t drop down his pants leg and clatter onto the ground. Strands of rayon wig stuck to the sides of his face, sweat rolled into his eyes and dripped off the tip of his nose. His shirt was drenched a deep red wine color and his jeans were soaked through with sweat.

  “Dear God, please make this work,” he prayed, pulling off his rubber gloves and walking toward the red brick bank building.

  * * *

  Cindy glanced up and caught sight of Otto pulling into the parking place. She determined she was not going to run away. She would let him walk right up to her and when he asked how she was doing she would face him head-on and lie. Working a husband and four sick kids into the conversation should take care of her problem once and for all.

  * * *

  Billy Truesdale was talking to Sidney as they rolled a second grocery cart out to the armored car. Gary, standing guard on the shady side of the armored car, swung the rear door open as they approached. He helped lift the trash bags stuffed with currency into the back, swinging them back and forth before tossing them on top of the pile.

  “See, what’d I tell ya, Billy, the two of us, with Sidney’s help. Thanks Sidney. We can get this thing loaded in half the time it takes that dumb shit Trevor to list all of the things that are wrong with him. Of course, he always leaves out the part about being an absolute idiot,” Gary said.

  “Yeah, you wonder what they’re thinking,” replied Sidney. “We got the same thing here. I could tell you a month ago who was gonna call in sick today. Or the one’s that get bottle flu after the Super Bowl. Who do they think they’re kidding?”

  “Say, little something extra today, boys.” Sidney said and held out three cans of Coke.

  “Man, that is a welcome sight. Thank you, Sidney,” Billy said.

  “Likewise,” Gary nodded.

  * * *

  Otto couldn’t believe his luck, he was next in line to have Cindy take his deposit. He figured this would be the perfect opportunity to set her straight on a couple of items, not the least of which would be following directions. Gentle but firm he reminded himself, gentle but firm.

  * * *

  Merlot made his way into the bank lobby convinced everyone was looking at him. He was afraid the excruciating drive in the Saab had brought him to the brink of dehydration. Between a few thousand strands from his cheap wig sticking all over his sweaty face, the revolver threatening to fall down his pants leg, not making eye contact with Cindy, trying in general not to bring attention to himself, he was in a bit of a daze. He shuffled slowly forward, as far away as possible from Cindy. He just hoped the teller wouldn’t scream when he handed her the note.

  * * *

  Lucerne, Mendel and Elvis limped forward as one big clump, glancing nervously from side to side.

  “I say do it, man,” whispered Elvis, having to gasp audibly with the toilet paper crammed up both nostrils.

  “Mendel?” questioned Lucerne.

  “Stay cool, not yet, just keep her cool, boys,” Mendel cautioned.

  * * *

  Though longer than the other three lines Merlot’s was moving substantially faster and he suddenly found himself faced with his moment of truth. He quickly glanced down the length of the counter at Cindy. She was just finishing up with a woman, the mentally challenged guy wearing the Vikings jersey was next in line.

  Merlot took a deep breath, dug into the pocket of his jeans and handed his sweat soaked note to the teller. He took a half step back keeping his hand on the revolver lifting it ever so slightly. If she had any questions a quick flash without pulling the thing out of his jeans would get his point across. His heart pounded as she unfolded the note, looked at it for a long moment before staring quizzically into his mirrored sunglasses.

  “I’m sorry sir, the ink has run all over your note, I can’t read it.” She spoke slowly and distinctly, forming each word carefully as if he might have difficulty in understanding.

  “Do you speak English?” she asked.

  * * *

  Otto stepped up to Cindy’s window, smiled, snapped open his briefcase, and reminded himself, gentle but firm.

  Cindy smiled back at Otto and kept repeating, a husband and four sick kids, a husband and four sick kids.

  * * *

  “Fucking now, dudes!” Mendel roared, unfolding the stock, bringing his AK up over his head and firing a long burst across the ceiling. Ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack, pausing for half a beat before stitching another burst ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack across the top of the protective glass in front of the tellers windows.

  ***

  “What the hell was that?” asked Gary standing in the shade of the armored car. He was almost finished with his Coke and he was letting the engine idle, hoping the air conditioner would cool the front seat down before they climbed in and drove back to Central.

  “That craps been going on all damn week. If it’s not the damn midday parade it’s some other bullshit, fireworks or something,” Sidney replied.

  “Fireworks? In daylight?” Billy asked draining the last of his Diet Coke.

  “Ahh, they probably set that shit off whenever they guess some fatty’s weight correctly,” all three of them laughed.

  ***

  “Everyone down on the floor now! Get your hands up where we can see ‘em, and shut the fuck up!” Mendel roared.

  The customers caught in the crowded little lobby crouched down and thrust their hands in the air. Otto knelt down in the corner, pushed his briefcase behind him, felt the reassuring grips on the forty-five just under his jersey and glared. Cindy was in trouble. Time for Sheriff Otto to come to the rescue.

  “You gotta be fucking kidding me!” Merlot said dropping to the floor.

  “Hey, burnout, you heard the man, shut up!” Elvis said, taking a few steps in Merlot’s direction, pointing the AK at the tip of his nose.

  By this time Lucerne had entered the teller area via the door in Sidney’s office. This wasn’t a matter of concern to Sidney just now, since he was still standing outside in the shade of the armored car, telling jokes.

  “Come on, fill ‘em up, fill ‘em up,” Lucerne encouraged the tellers who were anxiously shoveling cash. Silent alarms went off as they pulled bills out of the alarm well in their cash drawers. Everyone hurriedly dumped cash into the green trash bags Lucerne held.

  “You too, lady!” he shouted to the flushed-faced college girl counting currency in the vault. She had cutoffs, a tank top, wide eyes and a trembling lip.

  “Me?” she pointed to herself questioningly.

  “Yeah, you, Think you’re special? Come on, fill up this damn bag?” He motioned with the thirty-eight, and she quickly started shoveling bricks of banded currency into the trash bag.

  In the distance Mendel thought he heard the wail of a siren. He looked nervously over at Elvis, who blinked back hearing the exact same thing.

  “Grab the freak,” he said to Elvis, motioning toward Merlot with his AK before pounding on the glass to get Lucerne’s attention. He nodded at Cindy and yelled, “We gotta get going man, right now, grab her!”

  The whole operation took little more than 90 seconds, barely enough time for Sidney to get to the punch line in his Ole and Lena joke.

  As Billy laughed politely he glanced through the drive-up teller windows. His first thought was the girls were all stretching together, until he realized their hands were raised, the lobby looked empty, and three guys were running out the door with bulging trash b
ags and some pretty serious-looking weapons. They pushed a teller and a long-haired freak in front of them.

  Billy cut his laugh short, “Ahh, Sidney?”

  Mendel picked up on the sound of scattering Coke cans and three figures diving over the hedge on his right. He and his brothers, pushed the two hostages. They were almost to the Fleetwood just as a round whistled past his ear and left a softball-sized hole in their windshield.

  “Christ!” exclaimed Lucerne as a second round hit the right front tire and a hissing rush caused the huge car to lean forward.

  Lucerne turned with his thirty-eight and fired blindly in the general direction of the bank. He just caught the hint of a purple blur jumping behind a wide brick support column and fired again in that general direction.

  “Shit, man, where is he?” shouted Mendel.

  As if in answer, a shaking hand poked a forty-five around the corner of the column and fired, shattering the rear window of the vehicle next to the Fleetwood.

  “God damn it!” roared Mendel letting loose with a burst of rounds raking back and forth across the front of the brick column.

  Behind the column Otto cringed, eyes squeezed shut as chips of brick and mortar shot past either side and a cloud of red dust enveloped him.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, Hail Mary, full of grace,” he screamed, too frightened to remember the rest of his prayer.

  “Get to that damn truck,” Mendel cried, changing direction, pushing Cindy and Merlot in the general direction of the armored car.

  “Elvis, smoke that bastard behind them bricks, damn it.”

  Elvis raised his AK and began firing bursts at the column, hoping to keep whomever it was pinned down until they got away, “Ack-ack-ack-ack. Ack-ack-ack-ack. Ack-ack-ack-ack.”

  “She’s running,” Lucerne yelled as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Get ‘em in the back, man, come on let’s go!” he screamed, pushing a lit green button on the dash marked rear door. He heard an audible click and the button immediately changed color to red. “Come on, man, come on!”

  Mendel ran to the rear of the truck, carrying the trash bags, pushing Cindy and Merlot ahead of him. “Elvis, come on man, come on!”

  Elvis, walked backwards toward the armored car, firing continual bursts at the chipped and scarred column.