The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction.

by Aaron D. Gansky

  Adam opened the back door. “Connor?”

  “That’s me.” I stepped out of my car into the mud.

  “Come on inside.”

  The hail ricocheted off the aluminum siding of his mobile home. I raced inside and wiped my feet on a mat just inside the door. Adam smiled. The few teeth he had left were blackening. The house smelt of cheap cigarettes and alcohol. “Excuse the mess.”

  “I always do.” Aside from the smell, his house was no worse than Caleb’s or Mason’s. I nodded in approval.

  He didn’t have much space, but he’d spent time trying to make the home cozy. Paintings of cityscapes decorated the walls. Architecture magazines covered the coffee table. He’d constructed several famous buildings from LEGOs: the Empire State Building, Eiffel Tower, World Trade Centers. “Doctor Slate says you have an interesting story.”

  “Slate’s a good guy.”

  “I’ve heard good things about him.”

  He motioned me to the living room and asked me to sit. His couch felt like milk crates wrapped in burlap. “Let me get you something. Beer?”

  “I’m good, thanks. Still have to drive today.”

  His cackle would shame any midnight witch. He disappeared into the kitchen. Two aluminum cans cracked open. When he returned, he held a beer in each hand.

  I put my hands up. “Thanks, but I really don’t need one.”

  “I know. These are for me.” He took a long swallow of the first and set the second on a table near him. “All right. You probably want to hear about the back.”

  “I hear it’s quite the story.”

  “Hold on to your socks, man. This is going to fry your brain.”

  Chapter 31

  HEROES DIE FIRST

  Like everyone else, Adam Vivaldi lay low on the beige carpet of the lobby of Pacific Bank of the West in Los Angeles, California, his arms stretched above his head, face turned to the front door. The dead security guard lay in front of the lobby, blood trickling from his head. The woman beside him cried, and Adam thought about doing the same.

  He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing. In his mind, he recounted the layout of the bank. He rehashed what he knew of load-bearing walls, fire-breakers, current city building codes. Knowledge might give him an advantage, an element of surprise, but his mind couldn’t rationalize the information into anything useful.

  Four tellers lay on the ground to his right. Minutes ago, they’d sat at their stations making change, cashing checks, making small talk. Then the gunman walked in and shot the guard in the head. Before the surprise and shock registered, the gunman grabbed the manager from her desk near the lobby. He cocked the gun and commanded the tellers to put their hands on their heads and move away from their stations. He’d have no alarms tripped.

  “Stop crying.” The gunman spoke sweetly, like a father soothing a child. He stroked her hair, brought his masked face to her ear, and whispered something.

  The manager took two staggered breaths and wiped her tears from her cheeks. “Ursula,” she said.

  “That’s a good girl.” He put his arm around her. If not for the forty-five pressed to her forehead, Adam would have thought them lovers. The gunman walked her back to the vault and implored her to open it. The serenity of his voice and the malevolence of his violent behavior created an uneasy disparity. Adam’s stomach knotted. He didn’t doubt for a second that the gunman would squeeze the trigger. He’d killed once, he’d kill again.

  Ursula struggled to keep her voice unwavering. “I don’t have the keys.”

  “Please?” The gunman rolled the bottom of his ski mask up enough to smile, to show his perfect, white teeth. Two had been filed to points. “For me? I promise I won’t hurt anyone if you do. I’ll be a good boy.”

  The strength in her voice vanished. “I really don’t have keys. I’d open it if I could.”

  He stroked her curly red hair again. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Just relax. Be a good girl and stay here, okay?” He held the gun toward her, still smiling, and walked back to the lobby. He pulled a woman up gently from the floor by an elbow.

  The woman whimpered.

  “Easy now, darling,” the gunman said. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Nancy,” she whispered. Her legs shook, as if she’d just run a marathon.

  The gunman put the forty-five to her head, traced her ear with the tip of the barrel. “Such beautiful skin, Nancy. Won’t you walk with me?” He escorted her by the elbow to the vault. In any other situation, they could’ve been on a date, walking along the pier, sharing a spindle of cotton candy.

  “Ursula, honey. I need you to open the vault, okay?” He pressed the gun harder into Nancy’s ear. The woman flinched, and her breath caught.

  Ursula said, “Please. Please, I don’t have the keys. The keys—”

  The gun exploded. Adam covered his ears, tried not to vomit.

  The gunman stepped over Nancy’s body. “Shall I go get another friend?”

  Ursula wept. “I can’t. I would open it if I could. I can’t. Please.”

  The gunman returned to the lobby and pulled a short man up by the shoulder. He pushed the gun under the man’s throat. “Easy now. We’re just going to talk to our friend Ursula. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

  “I have kids,” the short man said. “Two, a boy and a girl. They’re twelve—twins.”

  “Perfect,” the gunman said. “What are their names?”

  The man steadied his breathing. “Hannah and Howard.” His face reddened. Short and stocky, he in no way intimidated the gunman.

  The gunman selected him for the pathos, to appeal to Ursula’s heart, not her fear. “And your name, daddy?”

  “Jim.”

  “That’s a fine name, Jim. You can call me Frank.”

  “You don’t look like a Frank.”

  The gunman pushed Jim’s face savagely into the wall.

  Jim cried out, covered his face with his hands. Blood poured down through his fingers. Had to be a broken nose.

  Adam squirmed. Should he run? How far would he make it? The gunman had put something on the door when he first came in. Explosives? Must be. Could he rush the gunman? Overpower him somehow? Wrestle the gun away?

  No. The gunman moved too slowly, methodically. This wasn’t a rash robbery. He’d planned it out, probably for months. He’d have contingency plans. More than likely, he had additional guns, maybe explosives, under his coat. His voice contained no fear or anger at all; his filed teeth meant he was likely unstable, the scary kind of violent who felt nothing when murdering.

  What kind of bank policy dictated the manager on duty not have keys? Corporate policy to protect money, no matter the cost in lives. Adam shook his head.

  Sirens split the still air in the bank. Hope rose on feathered wings, but Adam swallowed it down. The arrival of the police could complicate things, could push the gunman over the edge. Three cruisers parked near the front doors. Six cops poured out, weapons trained on the door. More would be around back.

  A phone rang.

  The gunman walked back to the lobby with Jim’s elbow firm in his grip. He waved the gun to Adam. “What’s your name?”

  Adam pointed to his chest in disbelief. “Me? Adam.” His heart escalated up his esophagus.

  “That’s a great name, Adam. Do me a favor, please, and answer the phone?”

  Adam stood slowly. He had a chance. He’d have to walk right past the gunman to get to the phone. If he moved quickly …

  The gunman would shoot Jim. Too risky.

  The phone rang again. Adam picked it up. “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice. Calm. Too calm. “Who is this, please?”

  “My name is Adam.”

  “Adam, we can see you. This is the police. My name is Luc
y. I’m a negotiator with the LAPD. We’d like to get you guys out of there as quickly and safely as possible. Will the gunman talk to me?”

  “Hold on.” Adam cleared his throat and looked to the gunman. “They’d like to speak to you.”

  He shook his head, his filed teeth gleaming in the florescent light. “Please tell them I’m busy. Take a message if you must.”

  Adam nodded. “He says he’s busy.”

  “I heard him. Will he let you speak to me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s find out. We see the security guard on the floor. Has he killed anyone else?”

  “A teller.” Adam’s throat clamped shut.

  The gunman shook his head, pointed the gun back at Jim’s temple. “Don’t tell them anything else.” His voice firmed. No “please” this time.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take a message.”

  Lucy spoke immediately. “Does he have demands?”

  Adam relayed the message. This would be so much easier if he’d talk to her, but Adam guessed he didn’t want to use a hand to hold the phone. It’d make him more vulnerable. He’d kept his back near walls the entire time he’d been in the bank. Less to watch, that way. A lone robber had to worry about his back.

  “I’d like a fully fueled helicopter, please. I’m very busy and have several appointments to make today, so I need it in an hour.”

  Lucy broke in. “An hour? He’s kidding right?”

  “Please inform them that I will kill one person if the chopper is not here in an hour, and another person every ten minutes after until the chopper arrives. Once the chopper touches down in the parking lot, the pilot must get out. The police must leave the area.”

  Adam relayed the message slowly.

  “We need more than an hour. Tell him that. Ask for two.”

  The gunman leveled the weapon to Adam’s head. “Hang up, now, Adam.”

  He did.

  The gunman gently nudged Jim back to the lobby, and motioned Adam to do the same. “Everybody please stand up. I’d like you all to walk to the front windows. Make sure to wave at the police. They’ll be happy to know that you’re okay.”

  Bull. He wanted the cops to see the hostages. It’d make it harder for them to rush in if they knew who they were endangering. The gunman wielded fear like a weapon. His easy demeanor chilled Adam.

  Adam walked with the group to the front window. They took slow, cautious steps, a mob of zombies.

  Outside, the sunlight shone through silver smog. A gentle breeze tousled flags and leaves. The window was warm with sun; it was a Disneyland day. He should be outside his home, sitting on his porch reading. He should be on the golf course. He should be meeting his girlfriend Lisa for lunch rather than being trapped in a bank on his break. He knew better than to take a quick trip to the bank on the first of the month because it’d be crowded. In retrospect, this must have been part of the gunman’s plan. More people, more hostages.

  “Now wave,” the gunman said.

  To his right, the six patrons waved like soulless marionettes. To his left, the five remaining employees did the same. Only Ursula, the manager, remained behind the counter with the gunman.

  “Good. That’s fine. Now please, everyone sit beneath the counter here and face the window.”

  The eleven complied quickly, and the gunman kept the forty-five leveled at their chests. Adam’s legs weakened. He hoped he wouldn’t stumble or trip. He plodded forward until he, like the rest, collapsed onto the carpet and backed up to the counter.

  The gunman opened his leather jacket and pulled a square white block of putty from within. Moving with rehearsed grace, he taped it to the front doors next to an identical block he’d taped on his entrance. “In case anyone wants to visit.” He turned to Ursula. “Take me to the back door, dear Ursula?”

  He guided the terrified manager behind the vault and vanished for a minute.

  Adam sat next to Jim. He wanted to say something, but had no idea what to say. Any advice or words of comfort were baseless optimism. Still, he felt compelled. “You’ll see them again.”

  The man pulled his knees to his chest, cried. “I can’t lose them.”

  Adam whispered, “We’re going to get through this, just you watch.”

  “Thanks.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Look at me, sobbing like a baby.”

  “Don’t blame you. Anyone would do the same if they’d lived through what you just did.”

  The man nodded. “Thanks. What about you? Any family?”

  Adam shook his head and said, “No kids. Mom and Dad are in Florida. Sister passed last year.”

  A teller whispered harshly. “Quiet. I hear them coming.”

  Adam crossed his legs in front of him and folded his hands in his lap. The gunman came around the corner. He held Ursula by the elbow. She grimaced. He pulled his mask off and let his blond hair fall around his face. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. It looks like we’ll be here for a while, so I have to make some rules. You understand.

  “So we’re all clear, here are the rules: Do what I say when I say. Have a question, raise your hand. Talk without asking and I’ll blow your hand off. Move without permission and I’ll blow your knee caps off.” He looked at Adam. “And most importantly, heroes die first.”

  Adam cut his eyes to the floor. Still, his mind planned, schemed. If the gunman thought Adam was a hero, he’d watch him more carefully. It might take his attention away from Jim, who had a family who needed him.

  The gunman pushed Ursula into a chair and checked his watch. “Fifty more minutes. Let’s cover up these windows. The sun is so bright. Do you have anything to cover the windows, Ursula dear?”

  Her voice came out in a whisper. “Nothing. I don’t think there’s anything.”

  The gunman pressed his forty-five into the back of her neck. “Let’s think a little harder.”

  Adam raised his hand.

  “Adam, wasn’t it? You have a question?”

  Adam gestured to the ceiling. “The signs. These banners could do it.”

  He pressed the gun harder against Ursula’s neck. Though his voice carried the same tone, the man no longer smiled, no longer flashed his filed teeth. “Excellent idea, Adam. You are quite the hero. Why not have Jim help?”

  Adam stood up and helped Jim to his feet. “I’ll need a chair to reach them.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. You’re good at thinking. Figure out a way to do it without chairs.”

  Adam sighed. “I could jump and get them, but they might tear. If you want all of the windows covered, we’ll need them intact.”

  The gunman looked at Ursula. “You have tape?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay Adam, let me see you jump.”

  The hostages’ sobbing softened. Adam stood on one side and Jim on the other. They counted to three, jumped, and ripped the sign from the ceiling. Adam didn’t have to jump high, but Jim did. The sign advertising a low mortgage rate came down easily and in one piece.

  Adam looked at the gunman. “I’ll need some scissors.”

  The gunman looked at Ursula.

  “I have some in my office.”

  “Be a dear and get them for me?” He moved the gun from her neck to Adam’s chest. She stood, moved to the back of the bank. She returned with a pair of black-handled office scissors.

  Adam thanked her, cut the sign in the appropriate size, slipped the scissors in his back pocket, and moved to the window. “Tape?”

  The gunman pulled a roll of duct tape from his jacket, the same he’d used to secure the blocks of putty on the front door. He grabbed Ursula’s shoulder and sat her roughly in the chair. The gun went back to her neck. He must be losing patience.

  The phone rang again. The gunman motione
d Adam to answer it with a flick of his head. “Take a message.”

  Adam picked up the phone.

  Lucy spoke calmly. “Chopper will take an hour and a half. Ask for more time.”

  Adam relayed the message.

  The gunman scanned the crowd. “I understand. Unfortunately, I’ll have to kill Jim if it’s not here in exactly forty-seven minutes.”

  Jim closed his eyes and dropped to his knees. “Please, God. Not me. My kids need me.”

  The gunman nodded. “Yes, they do. But don’t worry. I’m sure the LAPD will tell them all about how they couldn’t get the chopper here in time.”

  Adam steeled his voice and relayed the message to Lucy.

  She cursed. “We need more time.”

  “Why?” Adam asked.

  “To get you out, of course.”

  “Don’t be stupid. This guy’s already killed two people. If you really want us out of here, you’ll get a helicopter here quick.”

  “Listen, Adam. You don’t know how these things work.”

  “I know how he works,” Adam whispered.

  “That will be quite enough, Adam,” the gunman said.

  Adam hung up and shook his head. Last thing they needed was the LAPD to play hero. He sat next to Jim, crossed his legs.

  Jim held his head in his hands like a man with a migraine. For three minutes he repeated, “My kids, my kids,” and “I’m going to die, and then what will they do?”

  After fifteen minutes, the gunman told Ursula, “Music.” She started the radio. No one spoke. No one moved.

  Another twenty-five minutes passed without a chopper. Jim sobbed, and the gunman paced, clearly irritated. “Seven minutes!” He shouted as if the cops beyond the doors and window could hear him.

  Five minutes later, Jim blubbered. Tears and snot streaked his face. His eyes swelled, as if he’d been punched.“Please not me, please not me.”