Then he put the phone down as soon as his last word had been uttered to cut off any response. Nicely played. The phone rang again before the boss had time to walk away from it.
“Yes?”
“What do I get if we let him out? ... Food? You’re fucking kidding me, right? We’ve only been in this place ten minutes and already you’re worrying about the catering? ... Let me make it easier for you. The guy’s not in any imminent danger. I’ll let you send in a medic to check the guy’s okay and patch up his arm then I’ll let the medic out again. I’ve more than enough hostages, I don’t need another one. That way, you know no-one’s about to die from one of your bullets and that I’m a stand-up guy ... Okay, call me when you’ve got a medic ready.”
The boss took Brian to one side and they whispered for a few minutes while the Quiet Kid looked on. Then he swapped over and, presumably, gave the same message to him too. Although I was straining to hear, they were too far away for me to catch anything but the odd word. To be honest, all I figured out were their names: the boss was Frank and the Quiet Comrade was Andrew. Apart from that, they could have been planning my birthday surprise, for all I knew.
44
FRANK AND ANDREW stared at us and Brian went back to his pacing. The guy was the most nervous of all of them and was the only one stupid enough to let his gun off. As soon as you fire at the police, you’ve added several counts to your charge sheet - and to the charge sheets of your accomplices too. I doubted Frank was too happy about that. From the phone interaction, I believed all he wanted was a straight in-and-out bank robbery. Managing hostages and fighting with the police were not on his to-do list. They wanted out and as quickly as possible.
Like I said, Brian was the loose cannon and he carried on walking one way, then the other, until he stood by the head of the guy with the bullet wound. First, he pushed the guy’s side twice with his foot. Just enough to annoy, not enough to cause any more pain than the man was already experiencing. Then the tapping got harder: hard enough so that the squeals got a bit louder and the noise made Frank turn round:
“Pack it in and leave him alone. We need him as healthy as we can if he’s going to be of any use to us in a trade.”
Brian nodded, waited a minute and started up again. Then he kneeled down next to the dude and poked him in the arm, somewhere around the wound. My head continued to face towards the fella so I had a perfect line of sight.
The general poking around became more specific over the next two minutes until the woman on the other side of the fella to me couldn’t take it any more:
“For god’s sake, stop it. He’s hurting. Why don’t you stop it?”
With that, Brian twisted round, raised his palm above his head and let it swoop down across the woman’s cheek. We all caught the slap. She whimpered loudly and I saw the bruise form on her face almost as soon as Brian’s hand had left the vicinity.
Frank ran over and pulled Brian away, dragging him by the arm to the other side of the room. More blood came out of the guy’s arm; Brian had made sure the wound was deeper than when the cops first did their worst.
The woman who had complained converted her whimpering into incredibly short bursts of breathing and we all felt how the stress of it all was transforming into a full-blown anxiety attack. Andrew came over and, flitting glances from one side to another, bent down to check her out. He helped her crawl next to a wall so she could sit up, isolated from the rest of us. He then rummaged around until he found a paper bag and gave it to her to breathe into - a trick he know doubt had picked up on Dr. Kildare.
Five minutes later and her breathing was under control but the whimpering continued unabated. To be honest, I think her reaction was the normal one. The rest of them were too petrified to respond in any visible manner. She had broken ranks and showed herself to be a human being. The others were living in pure survival mode.
AFTER ANOTHER FEW minutes, Andrew went over to her and made her crawl back to her original position next to Wounded Arm. As she crawled towards us on her hands and knees, her blouse hung low and I could see the flesh of her breasts hanging downwards, but they were hidden by a well-fitted bra. She lay down on her side, eyes red with tears, her hoarse sobbing the only sounds we could hear. Eventually calm reigned.
This was punctured by the sound of the phone, which Frank answered as he was standing right by it. He agreed to let a medic enter the place and check on the bleeder. He promised the cops that the paramedic would be given safe harbor back, but the boys in blue wanted more reassurance than the word of a felon in the middle of a robbery. Frank agreed to let a hostage stand outside the bank until the medic had done his job. That way, if the medic didn’t come out, the cops would have saved at least one civilian.
Frank chose one of the cashiers and grabbed her by the arm and lifted her until the middle-aged woman was back on her feet. She slid across the marble floor, propelled by Frank’s urgency until they were right by the door. Frank opened it slightly and shouted that the woman would be the next person coming out of the bank. True to his word, he pushed her outside, while still clinging to her arm: if anything went south, he’d be able to grab her back inside.
But the cops were true to their word too. A paramedic appeared and came inside. Andrew checked the guy’s bag for pistol shaped contraband, but nada. He went straight over to Wounded Arm, ripped open the shirt sleeve and checked out the damage. All the while, Brian kept both barrels of his shotgun trained directly at the heart of the paramedic.
Several bandages and gauze pads later, the man was patched up and was looking much more comfortable, mainly because he’d been popped two codeine, given under close medical supervision. At least he’d be quiet while he was stoned.
Then the medic stood up and Frank took him back to the entrance.
“Tell them they can keep the old crone.”
He pushed the medic out, who grabbed the old cashier and they both walked slowly away from the bank frontage.
“Why the hell did you let one of them go?” snarled Brian.
“To show goodwill. We will need some mighty happy cops if this is going to end well for us, y’know?”
Frank was right. The odds of them coming out alive were close to zero. Cops don’t like being seen to lose to bank robbers; makes them look bad. So they are far more likely to shoot first and ask questions later if they felt like it.
THE ROOM DESCENDED into silence again as Brian paced back and forth, trying to suck in all his anger at what Frank had done. His temperament wasn’t helped by the whimpering which erupted, now and again, from one or other of the women lying on the floor. The cashiers were suffering a double indignity: not only were they lying face down in the marble, but they also were wearing skirts and Andrew and Frank spent some time walking around us kicking our feet apart, like they were in the Army. Wearing a skirt was not conducive for that kind of behavior and most of the men stared right up the skirts of the surrounding women. At least I did, anyway. I watched the black stockings vanish into the inky darkness that was the gap between the young cashier’s thighs, but that’s all I could see.
Then Frank huddled with Andrew, they nodded and the two left the room and headed back to the staff entrance and on to the vault, presumably. Again, our lives were in the hands of Brian, who was no more stable a personality than when all three of them arrived at the bank at 9:02 this morning.
He continued pacing back and forth like a caged animal in a decrepit zoo, long since past its prime. Then Brian twisted round and grabbed the younger of the two cashiers by the hair and dragged her over to the other side of the room, near the row of cashier stations.
Brian stood at ninety degrees to the pile of people, huddling on the floor, so he could keep an eye on us with his peripheral vision. Meanwhile, he kept his grip on the cashier’s head.
Then he threw her down and she crumpled on the floor like a polyester shirt. Brian bent down and took a handful of blouse in the same brutish hand - and pulled, tearing the fabric at the s
eams until he held a bunch of blue material and we all could see her back through the hole he had made.
The girl wasn’t much more than twenty and she hid her head in her hands, cowering and crying. Brian slapped her hard on the face with the back of his hand, sending her flying across the floor as she slid along the marble.
While still pointing the shotgun at the bunch of us, Brian stomped over to the woman and grabbed at her blouse again. This time she was lying on her back so he grabbed the front of her blouse and ripped it off so she was on the ground with her black bra visible, all lacy. She screamed and he pulled a bolo knife from inside his jacket and sliced at her, catching the surface of her breast and a spew of red burst out of her. The cut wasn’t that deep, but he’d picked one of the fleshiest parts of her body. The shock of being cut meant she fainted immediately.
A MASSIVE NOISE blasted around the room and Brian’s body flew sideways, blood and guts splattering in all directions. Andrew was stood by the staff door, pointing a gun at where Brian had once stood. And then a shit-storm of police bullets rained down on us as the cops reacted to the sound of the gunshot from their positions outside.
Andrew hit the deck as soon as he realized that and ricocheting bullets pinged around the room, bouncing off the solid walls and floor, occasionally catching an arm or a leg. Thirty seconds later and the volley was over.
There were innumerable holes in the plasterwork and, unfortunately, many holes in the people too. I looked down to make sure I was safe and looked around at the red pools dotted around the still breathing bodies near me.
Andrew picked himself up and grabbed the bags he’d dropped when he’d taken cover a minute ago. Frank appeared, and they looked at each other and then looked at Brian. He was groaning, bleeding out on the far side of the bank. Frank took a peek out of the window.
“Stay calm everyone. The cops have stopped firing on us. Everybody stay down.”
Firm, low volume - just enough menace in his tone for everyone to believe him without question. He walked over to Brian, gurgling and drowning in his own bile. Frank pulled at the knife still in Brian’s hand and tore the blade across his throat. Brian wouldn’t be harassing cashiers no more.
Frank’s eyes darted at Andrew and Andrew, by return, nodded in his direction to show he understood what had just happened and was cool with it all.
From nowhere, I heard the smashing of the glass in the front windows and the plop of grenades landing on the floor. I was certain I was a dead man, but this wasn’t Korea. White choking smoke burst out of the tear gas canisters and I choked out the venomous air from my lungs as best I could. Three or four breaths later, my eyes were streaming with tears and a terrifying noise ripped inside the bank as the front door burst open and a SWAT team took over every inch of the place.
One of them grabbed me and dragged me out of the bank, pointing a gun at my head until he could tell I was one of the good guys. Later that day I heard Frank and Andrew got away. No real idea how, but there must have been some kind of rear exit because they sure as hell didn’t leave with the SWAT at the front. They took the money too, apparently.
We all were checked by paramedics at the scene and those who’d been hit by stray bullets - about six of them and the first guy - were taken by ambulance for treatment. Despite the volume of blood spurting out of arteries and veins, turned out no-one was critically injured. In fact, if you were shot by the police that day, you were one of the lucky ones. Four years later, they each received about fifty to one hundred thousand in damages. I didn’t even get a flesh wound. I’ve bled more when I’ve cut myself shaving. Damn shame I wasn’t shot by the police that day.
PART EIGHTEEN
HOUSTON 1979
45
BACK IN HOUSTON, I was in a hire car, speeding out of Dodge when I received incoming from unknown assailants. First, I only saw gunfire, and I hit the brake and swerved sideways to avoid the two parked cars which had been positioned to take me out. As I fast-turned the steering wheel, I flopped onto the gear stick and hit my head on the passenger seat. Smart move because no sooner had I done that than a salvo of bullets whipped into the driver’s door window and out the other side. Glass shattered all around me and the car came to a halt.
If I stayed where I was, I’d die so I quick-shimmied over to the passenger side because it was further away from the onslaught outside and I opened the door, slithered out and lay on the tarmac to collect my thoughts.
Just like Frank those years before, I peeped over the hood to check out the exact source of the gunfire. There were six or seven semi-automatic bursts coming from well-concealed positions for the shootists: behind trees and hedges, cars and even a bus shelter. Feeling around in my jacket pocket, I could tell I had about five spare bullets for my Magnum .38 snub nose and I knew I had a full clip. Without tremendous sharp shooting, I was about to be gunned down in a strange town, all for the sake of a case in the...
Then I realized something truly appalling: in my rush to exit the vehicle, I’d left the case in the footwell behind the driver’s seat. Heavy sigh and then I rolled over to be near the rear of the car and opened the passenger door so I could crawl and grab the damn case. Meanwhile, bullets kept flying at a high rate and a high velocity. I got my fingers to the handle and yanked it over to my side and out the rear door.
I was pinned down behind a car riddled with bullet holes by six or seven professional hitmen intent on my demise. This would have been a great moment to say something like I saw my life flash before my eyes, but it didn’t happen that way. My teeth started chattering and a bad feeling spread from the pit of my stomach all the way up my spine until it reached the back of my neck. My mouth went dry, and I swallowed hard hoping to find saliva in the far reaches of my throat. No joy. My heart pounded like it was about to burst out my torso and I thought about my poor mother crying at my funeral. Like that would happen.
Then I heard gun fire behind me and I knew they’d split up and set up a pincer movement on me. I only had seconds, perhaps a minute, and then this would all be over.
SOMETIMES LIFE CAN throw you a curve ball, something you don’t expect that pisses all over your day like there’s no tomorrow. And sometimes the curve ball can make you smile. This was one of those occasions.
With the gunfire behind me, a bullet flew over my head. I looked in the general direction of the newly arrived incoming and saw two faces I recognized, even from three hundred feet: McNamara and Mumford had heard the commotion and come to my rescue like the cavalry.
Due to the surprise factor and well-trained marksmanship, they knocked out three of the bandits in quick succession, almost before I’d turned round to see them arrive.
By the time I’d returned to face my attackers, two more had fallen, which left only the last pair of lone gunmen perched in excellent hiding places.
I let fire a short burst at a hedge with a head bobbing up and down and a plume of red arc splayed over the top. One down and one to go.
Then McNamara and Mumford ripped out crossfire across the entire panorama enabling me to leap from my sieve of a car, roll on the ground and get behind a tree before the bandits could return fire. I hoisted myself up into the foliage and onto a branch hidden by the leaves. From on high, I spied both the marksmen, clear as day. I refilled my clip and took aim. First shot through the heart, second at the head, third back to the heart. Did that for both. Six shots used up and two corpses lying twitching on the sidewalk.
The Dynamic Duo ran up to my tree and I slid down. Then together we walked to each of the bodies to check for ID and to scavenge as we saw fit. We knew we had only a small amount of time before the local cops responded to an inevitable noise complaint generated by our battle. And we didn’t want to be there when they arrived.
My first thought was for the case and I picked it up where I left it: by the rear passenger door. We wouldn’t be getting the deposit back on that rental.
Having gone through every bloody pocket we could find, we were still
none the wiser who the assailants might have been.
“Must have been CIA,” said McNamara, “with this much ordnance and no identification at all.”
“Yeah, your FBI always carry their badges. So do cops. Either it was the CIA, the mob or maybe the KKK?”
I wasn’t sure how exhaustive my list was but I knew I was close to the money. McNamara nodded.
“My guess is CIA. If it was the mob, it must have been an unauthorized hit else why would the Don bother getting us to collect the package in the first place? He could have just sent his own men in and blast away.”
He had a point, but he was silent about the KKK, which I thought was odd as he was a precise man for all of his relaxed demeanor.
“If it was the CIA, what do you think is in the case they’d want so much?”
Mumford was right. The CIA rarely attacked mob hired personnel - that was us, after all - carrying out illegal but domestic business. There must be something pretty important of a non-domestic nature to get this much attention from them.
THE CASE WAS in my hand and I noticed myself gripping the handle more tightly as the conversation progressed. The obvious response would be to flip the lid and see for ourselves, but I remembered the Don telling me not to do that.
“If such an event occurs then I shall have no choice but to torture for pleasure and kill you for business,” he’d informed me. And I believed him.
The Case Page 25