Nobody Move

by Philip Elliott

  “Iraq.”

  “Iraq? Fuck were you doing in Iraq?”

  “Killing Muslims.”

  “You were in the army?”

  “Not for long. Went A.W.O.L. soon as they shipped me home. But I was the best shot in my squad.”

  Eddie shook his head. “This just keeps getting weirder.”

  “Just the way we like it,” Floyd said, tossing the gun into the bag. “Get your suit on.”

  Eddie followed Floyd to the car—which, for some reason, was a Honda Civic—Sawyer behind him. The bulletproof vest felt tight beneath the shirt, the suit a little too big. He felt like he was back in Catholic school in his brother’s hand-me-down suit, about to receive his First Holy Communion.

  Floyd opened the trunk of the car and tossed the sports bags inside.

  “We made it to the big leagues, huh?” he said.

  “You’ve lost your mind, Floyd. You—” he nodded at Sawyer—“him, and Saul. Kidnapping, bank robbery, those fuckin’ military-grade weapons in there—this is way beyond slingin’ some dope.”

  Floyd shut the trunk. “Don’t tell me that in all those hotel rooms and jewelry stores you never once wondered what it would feel like to do it like the pros do it, the real pros who walk into a bank with real guns and leave with real money. None of this small-time hustling bullshit, running errands for that fat fuck Saul, but doing a real job for just once in our piece-of-shit lives. Don’t tell me you never wondered what that would be like.”

  “Like Robert De Niro in Heat.”

  Floyd nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Except Robert De Niro wasn’t running back to Saul Benedict with the money. Why you doing a job this big for him? He must be offering you something good.”

  Sawyer brushed past Eddie’s shoulder heading toward the driver’s side of the car. Floyd glanced at him.

  “Like Sawyer said, don’t worry ’bout us, Eddie. Worry ’bout that little Indian all tied up waiting for you to rescue her.” He turned away and went toward the passenger door as Sawyer got into the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

  The car got hot, fast. Eddie tugged at the collar of the suit.

  “Can we get another window down in this thing? I can barely breathe here.”

  Floyd’s window came down halfway.

  “Tell me something,” Floyd said. “Back in the club, and then the motel, why you go so outta your way not to come with us? I mean, I get it, Saul’s a piece of shit, but what you think, he was gonna kill you?”

  “Floyd, I once saw Saul shoot some poor bastard in the kneecap for being five minutes late to a meeting. Shit, you were there, you saw it yourself.”

  Floyd barked a laugh. “I remember that. Man screamed like a bitch. I don’t blame him though, shot in the kneecap of all places. You got a point, sure, but one thing you don’t know is that the man Saul shot disrespected him couple days before that in front of some Mexicans. Said something like, ‘If you was smart, Mr. Benedict, you’d take this deal and stop losing money like a chump.’ I knew right then nigga was gonna pay for that. That’s the thing with Saul—motherfucker cold but he know how to play people. He shoots the man’s kneecap and everybody thinks, ‘Shit, this one bad motherfucker, I best not cross any lines with him, best not be a single second late to a meeting or nothin’,’ but really that fool got shot the second he opened his mouth front of the Mexicans, he was just waiting for the bullet to arrive. Saul’s gone and lost his shit, don’t get me wrong. Man’s head grown too big for his body, gonna burst one day. But he knows how to play people, make situations … align. Even when you think you know how something goin’ down, the man finds a way to surprise you.”

  Eddie gazed out the window at the streets zooming by and thought about it.

  “All right, you’re right,” he said. “I’ll tell you why I didn’t wanna go with you. Because who the fuck does Saul think he is? He calls me up on my night off. I’m putting my feet up about to watch some TV with some Chinese food. ‘Eddie, Floyd’s picking you up in thirty’ he says. So you and me, we go to this guy’s condo, threaten him to pay Saul, a guy you tell me always pays so what’s the point anyway? Seems like an exercise in being a cruel motherfucker you ask me. Next thing, the guy runs at me. And I don’t mean he got up and came toward me, I mean the fucker jumped to his feet and charged me like a bull. My finger slips on the trigger; what you expect? I’m not happy about it, I’m there on my night off trying to make Saul’s deep pockets a little deeper. Instead of gratitude, what do I get? ‘Eddie, come see me. Don’t make me have to find you,’ when I been nothing but a star employee for two fuckin’ years? Nah, fuck that, and fuck him. I was done with his fat ass the second I pulled that trigger.”

  A few seconds of silence.

  “You know what, man?” Sawyer said, looking at Eddie in the rear-view. “I woulda done the same thing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You made one mistake though.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Not leaving town the minute you got home after we buried those bodies. Running around with the girl like that—that was stupid, Eddie, no matter what way you look at it.”

  Eddie agreed with him so he said nothing.

  “You really like that girl, huh?” Floyd said.

  “Yeah, I do. She’s different, man. Way different. But, there’s something about her … man, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Bet I would,” Floyd said.

  “You know that girl we killed?”

  “That girl you killed, Eddie.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s her sister. Her fuckin’ sister, can you believe it?”

  Floyd and Sawyer glanced at each other.

  “Her sister, huh?” Floyd said.

  “Her fucking sister. Jesus Christ. Don’t say anything about it though, when we go drop off the money. Okay? She doesn’t know I had anything to do with it. I don’t want her to look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” Floyd said.

  “Like how she’d look at me if she knew I’m the one who shot her little sister.”

  “I get you. I can promise you this, brother—she won’t ever hear a word from me.”

  15 | Heat

  Sawyer stopped the car fifty yards from the bank on the same side of the street.

  “Your mask,” Floyd said and tossed something at Eddie. Eddie caught it: the face of an eyeless white-haired man stared up at him.

  “The fuck? Is this Einstein?”

  “You got it,” Floyd said.

  “What, were they out of Stephen Hawking?”

  “They was on sale.”

  Sawyer snorted a laugh.

  Eddie said, “You cheap fuck, Floyd. We’re about to steal two million bucks and you buy three-dollar masks ’cause they’re a dollar off.”

  “I’m deeply sorry you ain’t dressed up as your favorite superhero, Eddie. Now let’s do this thing.”

  Floyd got out of the car and shut the door.

  “Break a leg,” Sawyer said. “And don’t fuck it up.”

  Eddie exited the car and looked around. The street was far busier than he’d have liked, people in suits hurrying in every direction. On the sidewalk opposite a woman pushed a pram.

  Floyd opened the trunk of the Civic.

  “You got those extra mags in your pocket still?” he said.

  Eddie nodded, his intestines doing somersaults.

  “Take one of them rifles and hold it vertical inside your suit. Just before we go inside, put your mask on. The second we get through those doors point that gun at every man, woman and child looks your way. Got it?”

  Eddie nodded and bent into the trunk and picked up one of the guns. It was less heavy than he’d anticipated, the metal cold as death. He glanced behind and pulled it out of the trunk quickly and slipped it inside his suit jacket. The barrel pointed out beneath the jacket, terminating at his knee cap.

  “Here.” Floyd tossed a black sports bag at him and Eddie put the strap over his head. Floyd
did the same with the other bag.

  Floyd opened the rear door of the car, grabbed one of the rifles out of the trunk, tossed it onto the back seat for Sawyer, and shut the door. He grabbed the third rifle and slipped it inside his suit. He nodded at Eddie, his face hardened by determination, and made for the bank.

  Eddie went after him onto the wide rectangle of open concrete paved outside the bank. A man talking into a cell phone almost bumped into him, glancing at Eddie’s face as he passed. The barrel of the rifle brushed against the inside of Eddie’s thigh.

  Beneath one of the tall gray columns that supported the building and created a lavish entrance, Floyd stopped and pulled his mask over his head. Eddie did the same. At once his vision narrowed.

  Floyd threw open the bank doors and burst inside.

  “Get down on the fucking ground!” Floyd roared as Eddie entered behind him swinging the rifle horizontal, his hands already wet. Cold air conditioning blasted his neck.

  The crowd of about twenty people stood frozen on the shiny floor like a photograph.

  “I said down!” Floyd smashed the butt of his rifle into the face of a nearby woman. She hit the floor, squealing. At once the crowd dropped to its knees.

  Floyd glanced behind and Eddie saw a vacant Albert Einstein looking back at him with hard eyes. Floyd raised two fingers and pointed at the crowd, signaling to Eddie to watch over them.

  “Ladies and Gents, this is a robbery,” Floyd said. “Your money is insured, you won’t lose a dime. Nobody move, nobody get hurt.”

  He marched toward the tellers, his shoes clicking loudly against the hard floor. “Into the middle, now. You too, Lionel Richie, let’s go.”

  The tellers hurried toward the rest of the crowd, the man with the afro he’d called “Lionel Richie” tripping on himself.

  Floyd marched into the manager’s office, its door open. “Marvin Reeves,” he yelled. “Get out here, Marvin.”

  He entered the office and came back out shoving a man wearing glasses and a gray suit into the center of the bank. “I said out, Marvin. Give me the key.”

  “What key?” Marvin said.

  Floyd punched him and Marvin clutched at his face with a cry. Floyd grabbed a keychain from around Marvin’s neck and tore it free.

  “To the vault. Now,” Floyd said, nudging Marvin with the rifle. Marvin shuffled toward the vault, one hand on his nose.

  Eddie watched the crowd. A woman probably in her sixties sat with her back leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Another woman held a young boy into her chest, looking up at Eddie with wet, fearful eyes. Just beyond her, a man lying on his belly moved a hand toward his waist.

  “Don’t fuckin’ move,” Eddie said. “One of you moves a fucking inch and I shoot everybody.” His voice boomed inside the mask, his breath filling it with sticky heat. He kept the gun trained on the crowd, aiming at anyone who so much as shivered. At the far left corner of the room, Floyd had managed to open the first door of the vault with Marvin’s fingerprints.

  Eddie heard the door open behind him and spun. A young man stood frozen as the door swung shut behind him.

  “You, get in here,” Eddie said, and darted for him. The man lunged for the door. Eddie grabbed his arm and whacked him with the rifle. The man dropped to his knee. “In there, move,” Eddie said, shoving the man toward the crowd. He couldn’t be sure but some people seemed to have shuffled around.

  “I said nobody move or I’ll shoot all of you. Don’t fucking move!”

  The woman holding her child squealed and shuddered and Eddie hated himself. Threatening a mother and her child—what the fuck kind of life was he living?

  Floyd returned to Eddie and pointed his rifle at the crowd. “You’re on,” he said.

  Eddie jogged toward the vault and tossed the bag off his shoulder. He entered the vault and nearly fainted: he’d never seen so many bills in his life. A mad urge to take it all for himself and run surged through him, a life of possibility opening up, before an image of Dakota’s face resting on his naked chest returned to him. He set the rifle on the little table beside the wall of the vault and grabbed the bag, zipped it open. He tossed bundles of cash inside until the bag was full and picked the bag up, heavy now, and slid it out of the vault.

  He started on the second bag. A few seconds later Floyd appeared outside the vault and picked up the first and heaved it onto his shoulder.

  “Stay down, motherfucker,” Floyd yelled at somebody, moving out of sight.

  Eddie worked faster, tossing four bundles into the bag at a time. Soon this bag was full, too. Some bundles remained in the vault but that would have to do.

  He lifted the bag onto his shoulder, grabbed the rifle, and hurried out of the vault toward the bank doors, the strap putting pressure on his skin.

  Floyd kept his gun pointed at the crowd as Eddie passed.

  “Ladies and Gents, it’s been a pleasure,” Floyd said behind him. “But stay on the fuckin’ floor.”

  Eddie slipped the rifle vertical inside his jacket and pushed open the doors and walked out into the heat. The street looked normal, no army of cops kneeling behind a barricade with guns in their hands. He pulled his mask off and gulped at the fresh air, sweat rolling over his right eyebrow. Excitement flickered inside his belly as his nerves began to calm. They might actually pull this off.

  He glanced behind as Floyd exited the bank and peeled off Einstein’s face. Floyd’s gaze lingered on something beyond them, concern swarming into his expression. Eddie followed his gaze: a police car was parked across the street outside a café. The car was empty, the cops obviously inside the place.

  “Be cool,” Floyd said, continuing toward him.

  Eddie kept his gaze fixed on the Civic, hoping he wouldn’t drop the rifle now slippery with sweat. Sawyer watched them with alert eyes from behind the wheel.

  Fifteen yards from the car, Sawyer tensed in the seat, a look of alarm on his face. Eddie heard a loud pop from behind, followed quickly by another. Sawyer threw open the door of the car, assault rifle in his hands, as another pop sounded. Something slammed into the back of Eddie’s thigh, throwing him onto the ground. His palms scraped against the pavement as the rifle clattered onto it, the bag of cash slipping off his shoulder. A burst of gunfire exploded from the Civic. Eddie raised his head to see Sawyer firing at the bank, the rifle pressed into his shoulder. A woman screamed. Tires screeched against the street.

  Eddie looked behind, becoming aware now of a burning pain in his left leg. A man lay facedown and unmoving on the concrete outside the bank, a pistol five yards from his outstretched hand. He was the man who’d moved his hand toward his waist inside the bank.

  Eddie flattened his slashed palms against the pavement and pulled himself to his feet. Agony exploded in the back of his left thigh. Beside him Floyd said, “Move,” and raised his rifle. Eddie grabbed the strap of the bag in one hand and his rifle in the other as Floyd fired at the café across the street, the cops hurrying out of it now, alerted by the gunfire.

  Eddie dashed toward the Civic, ignoring the pain. He opened the back door and tossed the bag inside and took cover behind the door. Floyd sidestepped toward him while shooting at the café.

  Floyd’s firing ceased. “Cover me,” he yelled, and sprinted toward the Civic. A cop stuck his head above the police car as Sawyer fired a burst.

  Floyd slid toward Eddie and dropped the bag of cash. He leaned his back against the car.

  “What happened?” Eddie said when Sawyer stopped pulling the trigger.

  “Motherfucker came out of the bank after us and started shooting. Off-duty cop maybe, or someone wanna be a hero.”

  The car window opposite Eddie smashed as a pop sounded. He ducked. Sawyer resumed shooting. Floyd tore the magazine out of the rifle and tossed it onto the street. He pulled a fresh magazine out of his jacket, slid it into the rifle, and racked the slide.

  “I got hit in the leg,” Eddie said.

  “You lucky it ain’t your ass,” Fl
oyd said. He nodded at the street. “Watch our back. Police station’s three minutes from here.” Only now did Eddie register the sound of sirens screaming nearby. Fuck.

  Eddie aimed the rifle in the direction of the sirens. They sounded as if they were coming from far down the street ahead, but it was possible that some cops could appear from the corner just ahead, too.

  Beside him Floyd lunged upwards and riddled the café and police car with bullets, nearly blowing Eddie’s eardrum. Christ, how many bystanders had been hit by now? The cops would no longer even pretend to try to make arrests. It was kill or be killed.

  A police car raced down the street ahead, followed closely by another, the sirens screaming louder. Eddie aimed for the windshield of the car closest and squeezed the trigger. The gun shuddered in his hands and knocked his shoulder back. Recoil—he’d forgotten about that. The car kept coming. He hadn’t released the trigger but the gun had only fired a single shot. Shit, the dial on the side. Eddie switched it to “A” and tried again. The rifle spat out a burst of bullets, rattling the teeth in his skull, but he kept his grip firm, the butt pressed firmly into his shoulder until the magazine had been emptied. A couple bullets found their mark, shattering the windshield. The car swerved violently and smashed into a fire hydrant where a white column of water erupted as if from a geyser.

  The police car behind the first slammed on the brakes, tires screeching, and came to a halt sideways. Two cops slipped out the passenger door at the far side of the car and opened fire. Eddie dove behind the Civic.

  “Cops at the café are down,” Sawyer said, and crouched behind the trunk of the car.

  Eddie and Floyd shuffled toward him on their hunkers. “We need to get the fuck outta here,” Floyd said. “If they come from behind they can pin us down.”

  “Get in the car,” Sawyer said. “I’ll cover you, then cover me out the window while I get in the front and get us outta here. Don’t let them hit me, I’m a sitting duck in there.”

  Floyd said, “All right.” To Eddie: “Ready?”

  “Wait, I need to reload this thing,” Eddie said.

  He popped the magazine out, tossed it onto the ground, and retrieved a fresh magazine from his jacket pocket. He slotted it into the body and pulled back the lever.