Terminal

Sherm and I got out of the car. We pulled the ski masks down over our faces. Beneath our jackets, each of us clutched a pistol in one hand. We each had a large backpack slung over our shoulders. The smell of fried rice and rotting garbage hung thick in the air— so thick, that even my diminished sense of smell could pick it up. For a second, I thought I heard the sound of a car, coming down the alley behind the strip mall, but it was too late, too late to call it off. We were already moving. What had been put in motion couldn’t be stopped. We didn’t falter. We didn’t look back. Without saying a word, we walked around the side of the restaurant, turned the corner, and there was the bank.

Just as Sherm reached for the door, it opened toward us. An old lady stepped out, blue hair done up in a perm. She was clutching a deposit ticket in one hand and rifling through her purse with the other. She stopped, gawked at us, then let out a little gasp. Her deposit ticket slipped from her quivering hand. Rather than floating to the sidewalk, it seemed to hover in the air, suspended in time.

“Oh my . . .”

Sherm growled in slow motion.

“Get . . . back . . . inside . . . the . . . bank . . . bitch!”

He shoved her forward into the lobby, and she kept repeating “Oh my . . . Oh my . . .” like a mantra. She clasped a silver crucifix hanging around her neck. Another person noticed us, an older, bearded man wearing faded blue jeans and a chambray work shirt. He was at the end of the line, his eyes registering surprise and disbelief. He opened his mouth to say something but Sherm cut him off.

“All right motherfuckers! Everybody hit the goddamn floor, NOW! Right fucking now! Let’s go!”

“You heard him, assholes,” I shouted. “Do it! Get the fuck down! Move!”

Now all of the customers in line turned, and as time slowed even more, I sized them up, studying every detail. A pretty woman about our age clutched the hand of a young boy. Looking at him reminded me of T. J., and I forced the image from my head. The boy looked just like the woman, hair the color of honey, high cheekbones, a short nose, even the same complexion. Both had frightened, wide eyes. She pulled the boy to her side, shielding him as best she could. There was no ring on her finger. Divorced, or a single mom. In front of them was an elderly bald man with glasses and a cane. He shook so badly that his knees knocked together and I thought he might collapse. There was an overweight guy in a Hellboy shirt, obviously the victim of too many nights spent reading comic books and wolfing down candy bars and potato chips, and in front of him, a hefty, solid man in his late thirties, wearing a leather jacket and polished black boots. He looked like a biker. He had steel in his eyes instead of fear, and I knew right away that we’d have to watch him carefully. Rounding out the group were two tellers, one young and blond, the other middle-aged and dyed auburn; and a slick, oily guy in a suit that just had to be the manager. His name tag read KEITH and below that, BRANCH MANAGER. He smiled, as if believing he was the victim of a hidden camera show.

“I SAID GET THE FUCK DOWN!” Sherm bellowed, and this time, they understood. They screamed as one, except for the guy in the bike leathers, who stood completely still, and Keith the Manager, who kept on smiling. The old woman toppled over in mid “Oh my” as Sherm pushed past her. She hit the floor hard, and was silent. The contents of her purse spilled out around her, and she rubbed the crucifix intensely. The young mother crouched down, pulling the kid with her. The boy’s eyes went from Sherm and me to the old woman and the old man, and he whispered something to his mother. The bearded guy dropped to the carpet and so did the fat boy, pulling the velvet line ropes along with him. The brass poles crashed onto the floor and I noticed a dark, wet stain on his fly. It was spreading fast. The younger teller froze in midtransaction, a stack of twenties falling from one limp hand and fluttering to the floor like green-and-white butterflies. Her other hand reached slowly beneath the counter.

“You hit that goddamned alarm and I’ll cap your cute little ass, sweetheart,” Sherm warned her.

“Get your fucking hands up where I can see them. Don’t make me tell you twice!”

She froze, biting her lip in fear, while the older teller started to cry.

“Both of you get out here and get down on the floor with the rest of them. Now!”

The biker remained standing.

“Do what we want and nobody gets hurt,” I chimed in, trying to sound sincere but hard-nosed at the same time. “We’re just here for the money.”

I reached out and flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED.

“Hey”— Sherm whirled on the biker—“are you fucking deaf? Get the hell down on the floor. Now, asshole!”

The biker kept his hands in the air and slowly started to kneel.

“You”— Sherm waved the gun at Keith the Manager—“get the fuck over here.”

“We-we’ll cooperate f-fully, gentlemen. There’s n-no need for violence.”