Matt Lennox - The Carpenter

Some time passed and they did a check on the walkie-talkie. Speedy said he could use a cup of coffee. Maurice came back on, with a slight hiss of interference, and told Speedy to shut the fuck up.

A short while later there was some talk on the scanner. From what Lee could tell, a cop was following a drunk driver. Lee listened with some interest and he told the others over the walkie-talkie. It was good to have something to pay attention to. Before long, he interpreted that the drunk had been pulled over and arrested and a tow truck had been summoned. He checked in again on the walkie-talkie. And then he went back to waiting.

The driver’s door opened and Lee sat up. He blinked, unsure of his whereabouts. Cold air swirled into the van. Maurice had the door open. The shotgun was pressed to the side of his leg where it wouldn’t be noticed from a distance. He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

— Go spell off Speedy.

— What?

— I said go spell off Speedy. In the alley. I’m done with the alarm. Speedy’s got to start cutting now.

— The plan was I was up here, said Lee.

— Yeah, well, so far you’re the one getting the easiest ride. Besides, looks like you can’t keep awake anyways.

After a moment Lee climbed down from the seat. Up close he could see the way Maurice’s head was moving side to side. Maurice was gripping the shotgun tightly.

— Radio check when you’re in place. Keep your eyes open.

— Whatever you say, buck.

Lee made his way down the alley beside the bank. The snowfall had eased and the new-fallen snow lay clean, faintly glittering. Close to the street there was a doorway recessed into the building on the other side of the alley. It was here that Lee found Speedy. Speedy’s hands were buried in his pockets. His walkie-talkie was set on top of a garbage can he was sharing the space with.

— You’re to start the cutting now, said Lee.

Speedy shuddered.

— Lee. Okay. I just about froze solid down here.

Speedy pulled his hands out of his pockets. He had his pistol in one hand. Lee kept an eye on it.

— How long will the cutting take?

— Hard to say. Might be two feet right through. A hundred years? I’m only kidding. But you might be here awhile.

— You better get going, said Lee.

— I’ll see you soon.

— Don’t forget your radio.

Speedy took his walkie-talkie and went back up the alley. Lee checked in on his own walkie-talkie. He said he was in place and watching the street.

The lights had been turned off in the tavern up at the Shamrock. Lee looked down the street in the other direction. About two hundred yards away the street ended underneath a pulsing stoplight. He was a ten- or fifteen-minute walk from his apartment.

He hunkered back into the doorway and put his walkie-talkie down on the garbage can.

There was no wind, but it wasn’t long before a chill began settling into Lee’s extremities. His toque was pulled low and his collar was turned up. He moved on his feet. He kicked at the wall. It occurred to him that he could just turn out of the doorway and leave. That simple. But leave to what? To what purpose?

He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke go out before him. It dissolved in the still air.

At four in the morning, a patrol car moved past the alley. Lee lurked in the dark, watching the car stop outside the Shamrock. He was aware of everything again, of the close proximity of the concrete walls on either side of him. He lifted the walkie-talkie from the garbage can and spoke into it.

— I got a bull out here.

Maurice’s voice came back: What do you see?

— One car. Stopped up at the hotel.

Gilmore’s voice: Wait. Just watch them for a minute.

Lee had been fatigued before this. Now he was awake and aware of how cold he was. He turned down the volume on the walkie-talkie so it was just audible.

— There’s nothing on the scanner, said Maurice. What is it, just one car?

— Yes.

— One, two cops, we can take care of if they come around back here.

Lee was going to say something. He pressed the send button on the walkie-talkie. But he said nothing. He moved the fingers of his other hand to get the blood flowing.

— Lee?

— Wait.

The patrol car moved again. Nobody had gotten out of it. The car climbed the rise. Lee watched it till it was out of sight. He counted to five and then to ten.

— They’re gone now. They were just looking at the hotel.

— Keep watching, said Maurice. I want to know if anybody’s coming back this way.

Lee wanted a cigarette, but his fingers in the gloves were too clumsy with cold. He put the walkie-talkie down. He pulled his gloves off and put his hands down the front of his pants. He pressed his fingers between his thighs. His fingers throbbed when at last the blood moved back into them.

Maurice called him on the walkie-talkie five minutes later to ask if the cops had come back, and Lee told him they had not. Ten minutes after that he put the walkie-talkie down on the garbage can. He ventured out to the front of the alley again.

Then he went out onto the sidewalk. He looked in either direction. Down street of him, the stoplight blinked like some endless portent. Without giving it much thought, he wandered out into the middle of the street and stood where the patrol car had left its tire tracks. He thought the end of the world might look something like this. Undramatic. Just emptied out. And he, the last man.

He went back into the alley, thinking his solitary thoughts.

The walkie-talkie was speaking, urgently but hushed because he’d lowered the volume. Lee picked it up and said he was listening.

Maurice: Lee, where the fuck have you been?

— I didn’t hear you.

— Get back here. We’re packing up.

He came into the parking lot, stiff with the cold. He could see Maurice loading the tool bag into the van. Speedy was in the driver’s seat.

— Go in, said Maurice. You’ll see the way. Quick. Sixty seconds.

Lee put the walkie-talkie into his pocket and went through the back door into the bank.

It was black through the door. There was a powerful stink of burnt things. He saw a flashlight flick twice, quickly, up ahead, offering just enough light to reveal the dimensions of a hallway. It was Gilmore. Coming close to him, Lee could sense the man laden with something. A duffle bag, perhaps, thick with contents.

— Take the flashlight. Go up around the corner and don’t turn the light on till you’re there. You’ll see where to go. There’s three more bags. Make it quick.

He took the flashlight from Gilmore and felt his way around a corner. He turned the flashlight on. He was in an office. To his left was the wall where the door to the vault was set. The door was untouched. They’d cut the hole beside it. He could see where they’d pulled the carpeting back so the molten concrete slag from the cutting would pool only on the subfloor. The hole itself was roughly three feet square. Everything around and above it was burnt, up to the ceiling tiles. Smoke was still dense in the room. If the interior alarm hadn’t been successfully cut, Lee wondered who would have arrived first, the cops or the fire department.

The leather welding apron had been laid over the bottom of the cut. As Lee folded himself through, he could still feel heat baking off the concrete. The wall of the vault was eighteen inches thick. Where the rebar had been cut, the metal still had a cherry glow, and he was careful not to touch it. He prodded his foot down onto the rubble inside the vault. The air was almost un-breathable with smoke.

He stood up and shone the flashlight around the vault. There was smoke damage all over the ceiling. Dividing the vault in half was a barred gate but they’d hammered that open. He saw a metal table and floor-to-ceiling safe deposit boxes. Most of the boxes had been smashed open and pillaged. He saw old family photographs strewn about the floor, documents, deeds, promissory notes, insurance policies. He saw a broken urn, someone’s ashes spilled out of it. The three remaining duffle bags were in the middle of the floor, stuffed full.